Ride With the Devil (4 page)

Hawke was not resentful of that fact. He had no desire to be a farmer; he was a musician, and a very good one. Going to Europe, he studied piano under the brilliant pianist, Franz Liszt, and was playing the European concert circuit to tremendous reviews when the War Between the States broke out.

Shortly after the outbreak of the war, Hawke received a letter from his father, informing him that he had resigned his seat in Congress and was forming a regiment to fight with the Georgia Militia:

Hawke went immediately to Lucien Garneau, his manager, and asked him to cancel the rest of the concert tour.

“But Monsieur Hawke, what goes on in America is no longer any of your concern,” Garneau told him. “You are a citizen of the world now, your music, your God-given talent, belongs to the world. Even your father has said so.”

“I cannot remain safely in Europe while my family and my state are facing the perils of war,” Hawke replied.

Returning to America, Hawke joined his father’s regiment. As it turned out, the very skills that made him a bril
liant pianist—digital flexibility and excellent hand-and-eye coordination—also made him especially proficient with weapons.

He was first a cavalryman and then, because of his marksmanship, he was made a sharpshooter, killing enemy soldiers from long distances. He killed so many that he became deadened to it. That induced numbness was the only way he could survive the horror with his sanity intact.

Hawke’s room was upstairs at the very back of the saloon. The bed had a tightly drawn rope for the springs, and a straw-filled mattress. There was a scarred armoire with a cream-colored pitcher and basin on top. He had one window that looked out over the alley, and when the breeze was right, he could smell the privy.

Sitting on the side of the bed, he removed his boots, then lay back with his hands interlaced behind his head.

Seeing Titus Culpepper this morning had been totally unexpected. It had been a long time since their paths had crossed, but that wasn’t always the case. During the war their destinies and survival were very much interlinked.

Hawke saw a roach crawling up the wall.

Maryland, September 12, 1862

“I hate roaches,” Culpepper said, squashing several of them with the butt of his rifle.

“If you don’t quit using your rifle like that, you’re going to blow your head off,” Hawke said. “Not that it wouldn’t be an improvement in your looks.”

“So I’ve been told,” Culpepper said. He moved up to the opening of the lookout station. “What do you see?” he asked.

“Take a look for yourself,” Hawke said, pointing to the north.

What Hawke pointed to was the army of General McClellan, marching columns that extended back as far as the eye could see in the distance. Many of the troops had already arrived and were in double lines of battle, while those who were still advancing were taking up positions as soon as they arrived.

“Damn!” Culpepper said. “Have you ever seen so many Yankees?”

“No,” Hawke said.

“They’re going to come pouring through us like shit through a goose,” Culpepper said.

“I don’t think so,” Hawke said. “The way they are exposed like that, I think we’ll be able to hold them off until General Longstreet can come up.”

“Yes, well, I’d better go back and tell the colonel that the Yankees are here,” Culpepper said.

When Culpepper left, Hawke raised his telescope and, studying the battlefield, began making annotations on his map.

He had just finished marking the position of one of the Yankee regiments when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Culpepper and three Yankee soldiers. Culpepper had his hands tied behind his back and was being led away by the Yankees.

Grabbing his rifle, Hawke left the lookout position, then hurried down the mountain trail, slipping in and out of the trees to avoid being seen. Finally he came to within fifty yards of Culpepper and the Yankees.

“Let’s just kill the Rebel son of a bitch here,” the Yankee sergeant said.

“Yeah, good idea,” one of the privates responded. “Kill him and be done with it.”

The Yankee sergeant was wearing a pistol, and he pulled it from his holster, then aimed at Culpepper’s head. Hawke could see Culpepper grimace as the sergeant pulled the hammer back.

“Reb, if you got’ny prayers, well, I reckon you better start sayin’ ’em right about now,” the Yankee sergeant said with an evil chuckle.

Hawke aimed at the sergeant and fired, killing him before he could shoot Culpepper. The two privates were carrying rifles and, startled by the unexpected gunshot, they raised them but were unsure of where the shot had come from.

With his rifle empty, Hawke pulled his pistol and stepped out into the opening.

“You Yankee boys drop your weapons,” he called to them. If he could get them back as prisoners, they might have some valuable information.

“Shoot ’im, Carl!” one of the privates shouted, and both swung their rifles toward Hawke. Hawke fired two quick rounds, killing both of them.

“Damn! What took you so long?” Culpepper asked.

“You’re welcome,” Hawke replied with a chuckle.

Hawke sometimes felt as if he had led four different lives. As a young man he had grown up on a large plantation, enjoying a life of wealth and privilege. In his early adulthood he was a serious musician playing in the storied theaters and opera houses of Europe. That was followed by the horrors of war. Since the war, he was a wanderer with no more connection to time or place than the dust devils he often encountered on the hot, prairie trails.

Meeting Culpepper this morning had caused him to reach back across time to experience each of those lives. It was almost as if the early Mason Hawke had broken into many pieces, like a shattered mirror. From time to time he would
happen across one of those shards, and when he did, he would see a disjointed piece. But only if those broken pieces could be rejoined would he get a complete picture of who he was then and who he was now.

Getting up, he walked over to the armoire, poured water into the basin, and washed his face and hands in preparation for bed. He thought about the concept of rejoining all the pieces to see the complete picture.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to do that.

WHEN HAWKE WENT DOWN TO BREAKFAST THE next morning, the saloon, which had been so busy the night before, was empty except for one other customer, who was eating his own breakfast. Paddy was behind the bar polishing glasses, adjusting the liquor level in the bottles, getting ready for the day’s commerce. He looked up when Hawke came in.

“We have scrambled eggs and biscuits this morning,” Paddy said.

“Sounds good to me.”

“I’ll tell Mary to bring some to you,” Paddy offered, stepping back into the kitchen.

The other customer chuckled. “Friend, disabuse yourself of any idea that just because he said ‘this morning,’ there is something unique about scrambled eggs and biscuits. That’s what he has every morning.”

The customer got up from his table, came over and extended his hand. “The name is Cyrus. Cyrus Green, your local representative of the noble institution of the press.”

“He’s also the mayor,” Paddy called across the bar.

“The mayor? Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Mayor. The name is Mason Hawke,” Hawke said, taking Cyrus’s hand.
“So, in addition to being the mayor, you are also with the newspaper?”

“I am with, work for, and own the newspaper,” Cyrus said. “And you, I take it, are the new piano player.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s good. All towns gain when they are enriched by culture.”

Hawke chuckled as his food was brought to the table. “It’s quite a leap of faith, Mr. Cyrus, to refer to playing a piano in a saloon as culture. However, I will do what I can.”

“From what I heard about your impromptu performance yesterday, it won’t be that large a leap of faith,” Cyrus said. “I only regret that I wasn’t here to hear it.”

“Well, I’ll be here every day,” Hawke said. “Drop by anytime.”

“Thanks, I plan to,” Cyrus said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must repair to my newspaper office to continue the never-ending search for truth, justice, and the pursuit of journalistic excellence. Paddy, put my breakfast—”

“On your tab,” Paddy said, interrupting Cyrus. “It’s already there.”

No more than a few minutes after Cyrus left, the undertaker came into the saloon, wearing his long black coat and high hat.

“Mr. Welch, I don’t mind you coming into my place,” Paddy called to him. “But I do wish you wouldn’t wear your long black coat and your top hat in here. People will think you are in here on business, and it tends to spook ’em.”

“I
am
in here on business,” Welch answered resolutely.

“You ain’t got no business in here unless somebody died. And there for damn sure ain’t nobody died in here over the last twelve hours or I woulda known about it,” Paddy said.

“I’m told that the gentleman who delivered the deceased to me is in here. Hawke, I think his name is.”

With the white cloth he was using in hand, Paddy pointed
to the table nearest the piano. “You would be talking about our new piano player. That’s him back there, havin’ his breakfast.”

“Piano player? I didn’t know that,” Welch said.

Welch reached Hawke’s table, then touched the brim of his hat.

“Mr. Hawke, I am Gene Welch, at your service, sir.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Welch?” Hawke asked as he spread butter onto a biscuit.

“Well, sir, I don’t know if you would be interested or not, but I’ll be buryin’ Mr. Delaney at ten o’clock this morning.”

“Thanks,” Hawke replied as he took a bite.

Expecting a little more reaction than that, Welch stood by the table a moment longer. Then, realizing that Hawke had given him all the answer he was going to, he cleared his throat.

“Yes, well, I just, uh, thought you might like to know,” he said.

Leaving Hawke’s table, Welch walked back to the bat-wing doors, and for a moment could be seen only in silhouette against the bright sunlight that streamed in from behind him. Then he pushed the doors open and stepped outside.

The burial ground was just south of town, on the side of a treeless hill. A brisk wind was blowing, carrying on its hot breath rolling clumps of tumbleweed. The tumbleweed darted and bounced through the cemetery, sometimes catching momentarily on one of the grave markers before working loose and moving on.

The markers were made of whitewashed wood. Some were crosses, some were tablets whose epitaphs told the story of the struggle faced by those who had tried to carve a life in such a hard place.

MARY, WIFE OF JOS. BEAN.

DIED OF THE CONSUMPTION.

A FLOWER IN GOD’S GARDEN,

WILTED BY LIFE’S STRUGGLE.

UNKNOWN MAN

FOUND SHOT DEAD ON THE PRARIE

FAITH MARTIN AND BABY.

THE LORD TOOK THEM BOTH

WHILE THE BABY WAS BEING BORN.

MILLIE PATTERSON

SHE WAS A WHORE,

DIED OF THE DOXY DISEASE.

BUT SHE WAS A GOOD WOMAN, LORD

AND WE’D LIKE YOU TO KNOW THAT.

Toward the back of the cemetery, Hawke saw the undertaker and the blacksmith take a pine box off the back of a buckboard and, using ropes, lower it into the already dug grave.

When Hawke reached the graveside, he saw a woman, wearing a black dress and a long, black veil, coming up the hill from town.

“Is that Delaney’s wife?” Hawke asked.

Ken Wright shook his head. “Mr. Delaney didn’t have no wife,” he said. “That be Miss Delaney.”

“His sister?” Hawke asked.

“Yes. Flaire Delaney,” Welch added. “She runs a dress sewing shop.”

The climb up the hill was steep, and Hawke, noticing the woman struggle a bit, hurried down to offer her his hand. She took it, and he helped her up the rest of the way.

“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was soft and well-modulated, but because of the veil, Hawke couldn’t see her face.

“Would you be wanting me to read a few words over your brother, Miss Delaney?” Welch asked.

“If you don’t mind,” Flaire replied.

Welch began reading.

“‘Man, that is born of a woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.’”

Bending down, Flaire picked up a handful of dirt and, as Welch continued reading, let it trickle out from her closed hand. It made a hollow sound as it fell on the closed coffin.

“‘For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God in his wise providence to take out of this world the soul of our deceased brother, Edward Delaney, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; looking for the general Resurrection in that last day, and the life of the world to come, though our Lord Jesus Christ, at whose second coming in glorious majesty to judge the world the earth and the sea shall give up their dead; and the corruptible bodies of those who sleep in him shall be changed, and made like unto his own glorious body; according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things unto himself.’”

Welch closed the book, then got a shovel from the buckboard. Ken Wright got the other, and for the next few minutes there was no sound except for the moan of the wind, the chunk of shovels biting into the pile of recently turned earth, and the thump of the falling dirt as it closed the grave.

When they were finished, they put the shovels in back of the buckboard. Hawke had stayed until the grave was closed only because Flaire Delaney had stayed and he thought it might be rude to leave before she did.

Flaire did not weep during the burial, nor did she utter an
other word after responding to Welch when he asked if she wanted him to read over her brother’s grave.

“Miss Delaney, would you like a ride back into town?” Welch asked.

“Yes, thank you,” she said.

Hawke helped her climb onto the seat to sit with Welch. Then he hopped up onto the back of the buckboard and, with his legs dangling over the rear, sat alongside the blacksmith as Welch drove them back into town. Until then, Hawke had not been fully cognizant of just how big Ken Wright was. He was a very muscular man, and even though his brindled hair was graying with age, Hawke figured he would not be a person anyone would want to tangle with.

Back in town, Rufus Vox stood at the window of the marshal’s office, eating a chicken drumstick as he watched the burial through the back window. Culpepper sat at what would normally be the marshal’s desk, reading a newspaper from Austin. It was two days old, having gone by train to Marva, which was twenty-five miles north of Salcedo. Marva was the nearest railroad stop. From there, the mail, including the newspaper, was brought to Salcedo by stagecoach.

“Looks like they’s only three of ’em come to the buryin’,” Vox said. “The blacksmith, Delaney’s sister, and that fella that cut him down, whatever his name is. Only you can’t really count the blacksmith on account of Welch hired him to dig the grave.”

“His name is Hawke,” Culpepper said without looking up from his paper.

“Hawke, yeah, I seen yesterday that you two knowed each other.”

Culpepper didn’t answer.

Vox turned away from the window and, finished with his
drumstick, tossed it into the trash can. “So, how come you know him? Was you two in the army together or something’?”

“Yes,” Culpepper said. He didn’t offer any more explanation.

Wes Bates came into the office then. Like Culpepper and Vox, he was wearing a star that identified him as one of the Regulators. The badge had no real standing, since the Regulators were not officially recognized by the city, county, or state. But the group’s authority in the town was well known, and the badge conferred that on its wearer.

Bates walked over to the coffeepot and, using his hat as a heat pad, poured himself a cup.

“They’re up there in the cemetery right now, buryin’ Delaney,” he said.

“Yeah, I been watchin’ ’em through the back window,” Vox replied.

“Colonel, I was talkin’ to the other Regulators, and we all agree that we need to do somethin’ about this here piano player,” Bates said as he took a drink of coffee, slurping it through extended lips to cool it.

“What piano player?” Vox asked, his face mirroring his confusion. “Who are you talkin’ about?”

“I’m talking about Hawke,” Bates said. “He took hisself a job of playin’ the piano, over at the Golden Calf.”

“Piano player?” Vox said again, laughing this time. “You mean to tell me we all stood around with our thumbs up our ass and let a
piano player
make fools of us?”

“Yeah,” Bates said. “That’s what it looks like to me. That’s why me and some of the other boys was talkin’ about it. The way we figure it, we need to do somethin’ about him.”

“And just who are these others you have been talking to?” Culpepper asked.

“All of ’em,” Bates replied. “Gillis, Hooper, Jarvis, Moody, Spellman, and Cole. They all agree with me.”

“Is that a fact?” Culpepper asked.

“Well, yes,” Bates said. “I mean, don’t you agree?”

“And just what do you propose to do?” Culpepper asked.

“I don’t know,” Bates replied. “But we ought to do something, teach him he can’t defy an order from the Regulators.”

“Leave it be,” Culpepper said.

“But don’t you think—”

“I said leave it be,” Culpepper said again.

“Hawk and the colonel is friends,” Vox explained. “They go back a long ways together.”

“Oh,” Bates said. “Oh, well, I didn’t know that. I’ll tell the others you and him is friends. That’ll explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“Why you let him get away with what he done.”

“I don’t need anything explained,” Culpepper said. “I’ll do whatever I want to do when I want to do it, and I don’t need the approval of you or anyone else.”

“No, of course you don’t, Colonel. I didn’t mean nothin’ like that.”

Culpepper folded the paper, put it aside, then walked over to look through the window toward the cemetery.

“Looks like they’re done. They’re climbing onto the buckboard.”

About a third of the way down the street toward the saloon, the buckboard stopped. Realizing that Flaire would be getting off, Hawke hurried around to help her down. Then Flaire lifted her veil for the first time, so Hawke could see her face.

Her soft voice had not borne false witness to her looks, because her high cheekbones, green eyes, and light brown hair were combined in just the exact proportion to make her an exceptionally pretty woman.

“Mr. Hawke, would you like to come into my shop for a moment?” she invited.

She motioned toward the building behind her. On the window were the words,
FLAIRE DELANEY, SEAMSTRESS
.

“I’d be glad to,” he said.

Clucking toward his horse, Welch pulled away, with Ken still sitting in the back.

Hawke stepped quickly over to the boardwalk to help Flaire up. At the front door of her establishment, Flaire reached down into the small, black portmanteau she was carrying, took out a key, and opened the door.

“Coffee?” she invited.

“Yes, that would be nice. Thank you.”

A blue steel coffeepot was sitting on the stove, over a low-banked fire. Flaire poured two cups, then handed one to Hawke.

“I would like to have invited Mr. Wright in as well,” she said. “But of course, if I did, it would be quite a scandal, him being black and all. But I would like to thank him in some way. He did so much for my brother while he was alive.”

“Yes, I had a conversation with him yesterday. He said he was teaching your brother to box.”

“More than that. He was teaching Eddie to be a man,” Flaire said.

Hawke chuckled self-consciously. “It was a little late for that, wasn’t it?”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you? I mean, Eddie spent four years in the war. But in so many ways, he never grew up.”

“Is that what got him into trouble? The fact that he wasn’t grown up?”

Flaire paused for a moment before she responded. “He was…high-spirited,” she said.

“What do you mean by high-spirited?”