Memoirs from Death Row (eBook)

Chapter Two

Where Angels Lay

Hank Jacobs watched the barn boy strip off the saddle and bridle from his chestnut Colt. Without a word, he tossed two silver dollars at his feet. He looked at Hank, a painful gaze. Hank’s face was drawn, thin, and his eyes burned from days of heavy trail dust. They set deep inside his head—cold, killer, black eyes. For several moments, his body stiffened, and he said nothing, absolutely nothing as he studied the little Mexican stable hand. He coughed slightly. His throat was still raw from the hot, Texas sun near the Mexican border, and he was annoyed that he rode into El Paso so late. He planned to be there earlier, a day earlier, to kill a man.

He sighed, turning around to glare at the full moon. It was almost ten o’ clock. Anxious cowhands rode past him galloping towards the Santa Rita Saloon and Emma’s whorehouse. Somehow, he could feel the nervous boy staring at him. He enjoyed turning his back on people; his instincts could sense their every move… heartbeat… tenseness… conviction… eyes… Turning he could see the light close. He was always ready to kill them before they change into the darkness. It was unending moments of the darkness when they each decided to kill but, he was always faster. The lack of hesitation gave him the edge.

“Bed him down good, boy. Aim to leave before noon tomorrow.”

“Si, senor.”

“Brush him first. He likes a good rub before his sweet oats.”

“Si, senor.”

His eye swung down to his boots. He patted them twice, kicking the last bit of trail dust from them. Glancing back, he saw the little boy walk slowly toward the last stall. He then paced slowly toward the Santa Rita Saloon. Snapping his Lancaster 4-barrel shotgun open, he tossed four shells inside it. A scatter gun would empty out a crowded bar, he thought.

The stale sweat had sufficiently dried on his face. His stride quickened as he considered how many times he would shoot this murderer and cattle thief. It needed to be quick. Slow agonizing deaths unsettle him, not his conscience, but his poor aim. He enjoyed killing outlaws, fugitives, society’s scoundrels for a living. Hank was now the most feared bounty hunter the west had ever known.

For a moment, there was a slight flicker in his eyes. He stopped in his tracks. “Jason Clayton’s horse,” he moaned. He instantly recognized his horse. He grinned, a subtle grin. “Gonna kill him, too,” he muttered. His face changed rapidly as Hank thought for a moment. His muscles relaxed as he worked the tension from his body. Last time he made a miscalculation about Clayton. Just a hairbreadth twitch of a movement altered his shot. It felt awfully good when he squeezed the trigger. Awfully good. “Dammit,” he said as the bullet whistled out the barrel. “I`ll be,” he flinched. The bullet scraped across Clayton’s scalp as he ducked and coiled, racing for cover.

There was a long pause as Clayton’s wild eyes searched the thick terrain for his assailant. Hank remained quiet. Already in his mind, he had undoubtedly missed his chance. Clayton was too fast for an even-up showdown. In fact, he was lightning fast—the only man he knew that was faster than himself. Ol’ Clayton cussed at him releasing a hail of bullets that ricocheted off every rock and tree near him. The rocks shattered and bark splintered as debris flew in every direction at once.

He kept yelling and screaming but Hank maintained his composure. Clayton was trying to rattle him with the barrage. “Reckon you had me,” he yelled. “I’ll find ya’.’’ Clayton chuckled ignorantly.

Hank remained silent. He knew the silence was killing this bank robber and horse thief. That reward of $500.00 was always disturbing him. Somehow, Clayton believed the price should have been more—a thousand more—likely ending with a wire tag looped around his big toe.

Hank would wait nonchalantly, hiding safely out of Clayton’s range and sight. He knew time was on his side. He was patient—killing always required a strange level of twisted tolerance. That was the difference—patience.

Clayton laughed. “C’mon.” His six-shooter barked again… and again… and again… snapping a volley of shots that rained everywhere. Clayton’s horse snorted, momentarily spooked by his uncontrolled craziness. His leathery face contorted as the last shot fell harmlessly in the dust but, Clayton was no fool. He had plenty of ammunition left. He now was dug in waiting five minutes… fifteen minutes… and finally a full hour. Soon, his thin layer of patience had significantly worn.

The nervous Clayton rushed out from the brush, leaping up on his horse and quickly rode away. That was thirteen months ago near Tombstone. This was tonight near the Mexican border—a different town and different time. This time he did not intend to twitch.

This journey had ended in El Paso, Texas, a place where Horace Grimms was also hiding. He followed the rumors, whorehouses and Grimms’ whiskey trail to the border. Grimms was a gun-for-hire, but mostly a pathetic killer, indiscriminately killing without cause, without compunction. Time after time like replaying it over in his mind, Hank analyzed how Grimms’ eyes would be set the moment he fired the first round inside his thick gut—a bullet that would combine both the end of Grimms’ life and his nightmarish pursuit of him.

He was wasting no time; already his finger rubbed across his blue steel, six shot Colt 44. Hank cocked his head looking intensely. He then bristled from a sudden warm breeze. Rubbing his fingers together, he raised an eyebrow that caught a movement near Clayton’s horse. His head spun in both directions, searching for an ambush. He gazed down the long street, once… twice… a third, and finally a fourth time. His eyes caught glimpses of every single movement. Turning for a half a minute, he stared again at Clayton’s horse. And then—there it was! He saw it now, a drunken cowhand staggering to his feet from behind the water trough. His dogmatic vigilance and unflappable concentration was perhaps unusually guarded.

Hank warily watched the drunken cowpoke as he nestled down in a chair outside the saloon. His back then pressed against a dark wall, concealing his dark frame and his even darker thoughts. A smug grin worked across his face as his tongue rotated the black tobacco around inside his mouth. A quiet spit leapt from his mouth and fell quietly on the dusty boardwalk. He was feeling a surge of both adrenaline and ecstasy. He braced himself for this long-awaited event. “I’ll be damn,” he thought, “I’ll kill both of ‘em tonight.” He grinned.

He stood still, never a movement, never a sound, just staring at the people going in and out of the saloon. About an hour had passed when he finally moved away from the wall. His eyes narrowed. He glanced briefly, right and left, as he strolled nimbly quick across the street. He gazed down at the drunken cowhand. He had now lifted his groggy head staring into Hank’s coal-black eyes. He squinted his eyes as Hank lowered his wide black hat shielding his cold face. Suddenly, an unwell premonition moved inside the cowhand.

Intuitively, he seemed to understand why Hank was there. Relieved, his shoulders collapsed. He sighed a breath of comfort.

“I ain’t lookin’ for you.” Hank said to the cowhand.

Drawing a long breath, another, and quickly another one, the cowhand said, “I reckon not.”

“That horse (pointing at Clayton’s horse), you know where that man is?”

“Uh huh!”

Hank smiled. This was going to be easier than he thought. “Where?”

“Whiskey,” he grinned. “A pint of rot, cost you four pesos, but can you spare two bucks? Ya’ know, a few numbers on the Roulette,” he giggled.

“Sure.” Hank reached inside his breast pocket and tossed a ten-dollar bill on his lap. “Keep it! There’s a second piece to it, another name, there’s two of ‘em.”

The cowhand looked at Hank for a moment. He wasn’t fooled. The nature of his subtle inquiries was keenly understood by him. Tucking the ten-dollar bill inside his shirt pocket, he soberly gestured down the street. “Down there,” he pointed, “Ol’ Emma’s whorehouse, that’s where he went to. Took old Grace Early with ‘em. She’s a whore,” he snickered weakly.

“The other man. They call him Horace. Horace Grimms. A big fella, maybe wearing a big brown hat, brown and gray snakeskin boots, with two pearl handle Colts. He rides a big black colt, with tan patches on its right behind and a fancy calico spread on his saddle.”

“Huntin’ him too?” his grubby face asked nervously. He said, “Whiskey, I guess I’ll get that drink now,” he mumbled. He stared straight ahead not wanting to meet the tall man’s gaze.

After a few moments, Hank moved closer to him ignoring the hysterical laughter and carnival sounds inside the saloon. He made a weird, unfriendly, raspy half-chuckle as he spoke, “I’ll kill ya. Kill ya worse than dead.” All doubts leaped from the cowhand’s mind. He knew with certainty that Hank meant every word.

“I ain’t sayin nothin. Just a drank. Ol’ Charlie Moore won’t be no problem. No sir,” looking up at him, his...