Nate Coffin's Revenge Read Free Page A

know.
    Suppose the worst part of the whole affair was the burying of that monster. Found some rusted shovels in the corral. Took both of us the better part of half a day to dig a hole big enough for his moose-sized corpse.
    Had to run Grizz down. Looped a rope around Twiggens’s feet, and dragged him into the grave. Otherwise, we never would have got him underground.
    Boz threw the last shovelful of dirt on the grave, ripped his hat off, held it over his heart. Thought, Jesus, is he going to offer up a prayer for ole Dolphus?
    He got right thoughtful-looking and said, “Dear sweet God, please don’t let this son of a bitch get up again. I’m tired of shootin’ ’im. Amen.”
    Took both of us a spell to get over the events of that fateful afternoon. Just nothing like blood, gore, and a near-death experience to send a man to his prayers at night. Had absolutely no doubt in my mind that I’d seen the true face of Death that day for real and awful. Had to mention it when I spoke with God that night.
    ’Course those feelings only stayed with me for about two months. That’s when me and Boz rode into a pissant-sized town named Salt Valley in search of a spot to lock Buster Caldwell up for a spell. Salt Valley’s where I truly saw Death for the very first time. Soul-stealing bastard crept up on me unawares, as it were. He’s snaky like that, you know. Get to you when you least expect it. I’ve never forgotten what he looks like, or the black-haired angel a benevolent God sent to save me from his icy clutches.

1
    “WHO CARES ’BOUT DIRTY-LEGGED WHORES?”
    BUSTER CALDWELL, A cowboy from down San Antone way, got liquored up over in Hell’s Half Acre one night, and decided he couldn’t live another second without the attentions of a ruby-lipped, fancy woman. Hoofed it over to Mattie Osborn’s parlor house on Rusk Street, and picked a cute little buck-toothed gal named Goldie Starr for the ride. Fellers called her Goldie ’cause one of them squirrel-like teeth of hers was as gold as could be and sparkled like a star in the night sky when she smiled.
    Stories, rumors, and outright lies followed his deadly visit. Truth is, no one knows for sure exactly what happened after Buster closed the door to Goldie’s room. But about twenty minutes into their whoop-and-holler session, that horny brush popper went crazier than a feather mattress full of bedbugs. For reasons beyond all human understanding, he pulled a nine-inch bowie knife and damned nigh sawed that poor girl’s head clean off.
    Folks swore you could hear little Goldie scream bloody murder a quarter of a mile away and above all the racket typical of a Saturday night in the Acre. Leastways till he sliced through her windpipe, that is. One man I talked with, who was waiting his turn out in the parlor, tried to help the murdered girl. He testified as how the only thing that kept the corpse’s head attached to its body was the neck bone.
    Captain Wag Culpepper called me and my partner, Boz Tatum, into Company B’s headquarters tent the following morning, shook his stubby finger in our faces, and said, “It’s bad enough that every other cowpunchin’ leather pounder between here and the Rio Grande counts himself as a badman and looks to prove it at the first opportunity. Sons of bitches will fight each other with guns, knives, barrel staves, fence posts, and whiskey bottles at the drop of a palm-leaf sombrero. Now we’ve got a woman killer runnin’ loose. Poor workin’ girls have a miserable enough time makin’ a livin’ as it is. Women shouldn’t have to worry about being brutally cut into several different gruesome pieces by one of their idiot clients.”
    Boz assumed a sagelike, chin-stroking pose, nodded, and said, “Absolutely, Cap’n. Damned right. Couldn’t agree more. Me and Lucius feel exactly the same way, by God. We’ll get ’im and see justice is done. Bring ole Buster back to hang. Cain’t have such ignorant brutality runnin’ amuck right