Ride With the Devil (5 page)

“He drank a lot. He gambled. He wasn’t very good at cards and sometimes got into fights. Most of which he lost,”
she added. She chuckled. “That’s why he was taking boxing lessons from Ken Wright.”

“I figured it must be something like that,” Hawke said.

Flaire nodded. “Yes. By the way, I want to thank you for what you did for him.”

Hawke shook his head. “Miss Delaney, I didn’t do anything for him,” he said. “All I did was cut him down and bring him in.”

“In this town, that took a great deal of courage,” she said. “And it is of great comfort to me to know that Eddie got a decent burial. I don’t know how long that band of ruffians who call themselves the Salcedo Regulators Brigade would have left him hanging on that tree.”

“You don’t approve of the Regulators Brigade?”

“I do not, sir.”

“Well, I can understand how you might have hard feelings toward them, seeing as what happened. But most of the people I’ve spoken to seem to be glad they’re around. I take it they’ve done some good things, such as getting rid of the Dawsons.”

“How is it a good thing to get rid of one band of outlaws only to replace them with another?” Flaire asked. “You knew him before, didn’t you? Titus Culpepper, I mean.”

“Yes, I knew him before. We grew up together back in Georgia. And we served together in the same regiment during the war.”

“So you were friends even before the war?”

“I suppose you could say that. His family had a farm near ours. And his father once ran for Congress, against my father.”

“Oh? Who won?”

“My father won. But some may say that was because he had the advantage of incumbency.”

“Incumbency? You mean you are the son of a congressman?” Flaire asked. “I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. It was my father’s accomplishment, not mine.”

“Still, one doesn’t meet the son of a congressman every day. Is he still in Congress?”

“No, my father was killed at Fredericksburg. He resigned from Congress and formed a regiment to fight in the war.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“A lot of good men, on both sides of the conflict, were killed in that war.”

“You said you and Culpepper served in the same regiment. Your father’s regiment?”

“Yes.”

“Then you really are friends of long standing.”

“There are some folks back home who might take exception at hearing someone call us old friends. Truth is, we fought a lot as kids. And we were always in competition with each other to see who could run the fastest, throw the farthest, catch the biggest fish, wrestle better, and shoot better, that sort of thing.”

“And who was the best?” Flaire asked, looking at him over the rim of her cup.

Hawke paused for a moment, then smiled. “I can say without fear of contradiction that I could play the piano better.”

“Yes. The whole town is talking about your concert yesterday. I’m sorry I missed it.”

“Well, maybe I can play for you someday,” Hawke suggested. He finished his cup and set it down. “And, speaking of playing, I suppose I had better get back to work if I don’t want to get fired. Again, let me say that I’m sorry about your brother, Miss Delaney. And thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome,” Flaire said.

FLAIRE MOVED TO THE FRONT WINDOW OF HER shop, and using the curtain as a shield, watched Hawke walk back toward the Golden Calf. Flaire had what her grandmother had called the “gift.” It wasn’t that she could actually look into a person’s soul, but she was sometimes disarmingly perceptive.

She was convinced that, at heart, Mason Hawke was a good man. But he had done some things, some terrible things, that scarred his soul. And she knew that he would carry those scars to his grave.

“I wish you could find peace, Mr. Hawke,” she said quietly. “But I know that you cannot. I know that you are doomed to wander for the rest of your life.”

Leaving the front window, Flaire went into the living quarters in the back of her shop and began changing clothes. Social custom dictated that she should continue to wear black for at least thirty days. But wearing black would be bad for her business. People did not want to buy gala dresses from someone who was dressed in black.

Flaire could not keep her thoughts of Hawke and his troubled past out of her mind. She could empathize with the
scars on Hawke’s soul, because she had a few of her own.

Opening the door to the stove, she tossed some pieces of wood in, then watched as the little fingers of flame curled around them, licking at the kindling until the wood was totally invested.

She stared at the fire for a long moment, throwing her eyes out of focus, until she could see the three mounted men backlit by the burning barn. They were in silhouette, as if they were ghost riders from hell. Their faces could not be seen.

By now the animals in the barn were screaming in terror, the horses kicking at the sides of their stalls, underscoring the snapping and popping of the fire.

Shuddering, and pushing the unbidden, unwanted memories away, Flaire slammed the stove door shut, turned and walked away.

Because the Golden Calf was the only saloon in town, it was more than a drinking place. It was also a restaurant, meeting hall, and even a hotel of sorts, since there were rooms to rent upstairs.

The employees and habitués of the saloon were almost family, and over the next several days Hawke became acquainted with them.

Principal member of the Golden Calf family was Paddy O’Neil, the owner.

“I live here on the premises,” Paddy said. “Sure ’n’ there’s only one thing better for an Irishman than to live in a saloon, and that’s to own it.”

Hawke laughed. “Tell me, Paddy, what is an Irishman doing out here? I thought all Irish were in Boston or New York.”

“Aye, and there’s a bit of truth to that, lad, for I was born not on the old sod, but in Boston. And ’tis no secret from the citizens of this fair town that I fought in the war on the side of the Union.”

“Most here were Confederates, I imagine,” Hawke said. “How do they take it that you wore blue?”

“’Tis funny about that. Odd, I know, but I think they feel a closer connection to me, even though I did fight for the North, than they do with their fellow southerners who, for one reason or another, did not fight a’tall.”

“Not so strange at that,” Hawke replied. “I’ve noticed it myself. It’s funny how northerners and southerners tried for four long, bloody years to kill each other. But since then, there seems to be sort of a brotherhood of war that includes men from both sides of the conflict, while excluding those who did not fight.”

“True, though ’tis only those of us who fought who notice such things.”

“So, how did you wind up in Salcedo?” Hawke asked.

“You are interested in the trials and travels of Paddy O’Neil, are you? Well, sir, after the war I returned to Boston, where I bought a small bar. But I got into politics there, and made the mistake of backing the wrong candidate.”

“That was bad?”

“Oh my, lad, you’ve no idea how bad that can be. In a town like Boston the worst thing a body can do is get into politics and support the losing side. The new mayor started, right away, exacting his pound of flesh from those of us who didn’t support him. My taxes became so high that there was no way I could stay in business. So, when I had enough of it I emptied the cash drawer and left in the middle of the night.”

“That seems reasonable,” Hawke said.

“More than reasonable, I would say it is downright prudent,” another man said, stepping up to the bar at that moment. “My usual, Paddy.”

Paddy prepared a drink of Bourbon and branch and handed it to the new man.

“Mr. Hawke, this is Dr. Charles Urban,” Paddy said.
“Doc is one of my regular customers, right, Doc?”

“That’s right,” Doc said. He pointed to a table in the back corner of the room. “You may have observed the chessboard on the table back there.”

“I did notice it, yes.”

“The pieces there represent an ongoing game I have with our mayor. Please do not disturb any of the pieces, or Mr. Cyrus will accuse me of cheating.”

Hawke chuckled. “I won’t touch the board, I promise.”

“The mayor and I thank you,” Doc said. Then, as he took a drink of his beer, he looked back toward the bartender. “Paddy, please, continue with your story,” he said. “I apologize for the interruption.”

“Before I do, would you like another beer, Mr. Hawke?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Hawke said.

Paddy drew another beer and put it front of Hawke before he went on.

“Well, sir, after cleaning out my cash drawer, I bought a train ticket to Baltimore. But I got off the train in New York and took another one heading west.” He held up his finger to make a point. “That way, you see, I figured I would be able to throw off anyone who tried to find me.”

“So you wound up here?”

“Heavens no,” Doc Urban said with a chuckle. “No good story proceeds in a straight line. Continue, Paddy.”

“I settled in Memphis first,” Paddy said. “I was there for about a year, and it was there that I met Mary.”

“Your wife?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Paddy replied. “There was a small problem.”

“What sort of problem?”

“Mary was already married.”

“I see. That can be a problem.”

“Her husband was an abusive drunk, in a town where the
husband is always right. And in Memphis, divorces are next to impossible to obtain,” Paddy explained.

“I think I’m beginning to get the picture.”

“I hope you are,” Paddy said. “Because you see, once again I pulled up stakes in the middle of the night, only this time I didn’t leave alone. This time I took the woman I loved away from a bad situation.

“Mary and I wound up here, working in the Golden Calf. I was the bartender and she was the cook. Then, six months after we arrived in Salcedo, Gib Crabtree, then the owner of the Golden Calf, was hit by a stray bullet when a couple members of the Dawson gang got drunk and started shooting up the town. Gib hung on for a few more days, then he died.”

Paddy paused for a moment, then crossed himself.

“After that, I bought the saloon from his widow, Marge Crabtree, who went back to Mobile, and now Mary—who is still the cook—runs the place with me.”

As twilight came on, Paddy lowered the wagon-wheel chandelier to light the flickering kerosene lanterns. The dim, golden light combined with the tobacco smoke that hovered just under the ceiling like a cloud, creating an environment that was surreal, as if time and place existed only there.

It was a particularly good night. The saloon was full without being overcrowded, and Hawke was at the piano, playing light and bouncy tunes that would encourage drinking and congeniality. It had the desired effect, and the Golden Calf was ringing with laughter, conversation, and the clink of glasses.

During the last few years, such surroundings had somehow become Hawke’s heritage. He was redefined by the saloons, cowtowns, stables, dusty streets, and open prairies he encountered during his wanderings. He could not deny these things without denying his own existence, and now he wasn’t sure that he even wanted to. He was here, in a foul-
smelling saloon, in a West Texas town whose name he had never even heard until a few days ago. And at that moment he knew that he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Although Hawke would play any requested song without charge, it was a general practice for the customer to give a tip. From time to time Darci would bring a coin over and drop it into Hawke’s tip bowl, along with the song request she was delivering from the customer.

Darci had a sweet naiveté about her that belied her occupation. And it didn’t take Hawke long to learn that she was as good for his business as she was for Paddy’s, because she would often coax one of the customers into requesting a song, just for her. In fact, she was so good for his business that Hawke entered into a business arrangement with her, with Darci getting ten percent of all his tips. The agreement was working very well for both of them.

Darci had dark hair and dark brown eyes. Her skin was smooth and olive-complexioned, and her provocative clothing and flirtatious nature cajoled the customers into buying more drinks.

It was also no secret that, after hours, Darci entertained men in her crib, which was a small one-room house across the alley behind the saloon. Whoring was an established and wholly accepted occupation, and nobody thought the less of her for it.

“I’m twenty-two years old,” Darci said. “My mama was a whore in a fancy house down in New Orleans, and I was born there. Mama was half colored, which means I’m what they call a quadroon. I started into whorin’ when I was fifteen. I never had plans to do anything but whore, and ain’t never done anything else.

“But I figured that just ’cause I was whorin’ didn’t mean I’d have to stay in New Orleans for the rest of my life. So I come west to see what it’s like out here.”

FLAIRE’S SLEEP WAS FITFUL. SHE WAS LYING NOT IN bed, but on the cold, hard ground. She was aware of the golden, flickering light of the burning barn, and she felt as if she should do something about it, but she didn’t quite know what to do.

Her mother was lying on the ground beside her, and her face was turned toward Flaire. Flaire stared at her mother. Her mother’s open but sightless eyes stared back.

When Flaire awoke, she sat on the side of her bed for a few moments, letting the dream drift away from her. From time to time over the last several years she’d had this same dream. There was no way to tell when it would occur, and no way to prevent it. Fortunately, because it was a dream, it generally faded very quickly after she woke up.

After a few moments the dream was gone, drifting away in fragments she could not hold together. And with the peace that brought her, she was able to get up and get dressed to start her day.

Flaire did not normally open her shop on Sunday, so she didn’t expect to hear anyone knocking on the front door. Leav
ing her apartment, she walked through the shop area, shaded by the closed curtains, and peeked out to see who it was.

Mason Hawke was standing on her front stoop, smiling at her. She opened the door to him.

“Mr. Hawke,” she said. “What a surprise.”

“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No, not at all. What can I do for you?” She laughed. “I don’t imagine you want a dress made.”

Hawke laughed as well. “I’ll pass on that,” he said. “But I’ve rented a buckboard from the blacksmith, and I’ve had Mary—from the Golden Calf—prepare a lunch. I was hoping you might come for a ride.”

“Are you asking me to go on a picnic with you?”

“Yes,” Hawke said.

Flaire ran her hand through her hair. “Oh, dear, I look a mess,” she said.

Hawke laughed.

“What is so funny?”

“If you knew how good you look to me, you would know how funny that is,” Hawke replied.

Flaire smiled at him. “All right, come in and have a seat. Let me get ready. I think a picnic would be delightful. I’ll be glad to go with you.”

It took Flaire about forty-five minutes to make herself presentable, but when she emerged again, Hawke decided it was worth the wait. He escorted her outside, then helped her into the buckboard.

As they drove past the church, the number of horses and conveyances parked outside indicated that a service was in progress. As usual, Hawke felt a twinge of guilt. In his youth, his family had attended church regularly, but it had been a long time since he had been in one.

Just before they left town, three men stepped out into the
road in front of the buckboard. They held up their hands as a signal for Hawke to stop.

“You know them?” Hawke asked as they approached the men.

“Yes, they are members of the Regulators,” Flaire said. “That’s Nat Moody in front. The other two are Elmer Hooper and Jim Jarvis.”

“I wonder what they want.”

“I don’t know, but you’d better stop. They can be very dangerous people.”

Hawke stopped. “Yes, deputies, what can I do for you?” he asked.

“Where are you going?” Moody asked.

“I beg your pardon?” Hawke replied.

“I asked, where are you going?” the deputy repeated.

“Yes, I heard what you asked,” Hawke replied. “What I don’t understand is why you asked. Why would where I am going be any of your business?”

“We’re deputies of the Salcedo Regulators Brigade,” Moody said. “Where you are going is my business because, by God, I just decided to make it my business.”

“You’d better decide again,” Hawke said. “Because nothing that I do is any of your business. Ever. Now get out of the way.”

Moody started to reach for his gun. “Mister, when I ask a quest—” Whatever he was going to say was interrupted in mid-sentence.

Shocked, he realized that somehow Hawke was holding a pistol, and it was pointed at him. Hawke was smiling, though there was no mirth in the smile. On the contrary, it was rather intimidating.

Moody blinked a couple of times, as if trying to figure out what had just happened.

“What the hell? Where did you get that gun?” he asked in surprise.

“It doesn’t matter where I got it,” Hawke said. “As you can see, I have it. Now, take off your gun belts, all three of you, and drop them into the buckboard.”

“Now why the hell would we want to do a fool thing like that?”

“Because I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

Moody smiled. “That’s mighty big talk for a piano player. Do you know what it takes to kill a man?”

“Not much,” Hawke answered. “And the less of a man you are, the easier it is.” He cocked the pistol.

“Nat, I think the son of a bitch means it,” one of the other deputies said in a clipped voice.

“You’d better listen to your friend,” Hawke said. He made a little motion with his pistol. “Like I said, put your guns in the buckboard.”

“Mister, you don’t know who you are messing with,” Moody said angrily, though he was now unbuckling his gun belt even as he was speaking.

The other two deputies did the same. All three of them put their guns and belts into the back of the buckboard.

“Now your boots,” Hawke said.

“What? My boots? The hell you say!” Moody said loudly and angrily. “I’m not taking my boots off for you or for any man.”

“You’ve got your choice,” Hawke said. “You can hobble out of here without your boots or you can keep your boots and I’ll shoot you in the foot. That way you can hobble in your boots.”

Although Moody stood there for a moment longer, the other two deputies complied immediately. They sat down in the dirt of the road and began pulling off their boots.

“After I kill Moody, you two can drag him out of the
street,” Hawke said easily. “I wouldn’t want him to still be lying out here when the people are let out from church.”

Immediately, Moody sat down with the others and began removing his boots. The entire front half of both of Moody’s socks were missing, and his toes stuck out.

Standing up again, the three men dropped their boots in the buckboard, where they’d already dropped their guns.

“You want our pants too?” Moody asked with a snarl.

“You know, now that you mention it, that might not be a bad idea.”

“Moody! You dumb son of a bitch!” one of the others shouted.

Hawke laughed. “I guess you can keep your pants,” he said. Putting his pistol back in the holster, he snapped the reins against the team, and the buckboard started forward.

“You son of a bitch!” Moody shouted at him. “I’ll have your ass for this!”

Hawke kept the team at a trot for several minutes so that, by the time he slowed them, the town was some distance behind them.

“I’m new to this area,” he said. “You know any places that would be good for a picnic?”

“I…I can’t believe what you did back there,” Flaire said. Those were the first words she had spoken since the encounter with the deputies.

“Ah, don’t worry about them. They’re bullies,” Hawke said. “I don’t understand why Titus has them working for him.”

“Is it possible that you don’t know?”

“Don’t know what?”

“What kind of man your friend Culpepper really is.”

“He is a man who once saved my life,” Hawke said. Seeing a grassy glade next to a stream, he pointed. “How about right there? It looks like a very nice place for a picnic.”

“Yes, it does,” Flaire said.

Hawke turned for the basket, but Flaire put her hand out. “You just go over there and relax,” she said. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“All right,” Hawke said. He climbed down from the seat, then helped Flaire down. Flaire took the basket over to the flat, grassy area, took out the cloth and spread it, then began putting out the food.

“Oh, my, it looks like Mrs. O’Neil outdid herself,” Flaire said as she examined the spread. “Fried chicken, potato salad, biscuits, and a cake.”

“And a bottle of wine,” Hawke added. He walked over to look out at the stream. “I wonder if there are fish here?”

“Of course there are. My brother used to fish here all the time,” Flaire said. “The meal is ready.”

Hawke came back and sat down by the spread. Flaire was already seated, and Hawke was pleased to see that when he sat close to her, she made no effort to reposition herself. He opened the bottle of wine and poured them each a glass.

“You aren’t from here originally, are you?” he asked.

“No. I’m from Missouri.”

“What brought you here?”

Flaire sipped her wine, silent for a moment. “I may as well tell you,” she said, and took a deep breath. “My brother killed two men back in Missouri. After that, he felt that it wasn’t safe to stay.”

“That seems prudent to me,” Hawke said. “I take it the killing was justified. Otherwise, I doubt you would have come with him.”

“If there was ever a case of justifiable homicide, that was it,” Flaire said. She sipped her wine and for a long moment said nothing more. Hawke, sensing that she needed the period of silence, didn’t press her.

“The men my brother killed were bushwhackers,” Flaire
said, finally breaking the silence. “Do you know what bushwhackers are?”

“Yes,” Hawke said. “They were irregulars who called themselves soldiers but more often than not were outlaws using the war as an excuse to steal.”

“Yes, that’s it exactly,” Flaire said.

“But he didn’t kill them just because they were bushwhackers, did he?”

Flaire shook her head. “No.”

Hawke knew there was more to it, but he could see that it was still too painful for Flaire to talk about. He didn’t press her.

“Whatever it was, it must’ve been very hard for you.”

“Yes, it was very hard,” Flaire said. She smiled. “But that is enough about me. What about you? I know that your father was a congressman. You must’ve come from a family of means. And yet, here you are, playing a piano in a saloon. How did you get here?”

Hawke sipped his wine before replying. “When the war was over, I just started moving,” he said. “Oh, I stop from time to time, but I don’t generally stay in any one place for too long.”

Flaire laughed. “Is that a warning?” she asked.

“A warning?”

“Don’t get the wrong ideas about anything. ‘I don’t stay in any one place for too long,’” Flaire said, repeating his comment.

“Oh. Oh, yes, I see,” Hawke said. He smiled. “Well, I didn’t intend it that way, but…”

“That’s all right. I feel the same way,” she said. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll stay here now that Eddie is dead. Let’s just enjoy each other’s company while we can.”

“Good idea,” Hawke said, pouring them another glass of wine.

“How did he save your life?”

“What?”

“A little while ago you said that Culpepper saved your life. How?”

“It was at Gettysburg,” Hawke said. “My father had been killed at Fredericksburg, so the regiment now belonged to my brother. We were moved to the East and were ordered to flush some Union sharpshooters out of the woods at the foot of the slope of a hill called Round Top. We did it, though our casualty rate was very high. After that, we were ordered to take Little Round Top, the hill next to it, which we were told was undefended.

“Well, it wasn’t undefended, and even as we were climbing the hill, more Yankees were pouring in from the other side. They had artillery, including canister, firing down on us. We were cut to pieces, and I was wounded. My brother, who was the commander at the time, ordered that we withdraw.

“What my brother didn’t know was that I was too badly wounded to withdraw. I lay there with musket and canister fire falling all around me, certain that the next volley would finish me. Then, all of a sudden, someone grabbed me by the shoulders and started dragging me downhill until I was far enough out of range to be safely placed on a litter.”

“Culpepper?”

“Yes,” Hawke said.

“Well, I can see how you would be beholden to him, then,” Flaire admitted. “But believe me, Mr. Hawke, Titus Culpepper is not the same man you once knew. He has changed.”

“Most folks just call me Hawke, not ‘Mister,’” Hawke said with a smile.

“You go by Hawke? Not your first name?”

“Mason is my first name. But I prefer Hawke.”

“All right, Hawke it is,” Flaire said, returning the smile.