Authors: Kerry Newcomb
“And this is why you wanted to see me?” Cap put a fatherly arm around the banker’s narrow shoulders. He leaned down and brought his mouth close to Lucius’s right ear. Cap’s lips brushed the man’s brown sideburns as he spoke in a whisper. “Go back to your ledgers and your afternoon sherry, Lucius. I’ll handle things.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You don’t really want to know,” Cap said. It was a flat statement of fact.
“No. I suppose…” Lucius lost his train of thought and shook his head. Images came to mind. He remembered a flash flood and a terrible storm. He had been caught out in a downpour and had fought the elements all the way to town. Lucius had just brought his carriage across the Kimishi River bridge two miles from town when a veritable wall of black water came rushing out of the mountains; a terrible onslaught of mud and uprooted trees that crashed into the bridge with enough force to shatter some of the supports. Lucius heard the tortured, almost feeble wail and spied a panther caught in the flood. In vain the great gray cat fought the imprisoning currents that dashed it against the spiked roots and branches of flood-tossed trees. The feline carnivore strove to reach the bank, to find some meager purchase with which to save its life. But the raging river hungered for victims. Five minutes earlier it might have claimed Lucius and knocked his carriage from the bridge, but having allowed the man to escape, the Kimishi would not relinquish its other prey. The floodwaters dashed the panther against the bridge supports and broke the feline’s back, then bore the hapless predator away into the black night. Standing in the shadow of the carriage shed with Cap Featherstone’s heavy left arm draped across his shoulders, Lucius Minley began to feel like the panther, trapped in something over which he no longer had control and being borne irrevocably to destruction.
Greed had lured Lucius Minley into the flood. No one had forced him. He had only himself to blame. But this realization was a paltry solace at best. There was nothing to do but allow the raging current to sweep him along and hope for the best. For Lucius it was too late to pray.
D
EATH CAME FOR SAMUEL
Roberts at a quarter past ten. Sam was bound for home and having his troubles. His cough had returned with a vengeance after two days of wanton celebration in the smoke-shrouded interior of the Medicine Wagon Saloon. The daylight hours he’d spent in restless sleep among the arms of more women than he cared to count. Their names and their charms were a blur to him now. Evenings were whiskey-soaked and spent gambling. With Cap extending his credit he had behaved, ironically, as if there were no tomorrow.
The anger toward Tullock Roberts had subsided into a weary sense of betrayal. It wasn’t Sunday yet, however, and there was still a chance to change his father’s mind about attending the council meeting. The Knights of the Golden Circle had come too far to accept any settlement other than a victory for the Confederacy and the complete independence of the Indian Territory as promised by the government in Richmond. He took pride in belonging to the Knights and recognized he was part of an irregular army of hooded riders ranging throughout the Choctaw and Creek lands and those of the Cherokee and Osage. One day all the Knights would come together to plague any Federal incursion while ridding the territory of Union sympathizers. By rights, a man like his father should lead such a force. Tullock had many friends and distant relatives among the Creeks and Cherokees, and he was held in high esteem throughout the Choctaw Nation and the Indian Territory.
“Pa must have been listening to Mother,” Samuel told the stallion he rode. The animal continued to plod along the winding road that followed the Kimishi River before turning east and striking out across the rolling landscape. Samuel’s head was throbbing. He sat unsteadily in the saddle and looked toward the sparkling patch of water glimpsed through a grove of willows and scrub oaks and cottonwoods and decided he’d found the perfect place for a man to take his rest. No doubt Tullock and Arbitha were already distraught over Sam’s two-day absence. Maybe if his father worried a little more, Tullock might just learn to accept his son’s advice and listen to reason instead of a fretful, though well-meaning, woman.
Sam turned off the road to Honey Ridge and rode down to the riverbank, dismounted, and, as an afterthought, tugged off his boots and socks and eased his sore feet into the nearest eddying pool. He sighed aloud as cool water washed over his callused toes. The wild grasses beneath him cushioned his bony frame. The young man reclined upon the earth and let the peacefulness soothe his soul. He tilted his hat forward to shield his eyes from the slanting sunbeams and, yawning, went to sleep.
He dreamed of willing ladies and laughter, of cards upon a table and Enos Clem, shaking his head and laying down three treys that beat Sam’s two pair, kings and tens. Enos Clem grinned and reached across the table to rake in his winnings.
“You lose,” he said. The voice sounded as if it issued from a cavern or sinkhole, reverberating in tone as it echoed Sam’s defeat. “You lose…lose…lose.”
A boot in the ribs jolted Sam awake. He gave a start, then sat upright and scrambled to his bare feet.
“Wha—” he sputtered. “What?” He blinked and rubbed a hand over his face, shivered, and peered around at the man who had interrupted his sleep.
Hud Pardee brushed the trail dust from his black frock coat, which parted to reveal his ruffled gray shirt, string tie, and the black satin sash at his waist. One Navy Colt rode butt-forward, tucked inside his waistband. He held a second revolver gripped in his right hand, pointed at the ground.
“Hud…What are you doing out here?” Sam asked. His headache had lessened, but his chest muscles were sore from coughing. The fresh air seemed to do him good, however, and his spasms were coming less frequently. He hurriedly dried his feet and pulled on his boots. “Thought I’d take a little rest. China and the others plumb wore me out.” He grinned, and finished with his boots and straightened. He wore a butternut-colored short coat, dark brown woolen trousers, and a collarless, cream-colored shirt whose blousy sleeves were held off his wrists by black garters around his biceps. He appeared not to notice the gunman’s drawn revolver. “But what
are
you doing here?”
“Looking for you. Lucky, I spotted your horse or I’d have passed by.”
“What do you want to see me about? I left my promissory note with Cap Featherstone.”
“Indeed you did,” Hud said. “But I have more important matters to discuss. I could not help but overhear your remarks about Tullock and how you want to keep him from the council.” Hud smiled. “I think I’ve come up with the perfect idea. What if some of the Yankee sympathizers struck at our men?” He reached behind him and dug his hood from the saddlebag. Sam instantly recognized the emblem and reached out to touch the fabric.
“Hud Pardee, now, that’s hard to believe. You’ve been calling the Knights together all this time…”
“Cap would have come along, but he’s too tired and too damn fat to sit a horse,” Hud chuckled. “But never you mind. Your pa will change his mind when he sees what the abolitionists have done. Yessir, just as soon as he finds the body he’ll forget everything else but revenge.”
Sam shifted nervously. He still did not understand. “Whose body?”
“Yours,” said Hud, and raised his gun and shot Samuel Roberts once, twice to be certain, and a third time just for fun.
M
IXED-BREED AND FULL-BLOOD
came to the Council House at Chahta Creek from as near as next door and as far as three hours’ hard ride. They came by horse or buckboard or carriage. Many were hardscrabble farmers, some were masters of large cotton plantations, while others were ranchers, cattlemen from west of the Texas road. And the citizens of Chahta Creek were not to be left out. More than twenty families were represented at the council. Carmichael Ross had been the first person to arrive at the meeting house, and she had taken it upon herself to fill all the oil lanterns and see they were properly lit. Two large storm lanterns were hung to either side of the front door on the outside wall where they could illuminate the front walk and the oaken door.
Carmichael had been so busy with preparing the Council House, she never noticed Jesse until he walked through the front door, the second person to arrive. His bootheels rapped on the wood floor of the meeting room, announcing his presence, and Carmichael breathed a sigh of relief to see him. She was optimistic about his chances for success. Jesse’s father had negotiated many private and personal disputes and had the reputation of a peacemaker. Like his father, Jesse was determined to prevent the Choctaws from becoming embroiled in the civil conflict splitting the nation. Carmichael knew there were men of reason and good conscience on both sides of the fence, and she hoped the peacemaker’s son could appeal to their better natures.
For Jesse it had been an arduous ride from Buffalo Creek. He arrived sore and stiff and in a foul mood. But as the townsfolk began to arrive at the Council House, his aches faded and his spirits began to rise. Gip and Libby Whitfield rode up to the meetinghouse in a rough-riding flatbed wagon. Gip took note of Jesse’s bruises as he climbed off the bench seat and helped Libby down.
“Evening, Captain McQueen,” Gip said. “What happened to you?” Libby patted dust from the hem of her coarsely woven cotton dress. The pale blue material looked gray in the lamplight.
“I fell off my horse,” Jesse said.
“Oh? How many times?”
“Only once. But I had help.” Jesse grinned. The two men took a moment to size up one another.
Round-cheeked, sweetly disposed Libby Whitfield put her arm in Gip’s. “I hope you don’t mind us being here, Jesse.”
The Union captain had learned of Gip’s former involvement with the Texas volunteers from Raven, who had also explained that the Rebel cavalryman had forsaken his regiment to remain with the woman he had come to love more than life, duty, or personal honor.
“I said everyone is welcome and that’s what I meant. Everyone,” he told her. He offered Gip his hand and Whitfield, no longer expecting the worst, relaxed and shook Jesse’s hand. Then the Whitfields went inside and were followed by another group from town. Linc Graywater had closed down his forge and ridden up from the north end of town to join Mary Lou Gude as she left her restaurant for the meeting. The burly blacksmith was more than happy to relieve his lady love of the heavy reed basket she was attempting to carry across the street. Jesse made no effort to hide his curiosity as she approached.
“Evening, Jesse. Seems to me folks is always a sight more peaceable when they have something tasty in their bellies, so I made a mess of corn fritters and packed a couple of jars of dark honey that Linc robbed from a hive he keeps back of the livery stable.”
“It’s fittin’ too,” Linc said. “I ate me a fritter just before leaving Mary Lou’s.”
“That was mighty thoughtful of you, Mary Lou,” Jesse told her. A gust of wind out of the north chased a pile of leaves along the street. Linc turned in the direction of Turtle Mountain. If a storm came, it would glimmer lightning and outline the black ridge in shimmering flashes of electric energy. He sniffed the air.
“Winter’s coming. I smell rain.” He shook his shaggy head. “Maybe I should’ve brought my horses in from the corral.”
“We’ll be finished before it hits,” Jesse reassured him.
Linc shrugged. “All right. But if I hear thunder I’m heading back to the stable.” He nodded to Carmichael as she emerged from the Council House to stand alongside Jesse. Unable to resist the aroma of freshly baked bread, the editor dipped a hand into the basket and snared a fritter.
“Hey!” Linc protested with a twinkle in his eye.
Carmichael broke the fritter. Steam escaped in the cool night air. She plopped a morsel into her mouth.
“Well?” Mary Lou asked, waiting for her friend’s judgment.
“I have always believed the pen is mightier than the sword,” Carmichael said. “But the skillet may be mightier than them both.”
Mary Lou beamed. She loved compliments and turned to slap her suitor on the forearm. “See. Now, why can’t you think up nice compliments like that?”
“Ain’t nothin’ more eloquent to a good cook than a man’s hearty appetite. Ain’t that right, Jesse?”
McQueen held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll ride clear of that question, Linc. I’ve troubles enough.” He stood aside and allowed the couple to enter. Jesse walked into the street and looked toward the bridge over the Kimishi River, but there was no sign of Tullock Roberts or any of the riders from Honey Ridge.
“People are beginning to get restless, Jesse,” said Carmichael. “T. Alan’s managed to quiet them by leading a prayer, but once he’s finished…”
“I know,” Jesse said. He returned to the Council House, stepped inside, and walked down the side aisle toward the table up front. The room was warm from the press of bodies.
“And so, heavenly Father, we ask your blessings on this gathering,” Parson Marshal Booth intoned with head bowed and Bible in hand. “We ask that you grant us wisdom in our endeavors and patience for one another. Amen.”
Everyone echoed “Amen” whether they meant it or not and then all eyes were fixed on Jesse. He noticed that the abolitionists and those loyal to the Union dominated the benches toward the front of the room, while the townsfolk and planters with Confederate sympathies congregated at the rear of the room.
Booth glanced past Jesse, then leaned forward and whispered, “Where’s Tullock?”
“Not arrived yet,” Jesse said. He repeated his news aloud for his audience. “I know there are some among you who expected to see Tullock Roberts here and I appreciate your concern. Out of respect for my friend I shall delay what I’ve come to propose until Tullock arrives.”
“I don’t see why we need to wait on that slaver,” one of the townsmen said from up front.
“Yeah. Tullock acts like he’s the Lord Almighty and we’re to jump whenever he puts his foot down,” another man added.
“You talk mighty bold when he ain’t here,” one of the men from the back called out.