Lords of an Empty Land (7 page)

Douglas's throat went dry as he searched for a response. He tore off a piece of bread and drank some coffee. He turned to Huff and Basil, both continuing to eat. “Judge, I understand your concerns. And they are accurate. But it is a lawless jungle outside of town. We have made and will continue to make every effort to bring these men to your courtroom, as much as it does not unduly endanger us.”

“If it
does
endanger you,” the judge continued, “so be it. The law is not up for interpretation. And it is the only thing that will work.”

Basil set down his fork and leaned back from the table. “There's a family of five with two loaded wagons in town. Hear they're headed east, to Winnfield and then to the railhead at Monroe. Been in town a few days. Hear they're headed out in the morning. We could trail them. Might catch somebody preying on them.”

Douglas took in the statement as the entire table got silent. Even the sounds of eating paused.

After the awkward silence, the judge spoke up. “I wouldn't recommend using innocent civilians as bait, much less women and children.”

Basil continued to eat. “I wouldn't consider them innocents. If these people run into those highwaymen, the only thing they'll be meeting is their maker.”

Douglas didn't like the idea of it, but Basil was right. All they could do was help, and they might catch somebody alive, somebody they could try and interrogate. He turned to Basil, then Huff. Neither were interested in the judge's idea of justice. One had a poisoned heart, his current state forced on him by a pitiless world, the other had gotten there by choice, but both seethed with a desire for their own form of justice.

Douglas picked up his fork. “We could never follow them out of town, or even cross the ferry a few hours later. That would arouse too much suspicion. We'd need to cross the river to the north and catch up with them on the trail.... Basil, check around today, discreetly, confirm this, and see when they're leaving. Basil's right, they're already bait, whether they want to be or not. All we can do is help. We'll take the Sparta Road, cut through the woods, and be able to catch up with them by dark. Be there in case there's any potential problems. Be much safer for them that way, and it will satisfy our needs.”

Douglas looked at his men, then the judge. “Let's be ready to ride in the morning. Get ready today and tonight. We'll need a sharp eye; this may take us a few days, and nights.”

In the distance, a few lights glowed. Douglas looked up at the belt of stars stretching across the sky, then to Hannah as he leaned back on a blanket spread on the bank of a small bayou on the Butler plantation. Her fresh scent and fair skin, glowing in the starlight, induced his manly cravings. Douglas had experienced women before, knowing the benefits of their soothing touch. He had in fact been engaged once, while at West Point, but his fiancée had succumbed to typhoid. He had also patronized a few of the brothels in New Orleans.

He finally handed Hannah the almost empty bottle of champagne.

“Where did you get this?” Hannah said, her speech slightly slurred. “And how did you end up at the Butler house just after dark?”

“I stole it at the Yankee ball the other night. I'm quick. I did it within eyesight of you and everybody else. And I thought I'd ride out here and check on you. Your sister and mother are gone, and I knew the judge would be in town until late. This is strictly a call within my current duties.”

“And you happened to bring the champagne on this routine trip?”

“Kind of like that.” Douglas laughed. He rolled over on his side and stared at Hannah and the big ball of light crimson hair pinned up above her ears. He leaned forward and gave Hannah a quick peck on the lips. “It's probably after ten.”

Hannah grinned. “This was terrific . . . my father's probably rolling over in his grave, bless him. Let's stay here a while. It's a magnificent night. If Uncle drinks too much, he may not even come home tonight.”

“What about Mr. Jones?”

“He's sound asleep. He doesn't worry about my passing fancies, generally never gets out at night unless there's some type of ruckus, and Uncle would love the thought of a captain calling on me. I think he likes you. He'll forgive me for almost any transgression.... You look a little more worried than normal. What's the matter?”

Douglas stammered over his words. “It's just the shooting of Constable Garrett the other day was rather traumatic, ugly. It just didn't go like I wanted it to. The meeting with your uncle today reminded me of it. Now, I'm heading back into the backcountry, for no telling how long.” He passed a few quiet seconds before speaking. “Tell me about your uncle. How much credibility does he have with the local people?”

“He spent the Rebellion in New Orleans, aiding the Republican government. Never made much of himself prior to that. Had a small law practice in Shreveport, but it failed. He has no real family, never married.”

“You mean he fits the current definition of scalawag perfectly.”

“Some might say that just because he's returned home a man of authority. Maybe he just never profited from our past sins. I do know he's very honest and intent on doing what's right. He believes in a New South.”

“How's your sister taking all this? I mean the judge staying with you three?”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “Caroline will be fine. She'll eventually come around to the fact the world has changed. She needs to find a man to help her get over the loss of her dear husband in the war.”

Douglas looked at the bayou. “Are there alligators in there?”

“Not around here. Mr. Jones shoots them.”

With his feet, Douglas slipped off both of his boots, then stood and bent over and grabbed Hannah. “I'm burning up. These Louisiana nights are steamier than August afternoons in Ohio. Let's go for a swim.”

“No!” Hannah said as Douglas cradled her in his arms. “These are my favorite pants.”

“Just a short dip.” Douglas staggered to the bank, then threw Hannah into the water and jumped in behind her.

“Captain Owens!” Hannah said, wiping the water from her face. “You
are
a feisty gentleman. Maybe drinking doesn't agree with you.” Hannah walked by Douglas, splashing him with several handfuls of water before climbing out of the bayou and walking back to the blanket.

Douglas stumbled out of the bayou and over to his horse, where he grabbed a dry towel and clean cotton shirt from his saddlebag. He then flopped down beside Hannah, wiping her face with the towel.

“I'm all wet,” Hannah said.

“It feels great.” Douglas put his hand behind Hannah's head, pulling her close. He then bestowed a long kiss on her, lingering on her lips. “Here, put this on.”

Hannah looked at Douglas for a few awkward seconds, her eyes big with bewilderment.

“Let me help. I won't look.” Douglas reached over and grabbed the bottom of Hannah's shirt, feeling the bare flesh of her stomach. The soft, cool skin aroused him. Hannah leaned back, hesitating, her breath getting deep. He looked into her eyes. He wanted more. It had been years since he had experienced any real intimacy, and Hannah exploded his suppressed desires, displacing him from his indifferent military disposition and this wretched land so far from God.

Douglas closed his eyes, and lifted the wet shirt over her head. He stole a quick peek and then kissed Hannah's ear, before moving his lips down her neck.

Hannah took a few more deep breaths, before retreating. “We can't. I don't know if this can ever be.”

Douglas craned back, opening his eyes and inspecting her bare breasts and strong, youthful body. “Don't you like me? It's only natural.”

Hannah exhaled. “Yes, I do. I'm just confused.”

Douglas studied Hannah. Her face told him she longed for more, the same wants and desires as he and any woman of her age—the natural yearning for the company and care of the opposite sex. And similar to him, few ideal suitors existed for her around town. She had to be more friendless than he. At least he had the army to worry with. He caressed her cheek, grabbed her firmly, and pulled her close. “Hannah, I can't help it. I don't care about the situation, or what people think. I think I love you.”

Hannah grabbed her wet shirt, pulled it over her head, and wiggled her midsection to aid in sliding it back down to her waist. “These things take time. You can call on me again. I promise I'll try not to think about what everybody thinks, or our backgrounds, but our first cherished encounter, when and if it ever happens,
will not
be on the bank of a bayou.”

Douglas lay down on the blanket, resting his head on his propped-up hand. “I would like that. The country has changed, rejoined. You've told me you think Louisiana should be back in the Union. These things will become normal, like they were twenty years ago.”

“I hope so.” Hannah stood and put a hand to Douglas's ear, softly fondling it. “I am terribly lonely.”

Douglas stood and sighed. Tomorrow, he would be back at his bloody business. He hated the hastiness of this. He didn't want it to end so soon. He gave Hannah another long kiss, delighting in the feel of her full, soft lips. “Come on, let's go before somebody finds out about our scandal.”

The next morning found Douglas inspecting the five sturdy steeds they would take into the piney hills in an attempt to shadow the two wagons and family of five. All the mounts had the distinctive US brands on their front shoulders. The sky transmuted from light ginger to cobalt. The morning had a refreshing nip, but the day promised to be hot. Satisfied with his inspection, he walked back into his office. His men had all their rifles spread out on the table. The room carried the pungent smell of oil. Basil and Private O'Neal were cleaning and lubricating each of the weapons.

“How come these folks won't act right?” Private O'Neal asked, wiping down his gun barrel.

Douglas grabbed a biscuit off his desk as Huff handed him a cup of coffee. “You have to understand this place, how these people have been trampled on. There's nothing like it anywhere, not even in the postwar South. The War here was much crueler than back east. The first Union commander here, General Butler—the locals called him the Beast because of his savagery. The Beast was even too much for Lincoln, who eventually replaced him. This is the same President Lincoln who let Sherman burn Atlanta and march to the sea. General Banks was a little better, but he still pursued Butler's scorched-earth policies. Burned everything when he retreated, which was often. Hell, the Rebs got to where they would burn the towns beforehand because they knew General Banks would do it and thus they'd prevent him from any loot. And worse, when the war was over, the Confederates hadn't lost. They just read in the papers it was over. There weren't any honorable surrenders like back east where the armies saluted each other or had big formal parades written about in the papers. There was just a desolate land with no Federal government or army to keep the people from starving, or uphold law and order. Violence is all these people know, rich or poor, black or white.”

The heavy aroma of the coffee awakened Douglas's senses. He reached over to his desk and grabbed a large envelope, a week of reports he needed to send to headquarters. He then picked up a map, only a rough hand drawing. It was all that existed of the interior backcountry. The map documented the main roads, rivers, fords, a few towns and distances, but outside of the sparse roads and towns the map lacked ink. As he studied it, he continued to respond to Private O'Neal's inquiry. “This rich delta soil and hot, wet climate makes the best environment for crops God made anywhere in the world. Louisiana produced almost a third of the country's cotton, almost all its sugarcane. The biggest slave-trading houses for the entire country were in New Orleans. The Northern government has decimated this place, at least in their eyes. This is what happens when civilization and society are destroyed.”

Basil continued to wipe his rifle with a rag, but looked over at Douglas. “That sounds like typical Yankee rhetoric from some crackpot idealist. Y'all think this is just random violence. It's not. These are hard men, with local concerns. Most of the general trouble is very organized terror with political goals: to rid the state of carpetbaggers, and keep their Negro pawns from voting, by any means necessary.”

Douglas turned to Huff. “Get on down to the baker and get our bread. Mail these logs I spent all day yesterday writing. We'll depart in twenty minutes. If we hustle, we might make the ferry at Campti by noon. It will be much easier to cover the ground in the morning. We should be able to cut over to the Winnfield road a few hours before dark. I'm going to take a quick dip. Might be a while before I get another chance.”

Douglas walked out the back door of the office to a large iron bathing tub. He quickly slipped off his clothes and eased into the cool water. He plunged his head into the tub and quickly worked his body over with a bar of soap. As he continued to lather up, he turned to the office's back door when he heard some feet on the porch. There, Hannah stood, smiling and looking down at him.

“Why, Hannah, what on earth are you
doing
here?”

Hannah continued to grin and raised a small package. “I had to come to town this morning before school to drop off some papers for Uncle anyway. I thought I would bring you some fresh jerky for your trip . . . but I didn't expect to see you in such a compromising position.”

Douglas smiled. Hannah had the quality of making one feel she never rehearsed her words. “Well, turn your head. A lady's not supposed to see me like this, not in broad daylight. And no peeking.” Douglas stood, shook his body like a dog, and stepped into his pants before sliding on his boots and hastily pulling a shirt over his shoulders.

“Can I open my eyes now?”

“Certainly.” Douglas stepped up on the porch, catching a whiff of her scent, making his knees weak. “You're just in time. We're leaving right now.”

Douglas led Hannah over to the lawn behind the office where O'Neal and Basil had just saddled up. He climbed up on his mount, rested his elbows on his saddle horn, and looked down at Hannah.

She handed the jerky up to Douglas. “Now you be sure and come back, and . . . don't do anything stupid.”

“Tell your uncle we're planning to bring him some customers. Maybe then, you'll let me take you for a public outing, maybe the theater.”

“But no more swimming.”

“We may be gone awhile. Who knows when we'll be back?”

Douglas's stomach danced as he stared at the smiling Hannah, on her tiptoes and waving her hand in the air. With some pomp, he reared up his horse, then wheeled the mare around, pressing his legs against her ribs and riding off at a smart trot.

 

 

His face and clothes foamy with sweat, body exhausted, exposed skin parched fresh red and caked with dust, Douglas looked at the late-day sun hanging over the pines. He smelled the rank odor from his clothes.

A big black crow perched in a tree above cawed loudly, the call resonating through the hills. From the saddle, he looked ahead. The sun at his back radiated the image of a man on horseback. Through the dancing heat waves, the man traversed a high ridge on the trail ahead, maybe a quarter-mile distant.

It had been a fitful day. The four men had crossed the Red River fifteen miles north of Natchitoches on a little-used ferry. The route cut the distance to the Winnfield Road considerably, but entailed the negotiating of almost twenty miles of virgin country on little-used trails that bisected two vast swamps.

Somewhere in these marshy bottoms, they had gotten off course, slogging along for hours through the uninhabited land, unsure of their location or way. The primitive trails were a garbled mass of disorder. Some started east, but went north. Many didn't begin anywhere, but went everywhere, splitting into four, five, or six trails, perhaps more.

Mired in confusion and by compass only, they had trudged on, trying to keep an eastern track while weaving through and around the horrendous, patchwork terrain, a mosaic of thick green hills, wide bayous, and mushy turf, all populated with swarming insects and chiggers. The plentiful bayous were the worst, a perplexing enigma, an endless maze almost impossible to traverse. Teeming with insects, alligators, logs, cypress knees, and thick black water, their banks a mass of mangled vegetation, the bayous appeared to have neither inlets nor outlets. They slashed through the land, sometimes almost a mile wide, other times as narrow as a mountain brook, making navigation an almost hopeless chore.

“That's Huff,” Private O'Neal said, still staring through his field glasses. The private was new to this land, and his pale skin had not only turned dark red, but had already started to bubble up with blisters that matched his flaking lips. “Maybe he found the Winnfield Road.”

Around him, Douglas saw nothing but the intense glare of the sun and green everywhere. How did people live here? He fought off an urge to moan about the heat. Not wanting to complain in front of his men, he looked at his long shadow and felt the sun on his back as he removed his canteen and guzzled its contents, letting the water spill over his mouth onto his shirt. He removed his hat and poured several mouthfuls over his head, the refreshing water washing his salty perspiration into his eyes. He rode off the trail under a large pine, stepped down from his saddle, and sat on the ground, leaning back against a tree trunk. His once polished black cavalry boots were now coated in dust. “Let's take a break. Wait here on Huff.”

Under the shade of the pine, the three waited ten minutes for Huff to arrive. The harsh climate, coupled with the long day, didn't seem to wear on the elderly ex-slave as it did on the three feeble white men cowering in the shade. Huff's blood, his lifetime of toiling in this heartless land, made him much more suited for the brutal climate. He sat horseback, as nimble and fresh as ever. Douglas was reminded, as he often was, that the grit and sweat of men like Huff had carved up and conquered this bountiful land so unsympathetic to the fair-skinned creatures of the world.

“Road to Winnfield is less than a mile ahead,” Huff said, wiping his brow with his forearm.

“Not as bad as I figured,” Douglas replied, relieved. “Why do you look so worried?”

“We's much farther south than we expected,” Huff said. “Probably only ten miles east of the river. Maybe netted fifteen miles today, total. They's two sets of wagon tracks in the road. I'm guessing they's five, maybe six hours old.”

“Six
hours,
” Douglas moaned, his head hanging between his knees. “If they push on till dark, it'll be damn near midnight before we catch up to them, if at all.” He looked to the east, to a half-moon already rising. “We'll have some moon, probably till midnight.”

“Not all bad news,” Basil said. “At least we found the road. We'd have no chance if we had to wander around in this jungle at night.”

 

 

The four rode on through the night, down the well-beaten road, just wide enough for two wagons to pass. The degree of vision constantly deviated from a few hundred feet under the trees to maybe a quarter mile when the topography afforded. They had been riding, slowly, for three hours in the darkness. Douglas wanted to stop. The horses were nearly spent. On the ground below the horses' hooves, the tracks of the two wagons rambled on. By Douglas's calculation, they should be nearing the wagons soon, assuming they had stopped at dark. If viable, he wanted to camp with the travelers in case the bandits raided.

As Huff led the patrol down a steep incline, the air turned dark, a black void impenetrable to the eye. Down they went, maybe fifty vertical feet to a little stream.

“We've got to stop. Take a break for a while,” Basil said in a grumpy, downbeat tone. “Let the horses water and graze a spell.”

Douglas didn't even have to pull back on his reins, but only remove his spurs from his mare's ribs to bring her to a stop. He slowly stepped down to the ground, his saddle-sore bones aching. Where were they and where were they headed? This all appeared to be another useless, comical escapade. In the darkness, he heard the horses' long gulps from the little creek. “What do you think?” he said to Huff, who was splashing some creek water over his face. “Don't let the horses drink too much, they'll founder.”

“They can't be far, less than a mile,” Huff replied, the groggy whites of his eyes roving against his black face and the night.

Two quick pops drifted through the thick foliage. Douglas's heart raced as he jumped back on his horse. The other three men hustled to their mounts. He whipped his reins and kicked his heels. “Leave the packhorse. We may get lucky and catch somebody!”

From his saddle, Douglas saw only the rush of trees through the darkness. The rumble of hooves below filled his ears. He had to duck under or around several branches to keep from being unsaddled.

Five minutes of riding put the soldiers at the top of a small hill where Douglas jerked back on his reins. In a small valley down below he saw the orange glow of a fire. Without words and over his heavy breath, he removed his Colt from his holster and held it high. Lunging onward in his saddle, he forced his horse down the hill.

As the glowing embers of the fire got bigger, two wagons came into view. Beside them, six men appeared out of the night. All donned masks over their heads, cut-up cloth or cotton sacks with slits sliced in them for seeing and breathing. More gunfire awakened the night. Muzzles blasted. Behind him, his comrades opened fire. In the darkness and from a horse, getting a sight on a silhouette was almost impossible. Two of the highwaymen, conveniently beside horses, saddled up and charged off, disappearing. Another of the outlaws dashed for his horse, saddled up, and grabbed one more of the bushwhackers, pulling him on his horse and also disappearing into the night. But two of the outlaws scattered into the woods, quickly absorbed by the shadows.

Douglas stormed on toward the men, his horse trampling over one of the night riders who had drawn his pistol. The man ducked to the side, managing to stay on his feet. Douglas pointed his Colt at the man's back and cocked the hammer. “Drop the gun or you're dead.”

The man slowly dropped his pistol and turned to face Douglas.

Two more shots erupted. Douglas turned.

Behind him, Basil fired from his saddle at a man on his stomach who crawled for the cover of some bushes.

“Quit shooting!” Douglas yelled. “We want 'em alive.”

Basil fired a final shot.

Douglas heard it smash into flesh as the hazy figure on the ground stopped moving.

“I left you one to try,” Basil said, looking over his shoulder.

Douglas turned back to the cloaked man standing in front of his horse. “Private O'Neal, tie this man up.”

Almost as quickly as it had started, the night suddenly got quiet. O'Neal jumped to the ground as Huff rode forward and pointed his pistol at the lone masked man still alive. Douglas slowly got off his horse. He walked to the ghostlike figure and waited for Private O'Neal to finish lashing his hands behind his back. With a quick hand, Douglas jerked off the mask.