Bass Reeves: Judgement Day

BASS REEVES

The setting sun dappled the land in a golden haze. Three horsemen plodded up a small incline into a stand of Cottonwoods and Scrub Oak. On the other side of this wooded island, a vast expanse of land stretched out before them, waist high buffalo grass swayed like ocean waves between them and to the next island of shrubbery and trees.

The lead rider, Charles Running Dog, pulled his tall gelding to a halt, the others two riders did the same. As a full-blooded Cherokee, The United States Marshals hired Charles as a tracker. Behind him rode Bass Reeves, the marshal in charge, and bringing up the rear, US Marshal Trip Banks on his first manhunt.

Charles dropped to the ground, looped his reins around the saddle’s pummel. His horse bent down nibbling on patches of grass. Charles studied the ground. He hunched down for closer inspection.

“What’cha got, Charlie?” asked Bass.

Charles remained silent, scooped up a pile of what looked like dirt, smelled it, crumpled it back to the ground, and slapped his hands against his thighs, dusting them off.

“Horses,” he said and pointed to a smaller clump of what looked like dried mud. “Human.”

Next, he walked over to his horse, pulled out a field telescope and stood at the edge of the tree stand. Bass was a tall, rangy black man. He wore a tan vest over his black long- sleeved shirt. A shoulder holster filled with his Colt .38 six-shooter, and he sported a Colt .45 revolver on his waist in a conventional cross-draw holster.

“See somethin’?” he asked, climbing down from his gray stallion, walking over to the tracker. Without a word Charles handed the glasses to Bass and pointed across the huge expanse of the field of undulating grass.

“There, just past tree line, above tree tops.”

Bass adjusted the glasses.

“What the hell y’all lookin’ at?” asked Trip.

Charles turned to him and sliced his lips with his finger asking for silence. Bass still searched for what Charles pointed out, the only sound, the rustling wind through the Cottonwoods the only sound. Finally, he spotted what Charles saw. Smoke. A thin plume drifting about the tree tops.

“I’ll be damned,” said Bass.

“What?” demanded Trip.

Charles signaled him to come over.  He dismounted and approached them. Bass handed him the glasses. “Straight ahead, just yonder above them trees.”

“That them?”

“You best believe it.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” said Trip. “They certainly is full of themselves, ain’t they? Doin’ what they done and lightin’ fires, hardly even tryin’ to hide.”

“Hell,” said Bass, “they don’t know we on ‘em. They think they got clean away. Think we won’t go after ‘em ‘cause they in the Badlands.”

Trip headed back to his horse.

“Where you goin’?”

“Ain’t we gon’ go get ‘em?”

“Not now.”

“Whaddaya mean not now?”

“That smoke maybe three, four miles away. They see us comin’ and they get to movin’ again.”

“But it’s been three days, they still got Mrs. Talley with ‘em.”

Bass looked at the anguish in Trip’s eyes, the hurt and rage playing out all at the same time. His first manhunt and he had to bite the bullet and stand down. Charles showed no emotion whatsoever, willing to let white men have their own way. But Bass was different. It was hard to understand how a black man could manage feelings and emotions concerning white people, but then again he was working for them. He didn’t have to understand them, just do his job. Charles guessed Bass had his own reasons and let it go at that.

“I know, Trip, I know. But if they see us comin’, they jest might decide to lighten they load before they rabbit outta there.”

“But God only know what they been doin’ to that poor woman.”

“God ain’t the only one, son. Believe me. We know. They done shot that li’l Ramirez boy and his grandma, stole those Arabians and took Mrs. Talley. We know what they been doin’, but it will stop tomorrow. I promise.

“We camp here tonight and move before light. Take ‘em before they awake.”

“What if they place a guard?”

“They lightin’ fires and got them a woman. Ain’t gon’ be no guard. Dry camp, fellas, no fires. We move out before dawn.”

The three men broke the meeting. They unsaddled and rubbed down their mounts. Charles kept an eye on the smoke above the tree line in the distance.

                     _____________

Across the plain underneath that tree line sat four men, huddled around a small campfire; dirty, filthy, more the worse for wear. Draped in the shadows was a frightened, horrified Victoria Talley; clothes ragged, skin bruised, feet bare and swollen, blood coagulating in small and large cuts, eyes dried out from useless crying and begging. She’s early forties, slim and fit despite the damage caused during this nightmare. What beauty she possessed was tossed aside on the trail bit by bit with every mile and every degradation she endured. Those hazel eyes were now so dull and listless, trying to distance herself from her reality.

Bodeen Pitts lounged near the fire, meanness carved in his eyes and etched throughout his entire being; a big, gruff man with an uneven, matted beard hanging on him like mange on a dog. Yellowish, brown crooked teeth sparsely populated his mouth.

Next to him was his younger brother, Bobby Joe; early twenties, equally big and distasteful, just as filthy. Their cousin, Pat Hooks, a slimmer version of the two brothers, but worse, sat across from them next to his sixteen-year-old son, Delmore, who looked like he would rather be anywhere on earth than where he was. Acne peppered his face giving it the texture of a hand puppet he once saw at a Punch ‘N Judy show in Texarkana. His Adam’s apple was as big as the real thing. A dirty bottle of cheap whiskey made the rounds. Pat tilted it greedily into his mouth, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, continually talking. 

“What’re you catterwallin’ about, Pat?” said Bodeen spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the fire causing it to hiss and sizzle.

“I’m sayin’ it’s my turn with this bitch.”

“The hell it is,” said Bobby Joe. “You done poked her twice already. I’m climbin’ that hill tonight.”

“Delmore here ain’t had no turn yet,” Pat said kicking at his son who barely got out of the way.

“That be Delmore’s business. Ain’t no givin’ turns away now is there? ‘Specially cooze.”

Bodeen quietly listened to this interchange, really not caring and just pissed about all the fuss this woman was causing with this constant bickering. He should have put a bullet in her head from the start, but he felt pussy was scarce out here, so he put up with the bitching. But after his next turn he just might blow her brains out and end all this quarrelling.

He felt he had to keep an eye on Pat. Cousins or not Pat couldn’t be trusted in any situation. Bodeen eased his hand closer to his holstered pistol and slipped the tie off the hammer as Pat continued his plea.

“Delmore ain’t never had none. Don’t know what to do with it. I’m his daddy. I’m pokin’ that bitch and Delmore gon’ watch; learn what a man do.”

Bobby Joe burst out laughing, joined by his big brother. They laughed until tears formed in their eyes. Pat seethed at the disrespect. He hated being the butt of their jokes.

“You gon’ show him? Shit! Like you poked that whore in Elsinore? Couldn’t git your whacker hard.”

“Hell,” said Bodeen. “That ain’t surprised me none. Pat’s pecker been in some mighty filthy holes; some strange ones too when they ain’t no whores around.”

Angered, Pat went for his gun, but Bodeen was ready. He whipped his Navy Arms out and clicked back the hammer.

“Ain’t gon’ be nunna that, Pat. You had a go and if Delmore cain’t cut it, he just skipped. No giveaways.”

The cocked and aimed Navy Arms simmered Pat down, but the fury bubbled beneath his skin. As he sat back down, he looked at his son, hauled off and backhanded him across his face. Delmore’s head snapped straight back and he fell hard on the ground. Pat towered over him.

“Tommora, before we head out, you gon’ mount that bitch like a man and I’m gon’ make sure you do. Gon’ make a man of you yet, goddamnit!”

Bobby Joe snickered out loud. He stood and snatched Victoria up onto her feet. She wailed and cried weakly trying to resist the inevitable. “Please, I – I can’t. Please, I just – “

Bobby Joe yanked her closer and slapped her across the face.

“Shuddup! You ain’t here to talk. I’m gon’ put that mouth of yours to real good use real soon. Now c’mon!”

They vanished into the shadows, Bobby Joe dragging her along into the brush and trees behind the campsite. Pat sulked near the fire, poured the rest of the bottle down his throat.

Bodeen spat another stream of juice into the flames making it crackle again. Delmore remained on the ground glaring at this father’s back, not wishing he was someplace else, instead wishing his father would simply cease to exist.

From the bushes Victoria cried, squealed, and begged while Bobby Joe grunted like a pig.

                  ________________

Dawn spilled out gray and feathery revealing the Marshals slipping through the grass approaching the thicket where their quarry waited. At the edges they dismounted and spread out with Charlie leading his horse to the back. Bass moved to the right, while Trip stayed in front. On Bass’ signal they tied their horses down, and proceeded towards their target.

Inside the thicket, Bodeen slept fitfully near the smoldering embers of the campfire. Across from him Pat, mouth opened, drool pouring out. Delmore was awake, saw Trip and Bass advance, but never uttered a warning, just raised his hands.

Trip loomed over Bodeen, nudged him with the toe of his boot. All Bodeen did was mumble turning in his sleep. Next Trip kicked him hard in the ribs lifting him up off the ground. Bodeen shot straight up cursing and fumbled for his gun. Trip pointed his Sharp’s .50 caliber buffalo rifle right between his eyes. “Go on, draw down if you want. I’d like that jest fine.”

Bass pulled out his .38 and fired a shot in the air. Pat jumped up off the ground, the barrel of Bass’s .38 looking like a huge tunnel with no light shining from the other end.

From the rear of the small clearing, Charles came through pushing Bobby Joe in front of him. Bobby Joe trying to hold up his unfastened, filthy pants, as Charles ushered him towards the group. The confusion on his face was beginning to surrender replacing it with anger.

“What the hell is this shit?” asked Bodeen.

“Where’s Mrs. Talley?” asked Bass.

 Pat looked up at this black man standing in front of him asking about a white woman. “What’s it to you, nigger?”

Charles shoved Bobby Joe into the fray of the moment. “She’s in back,” said Charles. “Bad shape, but said she’d be out soon. She was with this one.” Charles shoved Bobby Joe into the middle, where he fell to the ground.

Bodeen gathered himself together and said, “What y’all want? We ain’t done nuthn’.”

Bass turned to face him. “Y’all boys kidnapped Mrs. Talley from her ranch four days ago, kilt her cook, Graciella Flores, and Miss Flores’ grandson, Miguel, then stole them Arabians you got tied up over yonder.”

“We done bought them horses, and the woman came with us ‘cause she wanted to. Don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout no killins.”

“We’ll let the courts settle that,” said Bass.

“I ain’t doin’ nuthin’ some nigger say,” declared Bodeen. With that Trip took a step forward and slammed the butt of his Sharps into Bodeen’s face breaking his nose, blood splattering all over his face and chest.

“Damn! You done broke my nose,” he screamed, sprawled out on the ground.

“This here is U S Marshal Bass Reeves out of Fort Smith, Arkansas.”

“Arkansas!” barked Pat. “You dumb assholes, we in Oklahoma. This ain’t Arkansas. You ain’t got no say here.”

“You stupid sumbitch,” said Trip. I said U S Marshal. U S stands for United States.”

Bobby Joe laughed out loud. “Hell, what makes you think some nigger, some wet-behind-the-ear nigger lover, and a half-breed Injun Joe gon’ get all four of us back to Fort Smith? That be a long travel.”

“We’ll make do,” said Bass. As if on cue, Charles reached into the bag he had slung over his shoulder and brought out a handful of iron shackles and tossed them on the ground.

Pat eyed the manacles and spoke. “It ain’t gon’ be no easy trip for you, nigger. We gon’ see to that.”

Trip stepped back while Charles stepped in to start manacling the prisoners. As he began his task, a single gunshot exploded in the back where Mrs. Talley remained. The sound and singularity of the shot silenced and froze everyone.

Charles immediately drew his gun and raced back towards the gunshot. Seconds became minutes and seemed like hours before he emerged carrying the limp dead body of Victoria Tally, with Bobby Joe’s gun belt looped around his neck.

A pall drifted over the marshals and young Delmore as Charles gently laid her down.

“That poor woman,” said Delmore. “She ain’t done nuthin’ to nobody.” He openly cried. Pat reached out and backhanded Delmore across his face. “What kinda man is you? Cryin’ like some little girl. Goddamn you!” Then without regard to where he was or who he was with, Delmore charged his father, taking him by complete surprise, drove him to the ground and started beating him relentlessly. Pat was too stunned to move or react. 

Finally, Trip pulled him off his father. Delmore shook Trip off and stood over Mrs. Talley’s body crying unashamedly. 

Despite his broken nose Bodeen smiled then spoke, “Now you ain’t got no witnesses to what we was supposed to did. Shit, so take us back goddamnit! You got a handfulla nuthin’.”

Bobby Joe managed a smile also. “Hell, she wasn’t even a good fuck. I paid two dollars for better pussy in lots of nastier places.”

His words stirred a morose Trip Banks, his face contorted in a mixture of hate and rage. By the time Bobby Joe pulled himself up to a kneeling position, Trip scrambled over and stood over him, brought the Sharps around and pulled the trigger, splashing blood, brain matter, and skull fragments all over the ground and his brother.

Everyone stood around in shock. Trip was immobile, frozen in time, finger still on the trigger. Charles walked over to him and helped lower the gun.

Bodeen was beside himself with rage. He charged Trip only to be knocked down by Bass. “What you done! He my baby brother! What you done! Now we got sumthin’ to tell that judge back in Fort Smith. Goddamnit! Take us there, you done murdered my brother and you gon’ pay for it now, yessir, you gon’ pay for this.”

Quietly, Bass approached Trip. The Sharps still leaked smoke from the breech and muzzle. The smell of cordite wafted in the small area. Bass could see the anger in Trip dissipating, being eaten away by guilt and shame.

“My God, what the hell have I done? Sweet Jesus.”

Bass eased the rifle out of his hands and said, “You ain’t done nuthin’ that didn’t need doin’.”

“I just lost it. I done murdered an unarmed man.”

“Yes, indeed, he was unarmed, but murder and man may not be the proper words here.”

“What’s gonna happen now?”

“Don’t worry about it. We gon’ take care of this.”

Bodeen stood again. “Damn right you gon’ take care of this! I’m gon’ see to it! You gon’ shackle him too? Like you gon’ do us? Goddamnit, you better do somethin’.”

Bass turned, eyed him with no expression whatsoever. “Don’t worry,” he said. “That be exactly what we gon’ do.”

              _____________________

A few hours later, the sum climbed to its summit in a cloudless sky. The rays bounced through the thick tree cover, splattering sunlight on the small gathering. They clustered around the rock covered mound as Delbert finished hammering in the rough-hewed cross at the head of the grave. Bass turned to him.

“Would you like to say somethin’, son?”

Delbert looked up, eyes still streaming tears. “I don’t have the words,” he said.

Without hesitation, Charles Running Dog spoke a few words in his native tongue as Delbert delivered the final stroke to anchor the cross in the ground.

“Any ideas of what you gonna do?” asked Bass.

“I might have blood down near Hazleton. Farmers I think. My daddy wasn’t too welcome most places.”

“I understand.”

Trip walked over leading a small mustang pinto, saddled with bags strapped to the rear. He handed Delbert two canteens of water. “I put a few days-worth of food in the bags. Should tide you over for a bit.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“No need. Just get on with your livin’ and be somethin’.”

“I’ll try.”

Delbert shook hands all around. Even Charles offered his with a non-committal grunt. Delbert climbed aboard and softly nudged the paint west out of the thicket.

“He gonna be okay,” said Bass. “I can tell. He gon’ be alright.”

Trip looked away over Bass’ shoulder. “What about them?”

Bass turned to view the three bodies hanging from the thick branch of a Cottonwood, swaying in the breeze, the branch creaking with each undulation.

“They can stay right where they be. Don’t want them touching the ground where Mrs. Talley is resting.”

“Why we hang that Bobby Joe. I already kilt him?”

Bass spat on the ground before speaking. “If anyone deserved to be kilt twice, it was him.” Bass spat again. All three men mounted up, stringing the Arabians behind them. They each gave a cautionary glance back at the grave of Victoria Talley, each man figuring justice was served, rough as it was.