CHAPTER 15
Twenty-six miles north of Tinhorn, a recent inmate of the Tinhorn jail was housed in a temporary female cell block, awaiting trial before Judge Graham Dodge. In a small cell with two cots, a chamber pot, and a water bucket, Ada Tubbs lived in constant despair. Her cellmate Lucy was a prostitute who had already been to prison once. With no exercise period, the women were confined to their cell twenty-four hours a day. Lucy was a disgusting human being who delighted in telling Ada tales about life in the Huntsville Unit, where they were bound to be sentenced to serve their terms.
Ada frustrated Lucy with her lack of response to her tales, remaining as stoic and fatalistic as she had been in Tinhorn’s jail. Revenge upon those who had put her there was the only passion she felt. If she had no chance for that, she would choose death in whatever form it came. Hanging, shot while attempting escape, attacking a guard—it didn’t matter. Remaining incarcerated for a full term, whatever that would be, was not an option.
During the second week of her stay in the cell block the commanding captain decided he wanted an old kitchen building that hadn’t been used in years put back in service. It had to be scrubbed clean of all the grease and grime that had collected on its walls and floors over the years, and he wanted the women sitting in their cells awaiting trial to do the work. It was a much-sought-after assignment.
It was Ada’s fortune the guards thought she was tall and strong. In her usual custom, she made no comment of gratitude or elation when informed she had been assigned to that work detail—free of her cell for twelve hours a day, for as long as it took to complete the job.
Two guards—known to the women only as Rafer and Plummer—were assigned to watch the work detail of seven women. Both men were armed, sizable brutes, with Rafer being the bigger one.
From the beginning, the work was hard. It didn’t take long for the women to realize it was unpleasant work. In some places the grease was so thick, it was necessary to use hammer and chisel to remove it from the floors and walls behind the stoves. In case any of the seven women had thoughts of fleeing, their ankles were chained together. Still it was preferable to being locked up in their cells day and night.
Rafer and Plummer evaluated the women and assigned them according to how hard they worked.
“Hey, you!” Rafer yelled on the third day. “The tall, lanky one. Yeah, you,” he said when Ada turned to face him. “What’s your name?”
“Tubbs,” Ada said, emotionless. She was already accustomed to being identified by her last name only.
“Tubbs.” A grin broke out on his broad face. “Dynamite,” he exclaimed and turned to his partner. “Hey, Plummer, this is that gal Ron Black said the sheriff called Dynamite. Dynamite Tubbs,” he said again, excited as a schoolboy. He turned back toward Ada again. “That’s right, ain’t it? You’re the one they call Dynamite.”
“If you say so,” she answered, still devoid of emotion.
“You don’t act like dynamite,” Rafer said. “Maybe if we light your fuse you might clean this place up in about fifteen minutes.” When his comments were still met with a bored reaction, he said, “Come on over here behind that stove. You’re tall enough to reach that grease caked up around the stovepipe where it goes up through the wall.”
She reached up with her chisel and started scraping the old grease away.
“All right. Now we’re gettin’ somewhere. You just keep at it. All the way around that pipe.” He watched her for a while before he asked, “What was you doin’ before they arrested you for dynamitin’ the jail. Were you a prostitute?”
“No. I’m not a prostitute. I’m a widow.”
“A widow?” He was surprised. “And now, you’re fixin’ to go away for a long, long time, but I reckon you’re already used to not havin’ a man around.”
“Pretty much,” she replied.
Plummer called out, “Dinner time, ladies!”
“Go get yourself somethin’ to eat,” Rafer said. “You got a long way to go yet.”
He joined Plummer and they filled a couple of plates, then sat down at a table to watch their work crew while they ate.
“I may have something staked out,” Rafer said to Plummer.
“Who, ol’ Dynamite Tubbs? I noticed you spendin’ a lotta time with her. You ain’t particular, are you? Most of the other ones in here are better lookin’ than she is.”
“There’s somethin’ kinda strange about her, and she ain’t like these other women in here. She’s a widow woman. Maybe I’ll make a bargain with her. I won’t look at her face, if she don’t look at mine.”
The women had thirty minutes to eat, then it was back to work for the female crew. Rafer made a show of walking around the old kitchen, watching the different women work. No one took any particular notice of the old worn-out scrub brush he carried in his hand. Near the bolted back door, he turned to catch Plummer’s eye and gave him a couple of nods. Plummer grinned and nodded back.
Rafer walked behind the stove where Ada was still using a hammer and chisel on some of the hard grease places. “Here”—he tossed the worn-out brush to her—“you need to use a scrub brush on that spot that ain’t so thick.”
She dropped her hammer to catch it. Took one look and said, “This brush is worn out.”
“It is? I didn’t even look at it. Throw it back.”
She did.
He looked at it and said, “I declare, you’re right. Come on. We’ll go to the storeroom and get a new one.”
She looked uncertain and bent down to pick up her hammer.
“Leave the hammer where it is. Come on.” He walked to the storeroom at the end of the hall by the back door, and opened the door for her. When she walked in, he closed the door behind her. “Look in that big carton under the window. I think that’s full of scrub brushes.”
She went to it and saw that he was right, so she opened it and pulled one out, then turned to go back to the door.
He stepped in front of her. “You know, if you were smart, I could make things a lot easier for you while you’re here.”
“I ain’t interested in makin’ things easier.”
“It would be just like bein’ with your husband again. Make your stay more enjoyable while you’re here.” He stepped closer to her and took her by her shoulders, pulling her close up against him.
“No!” she cried. Still holding the chisel, she came up under his chin as hard as she could and struck him in his throat, using the chisel like a dagger.
The newly sharpened chisel cut through his windpipe like a knife, and he could do nothing but grab his throat with both hands. Gasping for air, he backed away from her.
In a fight for her life, she charged into him. Stabbing him again and again with the chisel, she could not cut deep enough to deliver a lethal wound, but they were so painful he removed one of his hands from his throat to fend her off. She struck him again in the throat, severing his windpipe. Unable to make a sound, he sank to the floor with her on top of him.
Seeing several rags on a shelf next to her arm, she grabbed one and stuffed it down his windpipe, holding it there until he was still.
Outside in the hall, Plummer walked by and paused at the door for a minute. Hearing the sounds of bodies on the floor and the rattling of boxes, he grinned and walked on up to the other end of the hall.
Exhausted, Ada sat back on her heels and wondered what to do. Seeing his revolver in the holster, she quickly grabbed it, thinking anybody who came through that door would be her next victim. But then, she began to think rationally and set her mind to thoughts of escape. To stay there would mean to die. She reached into his pockets and pulled out everything until she saw what she searched for. Taking the ring of keys, she tried each one until she found the one that unlocked the chains on her ankles. Free to move, she pulled the gun belt out from under him, strapped it on, and took the small amount of money he had carried in his pocket. Already aware the window was the only thing between her and the outside, she went at once to inspect it. It was covered by a light metal lattice but was so old, wood had rotted in places around the frame. She used her chisel to work on the edges of the lattice and soon had pried enough of the lattice away to bend it back enough for her to wiggle through. She reached up behind the lattice and unlocked the window. Even straining as hard as she could, it had been too many years since last opened. The window wouldn’t slide up.
Just before smashing it with the chisel, it suddenly cracked loose from the paint and slid up. She was free!
But only free from this building, she told herself.
Looking straight out the window, she could see nothing but a long grassy area. Very cautiously, she stuck her head out the window. Looking left and right all she saw were the backs of the buildings that made up the jail compound. She took one farewell look at the body, squeezed herself out the window, and dropped to the ground. Hearing no shouts of alarm or halts, she hurried along the back of that building and the building next to it until she reached the end—nothing between her and the buildings of the town but an open field of high grass and a scattering of stunted oak trees. She hesitated for only a moment before striking out across the field, halfway expecting a fatal bullet in her back.
Inside the old kitchen, Plummer began to wonder if Rafer and Dynamite had had themselves such a good time that they had fallen asleep afterward. The last couple of times he went by the door, there were no sounds at all. Thinking maybe he’d better check, he stopped on his next pass and tapped lightly on the door. No answer, so he knocked louder. When there was still no answer, he knew something was wrong. He drew his revolver and opened the door. The sight of Rafer’s bloodied body on the floor was a sight he would never forget.
Stopped motionless for a long few seconds, he didn’t know what to do. Glancing up from the body, he saw the open window and blew his whistle as loud as he could.
With no idea what they were supposed to do, the women prisoners shuffled back and forth. Pretty soon a couple of them looked into the storeroom. One was stopped cold by the sight of the body. The other grabbed Rafer’s keys off the floor, unlocked the chains on her ankles, and escaped. Quickly, the stunned woman followed suit and climbed out the open window too.
Plummer was too late to stop them, but turned and stood in front of the door with his pistol out to keep anyone else from trying to escape.
On the far side of the field from the chaos she had just created, Ada was walking up a side street that ran beside a saloon. Around the front of the saloon, she saw three horses tied at the rail, strolled over to stand between the roan and the dun, and waited a few minutes to see if anyone was curious about what she was doing there. Accustomed as they were to seeing most anything in front of the saloon, the couple of people who walked past on the boardwalk paid no attention to the woman wearing the wide-brimmed hat and the gun belt. No one came to inquire about her interest in the horses. Seeing the stirrups looked about right for her legs, she untied the reins for the dun and climbed up into the saddle.
Watching the saloon door anxiously, she backed the dun away from the rail, then turned his head toward the south end of the street and urged the gelding into an easy lope until she left the buildings of Tyler out of sight behind her.
Remembering the small store at a crossroad about two miles short of town, Ada reined the dun to a walk and realized in her haste to get away she had missed an important detail—a rifle was sheathed on the side of the dun. She smiled and guided the horse toward the store. Arriving, she pulled up, and dismounted.
Donald Stokely looked up in surprise to see the tall, lanky woman walk in the door. Wearing a tall, flat-brimmed hat squarely on her head, and a gun in a holster strapped around the waist of her gingham dress, she looked to be all business.
“What can I do for you, ma’am?” Stokely blurted.
“Where does that road go?” Ada asked, pointing toward the west.
“That way, it heads to Athens,” Stokely answered.
She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out the small roll of paper money she had taken from Rafer. Stokely watched, fascinated, as she took a minute to see how much she had. Satisfied that she had enough, she said. “I need a box of matches and a pound of that bacon yonder.” She pointed to a side of meat on the table behind him.
When she stopped speaking, he asked, “Will that be all?”
“I want you to slice it for me about this thick,” she answered and held her thumb and forefinger up to show him. “I ain’t got a knife with me,” she explained.
“Yes, ma’am,” Stokely assured her. “Be glad to. Need anything else, like coffee or flour?” Seeing her counting her money encouraged him to try to sell more.
“No,” she replied. “I ain’t got a coffeepot.”
“I’ve got a little one I could sell you right cheap,” he urged.
She hesitated, then said, “I reckon not.”
He smiled and turned, quickly slicing and wrapping the bacon in paper for her. He placed it on the counter then reached behind him, took a box of matches off the shelf, and placed it beside the bacon.
“How much?” she asked.
He took a pencil and added two figures, then said, “Seventy-nine cents. I’ll knock off the four cents and we’ll call it seventy-five even.” Watching as she peeled a dollar bill from the small roll she carried, he could see that she had a few dollars left. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” He walked to the end of the counter and pulled a small metal coffeepot off the shelf. “This little pot will hold about four cups. Coffee sells for twenty-nine cents a pound, double that if it’s ground. I’ll sell you this coffeepot and one pound of ground coffee plus your bacon and matches, for an even three dollars.”
“Everything for three dollars,” she repeated, “and the coffee ground?”
He nodded his head.
“Done,” she decided.
“You got yourself a good bargain. Won’t take me but a few minutes to grind the beans.” He weighed the coffee beans on his scale and dumped them into his grinder.
Strongly believing it would take the guards from the jail a great amount of time to find out what had happened, she was not overly concerned about a posse catching up with her while she waited. And they wouldn’t know which way to start out after her unless they ran into the rider whose horse she had stolen. To her mind, a posse couldn’t be organized that soon and know exactly which way she went. If she had known that she’d created the opportunity for two other women to escape, she would have been even more confident.
“Pleasure doin’ business with you, ma’am. ’Preciate it,” Stokely said as he put her purchases in a little sack.
She merely nodded, paid him the three dollars, turned at once, and went out the door.
He watched her through the open door as she placed the sack in the saddlebag on her horse, climbed up into the saddle, and rode back onto the road. He walked out on his small porch and watched as she went to the crossroad and set out on the road to Athens. “My, my, my,” he muttered to himself, thinking what a strange woman she was.
“What are you my, my, mying about?” asked Sadie Stokely as she joined him.
“That woman that just left here.” He pointed toward the Athens road where she was just before going out of sight. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she ain’t one of them women outlaws you hear about from time to time.”
“I wish you’da called me to help you,” Sadie said. “I’da like to seen her.”
“She was somethin’, all right. Big ol’ tall gal. Had what looked like a Colt Peacemaker strapped around her waist.” He shook his head in wonder. “And didn’t have more ’n two or three dollars to her name after she left here.” He looked at his wife and grinned. “I sold her that little coffeepot I’ve been tryin’ to get rid of for I don’t know how long.”
* * *
Ada was as happy she’d decided to buy the little coffeepot as Donald Stokely was happy to have gotten rid of it. She was not sure what she would find when she got home. No one should be watching the house so soon after her escape. No way anyone could know about it yet, unless someone had telegraphed the Tinhorn sheriff. Only then might he send that sneaky deputy out to watch for her. She might get an opportunity to get a shot at him, if he showed up there.
The man at the store had said the road would take her to Athens, but she didn’t know anything about a place named Athens. She looked carefully at the road and saw plenty of tracks on the road. That was important for what she had in mind. She didn’t claim to know anything about tracking, but she had common sense, figuring anyone who would set out to catch her might assume she would head for home. She guessed they would stop at the store she’d just left to ask the owner if he had seen her. He would certainly send them down the road she was currently riding on. That’s why the tracks on the road were important.
She could see enough tracks that the dun’s tracks might not be distinguishable from other horses’ tracks. If she left the road, anyone on her trail might not realize her tracks were not there anymore.
Her mind made up, that’s what she did. As soon as she came to a stream crossing the road, she entered the stream, turned the dun downstream, and rode in the middle of it, back in the direction of her home. She stayed in the water until reaching a grassy meadow the stream had cut right through the center of and rode to the edge of the meadow. Thinking to be doubly careful, she stopped her horse, dismounted, and tied the reins to a tree limb. Walking back to the stream on foot, she tidied up any disruption of the meadow grass where the dun had come out of the water.
With a satisfied feeling she had done everything possible to mislead a posse, she started out on a course she figured would take her back to the road to Tinhorn. After crossing through forested lowlands for twenty minutes or more, her faith in her sense of direction was justified when she once again struck the Tyler-Tinhorn road.
In the later part of the afternoon she came to the trail that led to her father’s house. Still of the opinion that it was too soon to expect anyone from Tinhorn to have ridden out to watch the house, she rode confidently along the path to her home and pulled up short of the barnyard to look the place over before riding in.
It seemed strange. She saw no sign of any activity on the place and looked toward the pasture beyond the barn. The herd of stolen horses was still there, but there was no sign of her father or her brothers. They’re all off somewhere, up to something, or laying around the house, she thought as she nudged the dun and rode across the barnyard and into the barn. Since no horses were in the barn, she knew they weren’t inside the house. She got down from the dun, pulled the saddle off him, then turned him out in the corral, so he could get water.
She carried her saddle and bridle into the tack room and was startled to find it empty of the commonly used tools. It was enough to make her more cautious. Drawing the Colt. 45 from the holster, she checked to make sure it was loaded then went to the house where she found even more evidence that the place was deserted. The kitchen stove was cold and appeared to have been for some time. The most commonly used dishes and cookware were missing. In the bedrooms her father’s and brothers’ clothes were gone.
The house was deserted!
Having thought all the way from Tyler that there was no reason for her father and brothers to be in any trouble with the law, she suddenly remembered the last time she’d seen them. Her father’s last words to her were, “Don’t you worry, honey. I’ll take care of you.”
That was after he’d promised to get her out of the jail, even if he had to use dynamite to do it. He might have tried to break her out of the Tinhorn jail, not realizing she had been taken to Tyler.
What to do now?
She could think of no way to find out. Maybe they were in jail, but she could not find that out without going to Tinhorn. She shook her head. The minute she walked into Tinhorn she would be immediately recognized.
They could be dead. She had to consider that possibility and made a promise to herself to find them. But that would never happen if the law got to her first. So, taking care of herself had to be her number one priority. And while she might be safe in the house tonight, she knew it was not a safe place for her after that. Tonight, she must ready herself for the days to follow.
In her bedroom—the only room left untouched—she removed the dress she had been wearing every day since her abduction by Flint Moran, and replaced it with heavier denim trousers since she planned to be spending most of her time in the saddle. She selected a flannel shirt and a denim farm vest to wear over it and threw her shoes in the corner. With no desire to dress for any reason other than comfort and practicality—she would possibly spend the majority of her time outdoors now—she chose socks, bandanas, and rugged underwear. She dressed then packed up only those clothes she might actually wear. She had been branded an outlaw, so outlaw she would be. Since she had killed a man, she would also be branded a murderer.
She felt no regret over having killed the guard, Rafer. The fact that he was in the process of assaulting her would be of no importance. Because she had to kill him with a cold chisel, she would no doubt be referred to as a bloody murderer. And before I’m done, Flint Moran and Buck Jackson will rue the day they ever crossed paths with Ada Tubbs.
In her present circumstances, the most important thing on her mind was to find her father and brothers. Again considering the possibility they had been arrested and were now in the Tinhorn jail, she realized that didn’t make sense. They would hardly have packed up all their clothes and cleaned out the tack room if they had gone to break her out of jail. Or would they? It’s possible they planned to break her out and not return to the farm.
But if that was the case, why didn’t they take some of her clothes with them? She concluded the only answer for her had to start in Tinhorn. But she could not go to Tinhorn without being immediately recognized.
Not particularly hungry for any supper, she still built a fire in the stove and made some coffee in her new coffeepot. As the night began to descend upon the barnyard, she went out to the corral to take care of her horse. Returning to the house with the guard’s pistol and the stolen rifle, she was determined to resist anyone attempting to capture her. With that thought in mind, she sat by the kitchen door with no lamps lit, and waited for anyone who might think to search the house.
It was after midnight before she drifted off to sleep.