Gun Work: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden (14 page)

Buford Cougar appeared amused by Buster Lucky's discomfort, threats, and the whole tension-filled situation in general. Smiled like an asylum-dwelling loon when he said, “No time for women today, boys. Even for one as good-lookin' as this 'un. Need money a helluva lot more'n we need a female, willing or otherwise. Get our hands on enough money, we can buy all the women we want. Find a willing one anywhere in the Nations we wanna stop long enough to look.”

Nate twisted around in his seat. Threw me a pained, wordless glance. Man might as well have screamed, “What the hell we gonna do, Tilden? Gotta stop this madness before it turns on the girl.”

'Bout then, a northbound M.K. & T. freight clattered past on the main track not ten feet away from our spot on the siding. Unthinking, Cougar and his toady recklessly took a quick look out the window at the passing train at almost the exact same instant. Their carelessness proved exactly the opportunity I'd waited for.

Had my belly gun out and up before either one of them even knew what hit him. Crushing first shot caught Cougar in the throat, just above the notch in his breastbone. Bullet bored through his voice box, blew it to smithereens. Sawed its way through muscle and sinew, then exited in a clump of gore that spattered the wall at his back like a bucket of leavings from a slaughtered steer. He gagged, stumbled, dropped one pistol, then went to grabbing at the geyser of blood that spurted from the thumb-sized hole in his neck.

Quicker than double-geared lightning, Nate slipped his weapon and hammered Cougar back against the coach's door with twin blasts that caught the murderous outlaw dead center. Pair of two-hundred-fifty-five-grain slugs crushed the gang leader's breastbone as surely as if a draft horse had knocked the man down on a cobblestoned street, stepped on him, then pulled a beer wagon over his still-flopping corpse.

Half a heartbeat after Nate fired, my second blue whistler smacked Buster Lucky in the left ear. Happened before he even had a chance to turn away from watching the M.K. & T. rattler fly by outside. Pea-brained idiot still grinned at all the smoke and noise when a good portion of his rat-sized brain and a scarlet cloud of blood as big as my doubled-up fist decorated all the seats and windows around him.

Evil bastard didn't even twitch when he went to the aisle's wooden floor like a sack of rusted horseshoe nails. Figured him for deader than a pile of well-aged buzzard feed. Made no difference to Nate Swords. Boy stood, took aim, and put three more in ole Buster's sorry hide.

Though injured to the point of being little more than a dead man walking, Buford Cougar managed, somehow, to keep himself erect. He stumbled backward and thumbed off at least three wild, aimless shots before he sagged against the passenger car's front door, then slid to the floor in a blood-soaked heap. Rolled onto his stomach and made more choking, gurgling, frothy sounds, until he finally bled out and passed on to his ultimate reward.

While I was preoccupied with the back-shooting killers up front, Carlton jerked both his pistols and sent a blistering, double-handed wave of hot lead at the pair behind me. Couldn't take the time to count, but between what he put in the air, and what Cougar's other two underlings managed to get off as they fell dying, must've amounted to near a dozen shots. When the blasting came to an end, my ears rang like Mexican cathedral bells. Back of my throat ached with the coppery taste of too much blood and quick death.

To this day, swear I don't think any of Buford Cougar's boys could shoot for spit. If a single one of that bunch could have, on purpose, hit his own ass with a set of moose antlers and ten free jabs, I'd of been rudely surprised. Still and all, it bordered on a godsent miracle none of them had managed to hit me, given as how I was the only person, other than the train robbers, who was standing. Made a hell of an easy target, but didn't get a single scratch. Unfortunately, that beautiful Indian gal wasn't near so lucky.

By the time everything finally quieted down, so much spent powder still hung in the air a body couldn't see worth a damn. Didn't realize we even had a problem. At first, thought for sure the whole violent dance had shaken out just as fine as frog hair, and that everyone, except members of the vicious Cougar gang, had survived in fine shape.

Then, through the gradually thinning cloud of roiling, grayish-black gun smoke, spotted some of the other passengers as they began to nerve up and move about. Everyone who could walk hit his feet and headed for the nearest door. Sounded like a herd of stampeded cattle as they bolted for safety.

Amidst all the yelling and door slamming, heard Nate Swords moan, then say, “Oh, sweet merciful Jesus. No. Not this. Please. Not this.”

Holstered my pistol. Over one shoulder called out, “Carl, mine are either down or dead. Check on those two in back. Make sure they're incapacitated or finished as well.” Didn't wait for an answer. Knew he'd do what I said.

Made my way into the aisle and found Nate down on both knees like a man beseeching God for eternal forgiveness at a traveling prayer meeting. Had his hat clutched against his chest with one hand. Kept running the fingers of the other hand through sweat-drenched hair. Groaned like he was badly wounded or dying. Thought sure he'd taken a bullet someplace important.

Was so concerned, I laid a hand on his shoulder. “Show me where you're hit, Nate.”

He didn't look at me, just shook his head. Thought the man would weep when he mumbled, “Ain't me, Tilden. It ain't me that's been shot.” He moved to one side and slid into a kind of awkward, half-sitting, half-squatting position up against the end of one of the day coach's seats. Left plenty of room for a look at the horror his crouching figure had hidden.

On the floor, between the seats he and the girl occupied but a few seconds earlier, twisted, as though somehow broken at the waist, that stunningly attractive Indian child lay motionless, misshapen, doll-like. Glazed and unblinking, her doe's eyes stared, without seeing, at the train car's bullet-riddled ceiling. A single tear traced a delicate, sparkling line from one fawnlike orb to a damp, red-besmeared ear. Drenched in fresh blood, the entire front of her glorious turquoise-and-white dress clung to a lifeless body as though plastered there like a layer of gore-drenched newspaper.

Scrambled down. Rolled the child flat onto her back. Placed a shaky finger under an already cold jaw. No pulse at all. Nothing. Spark of life had been rudely snuffed out. Lifted the girl up and took a quick look at her back. Bullet appeared to have hit her at a slight downward angle. Most likely fired by Buford Cougar, at a range of no more than ten feet, the .45-caliber pistol slug had punched thorough the flimsy seat back, bored a deadly path through her childlike body, crushed bone, sliced through muscle and nerves, then exited by way of a considerable, gaping hole in an unmoving chest.

Gently laid her back down. Closed those beautiful brown eyes with my fingertips, then glanced over at Nate. What I saw on that boy's face came nigh on to breaking my heart. If all the tortured souls of those condemned to the lowest levels of Satan's playground could have walked down that rail car's center aisle, not a single face of those tormented beings would have matched the pain etched across that boy's sad countenance.

Seemingly bereft of hope, he beat at one leg with his hat. Turned away from me and stared at the floor. “Just can't believe it, Tilden. Simply beyond all understanding. Few minutes ago she was beautiful, vibrant, sittin' here talking with me. Few seconds ago she looked into my eyes as though pleading for me to take care of her. And I told her I would. Said I'd protect her from any harm.”

Rested a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder just as Carl eased up beside the two of us. Know for a fact that it didn't help much, but I said, “What happened here today's not your fault. Did all a man could be expected to do, Nate. No way to avoid this one. Given the Cougar gang's reputation, if we had let this lunacy go any farther, she might well have suffered at the hands of these bastards in ways none of us can even begin to imagine. If Buster Lucky'd had his way, well, I personally don't even want to think about it.”

Nate squeezed out a single enormous tear. Wiped it away with the back of one bloody hand. Said, “Her name was Little Cloud. Rachael Little Cloud. Soon's she told me that I thought, my, oh, my, her name's as beautiful as she is. And now, God Almighty, sweet God Almighty.”

Carl tapped me on the shoulder with his still-smoking pistol barrel. “Boy's bleedin', Hayden. Look.”

Reached down and pulled at Nate's vest. Words just kind of slipped out. Couldn't stop 'em. “Good God,” I said. “Thought you told me you weren't hit. How bad are you hurt, son?”

Swords pushed up, propped himself against the seat at his back. We both plucked at a blood-soaked shirttail. He pulled the garment aside and fingered a dark, deep, ugly gash across the ribs on his right side.

“Bullet that killed Little Cloud must've scorched me a mite. Sweet Jesus, Tilden, swear I didn't even feel it.” He ran a finger that shook along the dripping, angled slit that sliced across the bones of his rib cage. “Still don't feel it. Nothin' but a scratch, though. Been hurt worse more times than I can remember.”

 

 

Must admit as how the rest of that afternoon is still something of a hazy blur in my cankered memory. Tend to bring those events to mind in bits and pieces. Do recollect that the train hadn't been back on the main track again and rolling for very long when it slowed, pulled over, and made its regular stop in Atoka.

'Course the conductor, wiry scamp named Henry Bankhead, hopped off and went to running up and down the depot platform screaming at the top of his lungs about robbers, killers, death, and mayhem. Red-faced and nigh on apoplectic, he dragged the stunned station master over just as we were laying Little Cloud atop a baggage cart we found sitting just a few feet outside the depot's busy waiting room.

Dancing like a frog in a hot skillet, Bankhead hopped from foot to foot and said, “This here is Amos Studdard, station master, telegraph operator, and chief agent here at Atoka, Marshal Tilden.”

Nate, Carl, and I removed our hats and backed away from Little Cloud's limp body.

Studdard stumbled as he came up beside the girl's pitiful corpse. Snatched his leather visor off. Went to trembling all over like a man in the throes of some horrible affliction. Then, swear 'fore Jesus, he covered his face with both hands and wept like a baby. Conductor kept patting his friend on the shoulder, but Studdard appeared past consoling. Took near five minutes for the poor feller to get control of himself again.

Twisted his visor between trembling fingers, cast a swollen-eyed gaze at me, and said, “This girl, Rachael Little Cloud, was a Choctaw princess, Marshal. Most beautiful Indian gal as I've ever seen. Beloved by all her people. Her father's Chief Jacob Black Horse.”

Tried to explain what had transpired, but I don't think, to this very day, Studdard heard much, if any, of what I said. He kept staring down at Little Cloud, mumbling to himself, moaning and twisting at that visor.

Soon as I finished up with the sad tale of Little Cloud's unfortunate demise, a blank-faced Amos Studdard flicked a slack-jawed stare from the dead girl's face to me and said, “Love of God, she's just turned eighteen. Sweet. Smart. Beautiful. Really independent for a Choctaw girl, though. Her family didn't want her traveling alone, you know. But she had close friends up in Vinita. I made personal assurances to Black Horse and her mother that the trip would be easy as pie, and she'd be fine.”

Barely heard him when Carl offered, “No way you could have foreseen something like this.”

Studdard grimaced like someone invisible had slapped him across the face. “Damn well gave my personal guarantee of the girl's safety. Sweet Jesus, I told those folks she'd be as safe as a newborn babe while traveling on one of our trains. Assured those wonderful people they had nothing to concern themselves about. No need for a chaperon. God Almighty, what am I gonna tell 'em now?”

Distressed station agent eventually did buck up and take charge of the situation. As if by magic, he suddenly grew steel in his spine. Started giving directions and orders like a battlefield general. Arranged for Nate to get patched up. Even assumed the responsibility of taking care of Little Cloud's body for us. Mighty sad bunch that carried the poor girl's shattered corpse inside the depot that day.

We cleaned the child up, as best we could. Wrapped her in a spotless sheet. Not sure to this very moment where that sheet came from. Laid her out atop the mahogany desk in Studdard's office. Somebody placed a bunch of the most beautiful yellow flowers I'd ever seen on her chest. Flowers just seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Remember Nate stood next to the body, holding his hat in his hands. Devastated man couldn't do much but shake his head. But I did hear him when he said, “My, oh, my, but she was a beauty, Tilden. Sweet natured, too. Told me about her family. Smart as whip. Fine company. Wish we could've had more time together. Hell, wish we'd . . . Oh, well, Lord God, but I do wish it.”

Being as how Nate's mind was somewhere else, me and Carl made all the arrangements for Buford Cougar and his bunch of lethal varmints. Number of the Choctaw Light Horse showed up within a matter of minutes of the train coming to a stop. They were most cooperative in helping us out.

Discovered that the three men who'd died with Cougar were for certain sure none other than Buster Lucky, Bartholomew January, and Samuel Boston. Given their recent outlaw history, considerable rewards existed for those boys. Time we totaled it all up, amounted to almost six thousand dollars. Get to killing, robbing, and raping people, the value of even the most worthless among us tends to go up.