Gates David Edgerley

The Cottonwoods

David Edgerley Gates

The cottonwoods

It was windless and still, but the smell of death was unmistakable.

He came on the stand of cottonwoods in late afternoon. The day was still punishingly hot, and he and the claybank mare were alike grateful for the shade and water. Cottonwoods were known for liking their feet wet, so to speak, growing along streambeds. It was early June, and the seedpods had ripened and burst. The earth was feathered with them, soft as air, like snowflakes dusting the ground, too light to settle and melt, the windblown seedlings looking for an opportunity to root.

Moving under the trees, the claybank shied, catching the scent first, and Placido Geist dismounted, knowing the mare had her own queer horse reasons. It was windless and still, but the smell of death was unmistakable, ripe as the seedpods of the cottonwoods. He tied the reins off to a branch and walked down toward the creek bed, gun in hand, cautious of surprise. He was all too aware of what he was likely to find.

He was somewhat startled, just the same. He’d expected a victim, animal or human, a dead deer, a man shot accidentally or by design. Not this.

The hanged man had been there a good two days. His skin was discolored, dark as an eggplant, his flesh swollen, the rope sunk to the spine, his jawline yeasty and putrefied.

Placido Geist cut him down. The old bounty hunter had seen more than his share of dead men, had put more than his share in the ground, had in fact once left a man just like this, bait for ravens and wasps, a host to maggots. It was an uneasy memory.

* * *

He was something off his graze, this being East Texas, not West. The town he rode into at dusk was called Dime Box.

It was small and dusty, the main street unmetaled. There were a couple of automobiles parked by the livery, though, when he went to board his horse, and from the lines strung along poles overhead, there appeared to be a local telephone exchange.

He asked directions to the sheriff’s office.

The deputy on duty seemed to Placido Geist amiable but dull witted. Not a man to confide his misgivings in. After some desultory conversation, it was discovered the sheriff might himself be found at supper, across the street.

It was styled a delicatessen. An immigrant family, German Jewish, perhaps thought more at home in New York or Chicago, had put down their stake in this hinterland and were enjoying considerable success, from the evidence of a full dining area, a busy kitchen, and boisterous custom. Placido Geist had second thoughts about disturbing the sheriff in these comfortable surroundings, but the man waved him to a seat opposite. Placido Geist ordered sauerbraten and retailed his errand.

“Two, maybe three days dead, you say?” the sheriff asked.

“I’d calculate,” Placido Geist said.

“You buried him.” A statement, not a question.

“I wasn’t inclined to ride sidesaddle with a cadaver so far advanced,” Placido Geist said.

“Point taken,” the sheriff said. He was a man not much ahead of middle age, although twenty years younger than the old bounty hunter. He seemed comfortable in his position, not someone to get overinflamed. His name was Duquesne, which he pronounced carefully, doo-KANE. The lawman obviously attached some importance, and a history of irritation, to people not getting it right. “I’ve heard of you,” he went on. “Probably most people have, this neck of the woods. By all accounts, you’re not someone to be shaken off. What’s your sense of this, the man in the cottonwoods?”

“Horse thief, a rustler. I couldn’t speak to specifics.”

“No identification, I’m assuming.”

Placido Geist took a small oilskin packet out of his vest.

“His pockets were empty,” he said. “But if they meant him to go to his grave unremarked, they overlooked this.”

Duquesne looked at the packet as if it were a tarantula.

“Found it in his boot,” Placido Geist said. “It’s a letter he asks be sent to his mother, back in Montrose, Michigan, should he be found in circumstances similar to those I found him in. Name of Beauchamp, it’s spelled. BEECH-um, I’d imagine.”

The sheriff didn’t acknowledge this touch of ridicule. He regarded Placido Geist with hooded eyes. “I’d have to look into it,” he said.

“Can’t ask for better than that,” Placido Geist said, and applied himself to dinner. The sauerbraten was excellent, sweet and pungent, just sour enough, the meat fork-tender.

The sheriff excused himself, his meal not yet finished.

* * *

The hotel was somewhat mean, disheveled if not disreputable. The room was cramped, and the single window faced an alleyway, letting in little light. The bedstead was creaky and the mattress lumpy — the linens threadbare, although clean enough. He went down the hall to draw a bath, and found the hot water to be unreliable. He went without.

Resigned to spending the night dirty, he decided to turn in early. It wasn’t half past eight, but he was feeling his time in the saddle. The old bounty hunter was in his sixties. There were days now that seemed longer than others.

He struggled to get his boots off, folded his outergarments carefully, and hung them over the back of a chair.

There was a knock on his door. A little tentative.

Placido Geist called out some excuse while he pulled his pants on again. And took the time to snap open the loading gate of the.45 single action with the three-inch barrel and rotate the cylinder. He tucked the gun in his belt at the small of his back, the butt to the right, so-called Mexican carry.

He opened the door.

The girl looked not above nineteen. Nor was she in any way disheveled, but she was definitely disreputable. Her makeup was too liberally applied for daylight, and her manner of dress showed a good deal more skin than appropriate for a librarian or a maiden schoolmarm.

“No offense, ma’am,” he said to her, “but I’ve no use for a whore this evening.”

“Edgar Beauchamp,” she said. “Known generally as Tip.”

Aah, he thought, inviting her in. He didn’t think this was a badger game.

Her name was Willie, she told him, and Tip Beauchamp had been swaining her. Not that she imagined he’d take her out of the life, that was an abandoned hope, but he’d treated her with some respect, in itself unusual. She wasn’t allowed to pick and choose her custom. She took what came, much of it rough trade.

Placido Geist heard the lineaments of a narrative here, if you could read between the lines.

“Who else?” he asked her. “Or, who else in particular?”

A man named Hagerty, she told him. Derek Hagerty, younger son of Farragut Hagerty, the rancher, and the largest landholder in the area. She was surprised Placido Geist hadn’t heard of him. Placido Geist wasn’t surprised. Not that he’d not heard of Farragut Hagerty, but that it was such a common story, that a figure of local importance considered himself above the law.

* * *

“Murder doesn’t go unpunished,” Placido Geist said.

“There’s no evidence.”

“There’s what the girl says.”

“The word of a trollop.”

“I’d take the word of a trollop over that of many a state senator,” the bounty hunter told the sheriff. “Most whores give an honest accounting, in my experience.”

“I can’t go up against Ratgut Hagerty, not and keep my job. The people in this town vote his proxy.”

“You’d countenance a killing his son almost certainly had a part in? Let it come to trial, at least.”

“On the testimony of a whore.” The sheriff looked away.

“Everybody knows the story. You know the story. Farragut Hagerty’s boy wanted the girl to himself, and this young man Beauchamp got in the way. They had words over it. Words led to blows. Beauchamp got the best of Derek Hagerty in a fair fight and laid him out on a saloon floor. I’ve asked around, and I’m a stranger. You don’t even have to ask. You know full well that Beauchamp kid got strung up in the cottonwoods for crossing Farragut’s clan.”

“All right. Maybe it was a couple of Farragut’s hands who got overly enthusiastic.”

“‘Who will rid me of this tempestuous priest?’“

Duquesne looked at Placido Geist blankly.

“Farragut Hagerty or his son is responsible for this. If a couple of their cowpokes took matters into their own hands, they have to answer for it. And so do the Hagertys.”

“I won’t go after father or son. I have to live here.”

“I don’t,” Placido Geist said. “I answer to my conscience, not to expediency.”

The sheriff took a long breath and let it out, keeping his temper. “I don’t much like being told I’m a coward,” he said.

“I don’t give a damn what you like,” Placido Geist said.

* * *

The cowboys came into town in a bunch and deployed in front of the hotel. It was eight o’clock in the morning. Most people on the street at that hour found cover, but some stuck around to see the show. They weren’t to be disappointed, as the drama was shaping up and a resolution imminent.

Placido Geist had been interrupted at his breakfast. He found this annoying. After achieving a certain age, there are men who choose not to suffer fools gladly. Besides, his eggs were turning gelid. He sent them back to the kitchen. He’d get fresh eggs, or be dead, in which case it made scant difference.

He stepped out onto the porch. He faced a dozen men.

“You’ve accused my brother of murder,” the tall man sitting on a roan horse said.

“You’d be the eldest Hagerty,” Placido Geist said.

“I’d be Peter,” the tall man admitted.

“And this would be your brother?” Placido Geist asked. He could see a strong family resemblance in the young man who edged his mount up next to Peter Hagerty’s.

“Everybody in town knows who we are.”

“They also know your brother to be chickenhearted and a bully, with no stomach for an honest fight, who hides behind his father’s hired pistoleros,” Placido Geist said.

The younger man jerked his handgun loose, as Placido Geist had expected, and the bounty hunter shot him out of the saddle with his Colt. The horses shied at the gunfire, and there was a moment of indecision. Derek Hagerty lay dead in the street.

Sheriff Duquesne stepped into the silence, a twelve-gauge shotgun held at port arms but both hammers cocked. “There’s no further argument here, Peter,” he said to Derek’s brother.

“This isn’t over,” Peter Hagerty said.

“Yes it is,” the sheriff said. “Your father has remedy in law, but he no longer makes his own.”

Hagerty looked at the bounty hunter. “We’ll seek you out,” he said.

“You’re welcome to,” Placido Geist told him.

* * *

“You should be indicted for manslaughter,” Duquesne said.

“I’ll surrender myself to the Texas Rangers, and them only. I mean you no offense.”

“Old man Hagerty will put a price on your head.”

“It won’t prove easy money.”

The sheriff gazed off into the middle distance. “Hagerty’s not a man to forgive,” he said.

“See to the whore, if you can,” Placido Geist said.

“I’d be hard pressed to see to my own benefit. You’ve made things more difficult than necessary, all around.”

“Every choice has consequences,” the bounty hunter said.

* * *

They tried for him some four miles out of town. Some deadfall had been dragged across the trail where it narrowed. There was higher ground on his right, with scrub for cover, and to his left a streambed, wooded on the far bank. The trail took a sharp dogleg, the streambed falling away, and a recent rockslide hid what was around the corner. Here was where the trail had been blocked. It wasn’t artful, but it would do. He didn’t hesitate to ride on into the trap. He figured two, three at the most. There’d be one across the stream, in the trees, and one in the scrub above. If there were a third man, he’d be lying in wait past the rockslide, to gun the bounty hunter if he got through the barricade. Placido Geist had his.45–70 Sharps in a saddle scabbard and the little Colt tucked at the small of his back, with a break-top Smith & Wesson.44 featuring a nine-inch barrel in a shoulder holster. Hanging from the saddle horn by a lanyard was a twelve-gauge Parker hammerless side-by-side, the barrels cut down to eighteen inches, the shotshells loaded with.25 caliber nickel-plated ball in a cluster of six, each of them double the weight of buckshot.

He knew they’d wait for him to pull up at the barricade, where he’d be sitting on the horse, a stationary target. The streambed might prove treacherous, water trickling over smooth stones, easily dislodged, footing slippery for the mare, and even money she’d break a leg. Which left the high ground to his right.

She was a quick horse, if sometimes stubborn. She’d never failed him in a fight. Fifteen feet from the barricade, he laid her head over and slapped the reins across her withers, urging her up the slope. From a standing start, he could feel her long muscles begin to pull, her lungs swelling.

There was a snap shot from the trees on the far side of the streambed that went wide.

Placido Geist pushed the mare upslope, letting her take her head as he unlimbered the shotgun from the saddle horn.

A man stood up twenty yards in front of him, a rifle in his hands. He was unprepared for this sudden rush.

Placido Geist swung the horse’s head aside and fired both barrels of the scattergun, taking the man off at the knees. He made a running dismount, pulling the heavy Sharps out from under the saddle skirt. He was above the rockslide now, looking down on a confused drygulcher on the other side. The man took the 400-grain bullet in his head, spraying bone fragments and brain.

Placido Geist levered out the spent round and thumbed a fresh cartridge into the gun, settling himself behind a crevice in the rocks. The mare had stopped, panting, her reins dangling along the ground.

“You the same three that hanged the kid?” he called out.

There was no answer from the trees along the streambed.

“You kill me, you don’t have to tell Farragut Hagerty the truth. You miss your chance, you’re dead either way. I were in your shoes, I’d hightail it for Oklahoma or Arkansas.”

The man stepped out of the trees. “You won’t shoot me?” he asked, arms akimbo.

Placido Geist had thought better of it. “You ride on,” he called down to the cowhand. “Whichever direction you go, you’ll be looking over your shoulder the rest of your life.”

They went their separate ways.

Placido Geist had separate thoughts, as well. We’re all guilty of something, he’d already decided. We simply pay for it in our own currency.

Copyright © 2006 David Edgerley Gates

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Gates David Edgerley The Cottonwoods

David Edgerley Gates The cottonwoods