33
Day became night, a still, dark, muggy night. On the horizon, a peculiar red moon hung above the land.
Atkins was just a crossroads with a few side streets, maybe ten wooden shacks. The hamlet's tall pines and oaks blocked any moonlight. In front of the municipal building, two torches blazed, throwing light into the muddy, rutted street and illuminating the small wooden building whose two windows were fogged up but showing a lantern or two inside. A few flies, buzzing around in the light, constituted the only life around. Behind the building, the shadows merged into nothing in the distance.
Douglas sucked in a deep breath. He didn't bother to look at his watch. The group had stopped in a meadow outside of town and waited an hour, departing a quarter short of ten. Now they were here, quicker, easier, and with less anticipation than Douglas had figured. During the day, they had taken a reserved pace, hoping to conserve their horses in case they needed them later that evening. He had told his subordinates if he yelled the command “Fire,” they were to kill all the outlaws except Amos and Clinton Dallon. Basil had insisted for days, in accordance with outlaw etiquette, that Clinton had long since fled to Texas.
Before they had departed Moses Garrett's place, they had put the corpse of the dead clansman on his horse and led the animal out into the woods, where they shot the beast. Though the bullet holes and blood of the shoot-out still existed, Douglas hoped no one would find the evidence until morning.
From where he stood, holding the reins of his horse, two torches lit his silhouette. Behind him, his eight soldiers and the wagon remained veiled in the darkness. He still had no plan; somehow he had just let events bring him here. Anything seemed possible in the steamy night. He bent over and grabbed an apple-sized rock off the road and tossed it up on the building's porch.
Two men appeared on the wooden porch, both with their entire bodies, head to boot, concealed with sheets, and both holding rifles by the stock, their barrels pointed downward.
From the street, Douglas yelled in a flat voice, “Where's Hannah Butler?”
One of the men replied, raising a hand over his mouth and squealing to alter his voice, “Where's Amos Dallon?”
Douglas turned and nodded. Three more large torches then lit up, illuminating the street with their pulsating light. All eight soldiers, still mounted, and the wagon, its cover removed, came into view, fifteen paces behind him. Every man in the army patrol held his Henry rifle at the ready.
“I want to see Hannah!” Douglas yelled.
“Let us have Amos first,” the man said and laughed. “He's no good to you anymore. I hear your witness fell on hard times.”
“No,” Douglas replied, his throat becoming dry. “Bring her out.”
No one said anything for a few seconds. Finally Basil yelled, “I'll kill the little sack of shit right now. Would love to.” He climbed up on the wagon, pistol drawn. He leaned against the cage, pulled out his penis, and began to urinate on Amos.
A third veiled man appeared on the porch, leading Hannah by a handful of hair, her mouth gagged and hands tied.
“You all right, Hannah?” Douglas asked, a sense of utter relief falling over him as he stared at his bride's flushed face and unsmiling eyes. For most of the day, almost terrified, he had pondered Basil's suggestion that Hannah might betray him. That thought hung like a dagger hovering over his heart, ready to penetrate. Her sight quashed the blizzard in his stomach. Any other sight would have crushed him, probably sending him into a tantrum of hysteria, incapable and without a desire to finish the day's work. From his position, she looked no worse for the wear, her skin and pink dress only slightly soiled.
Hannah tried to utter some words through the cloth gag as she uncomfortably jerked her head, resisting the firm hand pulling on her short locks.
“Cut her gag loose so I can talk to her,” Douglas said.
“No, she's fine,” the man said. “Give us Amos and you can have her.”
“Bring her out to me.” Douglas turned and motioned to Basil. “Bring Amos to me. I'll hand him over when I get my hands on her.”
Time passed slowly as Basil retrieved Amos from the wagon. Douglas still hadn't decided how this would play out, at least from his side. If no one threatened gunplay, he would let the events unfold, depart with just the swap if that was possible. Were his adversaries aware of Moses Garrett's fate?
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Basil walk up beside him, Amos on one side, a drawn pistol at the ready on the other. From his other eye, he saw more movement. Beside the building, four more horses, each carrying the white figure of a man wearing a mask with eye slits, stepped forward into the light. Their hammers and levers cocked. Behind him, the levers of his own men's weapons moved in unison. The two sounds brought the tension to a crescendo. On their horses, the soldiers walked forward and stood behind Douglas, facing the building, Sergeant Dixon half a horse in front.
Douglas studied all seven of his opponents. He saw the three on the porch clearly, but the four horsemen beside the building were only vague images. Was Clinton Dallon among them? If the shooting started, he'd like to catch him alive.
Basil had slightly turned, showing his narrow and less vulnerable side to the bandits as he secured his footing. He then raised his pistol and pointed it at the man beside Hannah. “Bring her down here, now.”
As Douglas watched the fearless, competent gunfighter, a sick thought entered his mind. Basil could just as easily be playing on the other side of the street. Only army gold had put him in his current position.
The outlaw in Basil's sights raised his pistol, jerked on Hannah, and pulled her forward, leading her onto the street.
Hannah and the man approached. Douglas looked into the slits in the man's mask. Hannah's face flushed red. An urge to reach out and swipe the man's mask off rushed over him, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Gunfire would surely erupt. Just as he reached out to grab Hannah's arm, almost feeling her smooth, soft flesh, the thud of horse hooves came from town.
“Dear God,” Douglas mumbled, a cold chill running over his body. All the men, from both sides of the street, poised to fire, shuffled to look. Death hung in the air. Nine horses, all mounted with men in masks, stormed from the center of town onto the scene, reining their mounts to a stop in front of the little municipal building.
One of the men in the newly arrived posse of masked men stood in his stirrups. “Let her go, you've gone too far. Killing innocents and kidnapping women. None of this aids our cause. You've brought nothing but the firm rule of the Republicans on us.”
Everyone stiffened. As the masked men on horses shuffled around, Douglas pushed Amos into the street and grabbed Hannah, pulling her behind him.
“Y'all falling in with the nigger soldiers?” one of the men on the porch said.
Fifteen seconds of silence fell on the scene. Douglas looked around for Amos, but couldn't find him in the half-light. He finally sounded off. “We can make this a white man's fight if that's what you want.” He shoved Hannah into the darkness behind him and turned to Sergeant Dixon. “Sergeant, back your men off, down the street.”
Sergeant Dixon gritted his teeth and gripped his rifle firmly. “No, this is our fight, too.”
Douglas raised his shotgun and pointed it at the sergeant. “That is a direct order. Do you understand? You too, Hannah, go with them.”
The sergeant swore a few times and then wheeled his horse around, spurring the gelding hard, and galloped down the street into the darkness. One of the soldiers helped Hannah up on his horse before the other troopers followed, without all the dramatics.
The man leading the belated posse in the road looked at the four masked riders astride the building. “You can go. Last chance.”
The four cloaked riders beside the municipal building turned to look at the two men on the porch, then back at the large, unfriendly group of clansmen in the street. One rider backed his horse into the darkness.
“Where are you going?” a man on the porch yelled. “Can't believe you're cowing down to this bullshit.”
The three other riders disappeared as fast as they had appeared. The nine horses in the posse from town rode forward, crowding the municipal building. Douglas felt surrounded. Three of the men in the nine-man posse grabbed thick ropes from their saddles and held them high.
A deep voice sounded out from the mayhem. “Captain, this is no business of yours. Go back where you came or suffer your fate.”
Douglas and Basil stepped back a few paces into the darkness and watched the late-arriving mob tear off the masks of the men on the porch. He recognized two of the outlaws, one Sheriff Thaxton and the other the preacher from the Montgomery Baptist Church, the one whose sermon he had attended a few weeks earlier. This was the voice he had heard that night on the trail, the voice he tried to place, but never could put with a face.
Basil jumped on his horse. “Let's go. Let's just get out of here,
now.
”
As Douglas mounted, he looked at a few of the men in the group who had arrived from town, all still veiled. Was one of these men Josiah? Or had he simply passed along the word to other clansmen, more powerful than the local outfit of miscreants? Did he play any role in this, or had this been ordained independent of him? Did he and his deeds even matter to this secret society?
The posse threw three ropes over some framing on the awning. He'd never know the answers. Still unable to depart, he watched the gang roughly handle the three condemned. On their way to hell, the three night riders sported crazed faces of disbelief.
Basil reached out with his reins and slapped the rear of Douglas's horse, sending the mare racing into the night.
Head spinning, mouth dry, still bewildered and almost in shock, Douglas brought his horse to a sliding stop a few hundred yards down the street where his troops huddled under a large tree. Hannah sat atop one of the horses. “Sorry about that, Sergeant. Didn't want to do it, but had to. That posse hung those three. Not many times we can get away without a scratch and get that.”
“Sure's hope so. Just don't make it a habit,” the sergeant replied. “I've got better news. A lone rider just took out of town. Down there.” The sergeant pointed. “Headed south. Without a mask. I'd say it's Amos.”
Almost unable to believe his ears, Douglas gently goaded his mount. “We'll probably have enough moon to track him. Leave the wagon. Let's move down the road, just out of town, and regroup.”
Five minutes later, Douglas dismounted. In the damp road beneath his feet, three torches illuminated his patrol, which was grouped around a set of horse tracks.
On a knee and holding one of the torches, Huff slid his hand over one of the hoofprints. He looked up at Douglas. “Hind, rear shoe has a big groove in it that will be easy to follow, even at night.” Huff felt the dirt road, picking up a handful of the moist soil. “Especially on this wet ground.”
Douglas turned to his men, then Hannah, her white face appearing like a lantern among the dark skin and shadows. He wanted to go after Amos, but not with Hannah. He looked back at his men. “Basil, I want you to take Hannah back to Natchitoches tonight. Stay with her until we get back.”
The words caused some slight unrest among his men. Apparently, though the troopers feared, maybe even despised Basil, they felt more comfortable with him around. Douglas himself didn't fancy the thought of going after Amos without Basil, but he had no choice. He trusted only the gunfighter with Hannah, certainly at night and riding the backcountry.
Douglas grabbed Hannah's hand. He led her a few feet away into the privacy of a shadow. He put the palm of his hand on her cheek, feeling her soft skin. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you? . . . I love you.”
“I'm fine,” Hannah said in a low voice. “Take me with you. You may need Basil. I'm not afraid of these men.”
Hannah's trembling voice, her bloodshot eyes, told Douglas she lacked the energy required for the pursuit. He didn't want her to go anywhere but the safety of town, and he suspected her vigor didn't match the zeal in her voice.
“No.” In the dark nothingness, Douglas found her lush lips and kissed her. The tender kiss seemed a world away from the daunting, bloodthirsty setting.
“Go get Amos,” Hannah said in a resolute tone. “Have him in jail in Natchitoches in a few days for everybody to gawk at. There's nothing you could do for me and these people that's more important than that.” With that, she let go of Douglas and ambled to her horse.
Douglas looked down the road, slicing into a valley as it slivered its way through the tall trees and eerie night, leading into the unknown. What lay down this trail? Was he up to the task? Hannah climbed on her horse. They both had hazardous trips ahead. Would he ever see her again?