These stalwart defenders of law-abiding citizens, the edicts of God, and the rules of men included heroic figures like Texas Ranger Captains Lee H. McNelly and John B. Armstrong. Men of grit and backbone such as John R. Hughes, Jim Gillett, Heck Thomas, and Texas John Slaughter. And while these redoubtable gentlemen diligently served the state and their fellows as rangers, marshals, deputy marshals, police officers, and sheriffs, they often found that even their extensive experience and talent could accomplish little against the baddest of the bad men.
At such critical junctures, local, city, and state law enforcement officers often found themselves compelled to call upon a special breed of men who could bring the worst malefactors to book. Dedicated men gifted with nerves of iron. Men who would, without remorse, ride the practitioners of evil to ground like the brutish animals they really were, drag them back to justice, or kill them one and all.
What follows is a tale of viciousness and ugly death taken from the heroic adventures of one such man. A man who would, when circumstances required, do whatever he deemed necessary to bring evil to heel. In guarded whispers his numerous enemies called him Lucius “By God” Dodge.
1
“BLEW HIS THREE BIGGEST TOES CLEAN OFF.”
DON’T KNOW ABOUT anybody else, but until recently I’ve always been partial to hot weather—the steamier the better. Scorching sunshine coming down hot enough to bake blisters on a bayou-dwelling turtle’s hard-shelled back used to be just my cup of tea.
But, you know, for unfathomable reasons, if it gets too hot or too cold these days, I swear ’fore Jesus, seems like each and every one of my ancient hurts and past injuries start to aching something fierce. And usually, all of them at the exact same instance. Seems the rigors of advanced old age can sure enough border on a downright hellish torture at times.
Especially problematic are the numerous bullet holes in my antiquated, wrinkled ole hide. Last I counted there were eight of them. ’Course I might’ve missed a couple here and there. Way I figure it, if I’d a got shot about two more times, back when my teeth were still new and not worn down so much, my whole body just might’ve fell apart like a newspaper suit in a rainstorm.
Woke up around midnight. Horse killer of a heat wave must have blown through Domino and the Sulphur River country whilst I was asleep. I was hurting like hell from the blue whistler that motherless brigand Irby Teal put in the meaty part of my right side. Ragged vent’s just above the spot where my pistol belt used to hang.
As bullet wounds go, ole Irby’s unwanted outlet never really amounted to much—leastways not till here of late. Now she throbs like the pure dickens when excessive heat, or numbing cold, hits me just right. Damn that sorry-assed weasel for being a pretty good shot with a pistol, by God.
Anyhow, ole Irby’s antique pain got me up and prowling around the house in the middle of the night. That achy, scarred-over hole set me to thinking about how I came to have the ugly blemish on my hoary hide. As I remember the events surrounding the shooting and its later consequences, me’n Boz Tatum had been running buddies and man hunters for about three or four years back in ’82 or ’83—no longer certain of the exact year to tell the truth. Captain Horatio Waggoner Culpepper, commander of Ranger Company B, sent us down to Rio Seco ’long about then.
At the time, our loose-knit bunch of hard-eyed lawdogs was headquartered out on the banks of the Trinity River a bit north of Fort Worth. Before we left town and headed south, Cap’n Culpepper had me and Boz up to his pavilion. Personally gave us strict instructions as to the disposition of a stack of boot-wearing manure named Boston Teal, younger brother of the aforementioned Irby.
Remember as how Boz didn’t care much for the assignment from the outset. Wagged his leonine head back and forth, then mumbled, “ ’S a long damned way to Rio Seco, Cap’n. ’Bout as far south as a body can go in Tejas and not have to speak Messican like a native.”
Culpepper nodded. “That’s right, Boz,” he said. “Near sixty miles north of San Felipe Del Rio. Out on the Dry Devils River. Hotter’n hell under a Dutch oven down that way ’bout now.”
From the corner of my mouth I said, “ ’S okay with me, compadre. Like it hot myself.”
Boz ran a finger across a dripping forehead, flicked a gob of sweat onto the sleeve of my shirt, then grinned.
Cap’n Culpepper, a smoldering see-gar clenched between his horsey teeth, stared off into space like a politician about to make promises he couldn’t keep. “Hell, I’ll own as how it is indeed a far piece, Tatum. Ass buster of a trip for a man on a horse. But Boston Teal is a murderous brigand. Man has personally delivered the souls of near a dozen innocents into the heavenly presence of a benevolent Jesus.”
“I done heard tell of even more’n that, Cap’n,” Boz said.
“True enough,” Culpepper continued. Hands clasped behind his back, he puffed away and paced to and fro, as though agitated. “Sad to say, you’re right as rain, Boz. I harbor not a single doubt that the evil-doin’ bastard has snuffed the candles of any number of folks we know little or nothing about.”
Me and Boz nodded our mutual agreement.
Culpepper kept his rant going. Didn’t even slow down. “Want the widow-making slug back here so’s I can hang ’im. Now, I wouldn’t force an extended horseback trip like this on any man without good reason. Bein’ as how the Southern Pacific pushed through there not long ago, I’m more than willing to foot the freight for whatever you might require by way of tickets for yourselves, and transportation of your animals, all the way down to Del Rio.”
I knifed a glance over at my partner and said, “Well, that ain’t a’tall bad, Boz. Hear tell as how the area around Del Rio’s something of a garden spot, what with San Felipe Springs supplying water for that whole vicinity.”
Culpepper grinned. “Town’s a growin’ all right, Lucius. Somethin’ close to five hundred souls livin’ there these days, maybe more.”
“Most of ’em weevil-brained railroad workers. And every one of them boys dumber’n a bag of busted hammers, I’d wager,” Boz grumped.
As though pleased by the ease of his sales job on me, Culpepper added, “Figure as how it’s a fairly easy horseback jaunt up to Rio Seco from Del Rio. Want you fellers to make damned sure Teal gets back to Fort Worth as quickly as possible. If he tries to escape though, you have my permission to kill the hell out of ’im.”
Boz and I sat at attention in a pair of rickety canvas chairs. Cap’n Culpepper’s massive, treelike bulk loomed over us from behind his battered, Civil War cavalry officer’s field table. Swear that mountainous man could fill up all outdoors like he was wearing it.
A booted foot crossed over one knee, Boz thumped the musical, solid silver rowel of a Mexican spur. He glanced up at the cap’n and said, “So, Teal’s corralled in whatever goes for a jail in Rio Seco, Cap’n? That the whole, complete, and entire deal?”
The open, tentlike structure Culpepper used as his official office flapped overhead in the scorching Texas breezes. Filtered sunlight seeped through the thin, frayed material. A moving, crosshatched, shadowy pattern played back and forth across Culpepper’s square-jawed, rugged countenance.
Our fearless leader snatched the well-chewed, root-like panatela from between chapped lips. “Indeed, Boz. My old friend Jacob Cobb, one of the finest rangers I ever rode with, acts as city marshal down that way these days. Appears Jacob scooped Boston Teal up during that belly slinker’s slack-jawed attempt to rob Rio Seco’s pissant-sized branch of the Texas State Bank.”