Ride With the Devil (9 page)

“You want to spend the night in jail?” Vox warned Baldwin.

“No.”

“Then stay the hell out of this. I’m just doin’ my duty.”

“Rousting the piano player is doing your duty?”

“I said, stay the hell out of this,” Vox repeated. Then he turned back to Hawke, who had not stopped playing, nor had he given any indication that he was even paying any attention.

“I tell you what, piano player. I had no idea you was
makin’ that much money. Seems to me like it’s about time you started paying taxes like everyone else.”

“I don’t intend to pay taxes,” Hawke said.

This was Hawke’s first response to Vox, and even then he didn’t quit playing the piano.

“What do you mean you don’t intend to pay taxes?” Vox sputtered. “By God, you’ll pay taxes just like everyone else.”

Vox reached down into the bowl to pull out a handful of coins and bills. He had barely put his hand in when he let out a yell. “Argh!” he called out in pain.

The cause of the pain was the barrel of his own pistol, which Hawke had jerked from Vox’s holster, then shoved up the deputy’s nostril.

“Put it back,” Hawke said menacingly.

“What are you doing? Are you crazy! I’ll throw you in jail for this!”

Hawke pushed the gun up so far that Vox’s nose began to bleed, then he cocked the pistol.

“I said put it back,” Hawke said again.

Hawke’s sudden and unexpected action brought all conversation in the saloon to an instant halt. Everyone looked on in shock.

With trembling hands, Vox put the money back in the bowl.

Hawke stood up then and, with the gun still shoved up Vox’s nose, walked him back over to the table where Bates was watching, as shocked as the rest of the saloon.

“I think you two had better leave now,” Hawke said.

“You got no right to run us out of here,” Vox said.

“I’ve got a gun stuck up your nose,” Hawke said. “Looks to me like that sort of gives me the right. Now, get out of here.”

“Get up, get up!” Vox said to Bates. “I believe this crazy son of a bitch really will try to kill me!”

Not until Bates got up as well did Hawke pull his pistol from Vox’s nose. There was blood on the end of the pistol, and blood running down across Vox’s chin.

“What about my pistol?” Vox asked.

“This is the second time you’ve given it to me. Why don’t you just let me keep it?” Hawke asked.

“Are you crazy? That’s a twenty-dollar gun!”

Hawke wiped the barrel of the gun off on Vox’s shirt. “Yeah, I can see that it’s a pretty good gun,” he said. “It has very good balance.”

Still glaring at Hawke, Vox turned and left the saloon, with Bates trailing behind.

Hawke moved quickly to the bat-wing doors, then stepped over to one side. As he knew he would, Vox stepped back into the saloon, this time with what must have been a pistol belonging to Bates in his hand.

“Piano player!” Vox shouted angrily, bitterly. It was clear that if he had seen Hawke at that moment, he would have killed him, even if it meant shooting Hawke in the back.

Stepping inside was as far as Vox got, however, because Hawke, standing just beside the entrance, smashed Vox in the face with the butt of his own pistol. Vox went down and out.

“Come get him!” Hawke yelled into the darkness just beyond the door. “Come get him, or I’ll pull him out back and feed him to the hogs!”

Hesitantly, cautiously, Bates stuck his hands inside, showing that he wasn’t holding a gun.

“I ain’t armed,” he called from the porch.

“I know you’re not,” Hawke said. “Unless I miss my guess, that’s your gun there, on the floor.”

Bates came in. Like the eyes of a trapped rat, he glanced around the saloon. The arrogance and belligerence he normally displayed had been replaced with the look of fear.

Hawke emptied Vox’s gun, then picked up Bates’s gun from the floor and emptied it as well. He stuck both of the empty weapons down into Vox’s pants.

“Get him out of here,” Hawke ordered.

Grabbing him by his feet, Bates pulled Vox outside. Once on the porch, Vox started regaining his senses, but he was so groggy that Hawke didn’t expect any more trouble.

He didn’t come back.

Not until then did all the patrons in the saloon let out a collective sigh of relief.

Flaire worked on a dress of her own design, getting it ready for the trip to San Antonio. It was a beautiful dress, and if she sold it, it would cost much more than any of her customers would be able to afford.

If she hadn’t made it herself, she wouldn’t be able to afford it either.

The dress, called a “visiting toilette,” was made of pearl gray faille, trimmed with bands of dark crimson velvet.

“My dear, you do such beautiful work,” Emma Rittenhouse had told her. “With your talent, you should go to New York.

After the men left, Flaire lay on the ground alongside her family for the rest of the night. Sometime before morning, as the barn burned itself out, she fell asleep from pure exhaustion; physical, mental, and psychological.

Neighbors found her the next morning, drawn to the farm by the smoke that was still curling into the sky from the burned barn.

“My God, Helga, what happened here?” Chris Speer asked his wife as he stopped the wagon and set the brake. What had been the barn was little more than a charred pile of smoking lumber. What were at first unidentifiable lumps,
Speer now recognized as the burned carcasses of horses and cows.

“Why didn’t the Delaneys get their animals out?” Speer asked.

“Chris!” Helga said, her voice tight. She pulled on her husband’s shirtsleeve. “Chris, look.”

Helga pointed toward the house, where four bodies lay on the ground.

“Gott im Himmel!”

Chris jumped down from the wagon and ran over to the bodies. “They’ve been shot!” he called back to Helga, who, clutching her shawl about her shoulders, had remained on the wagon. “They’re dead! All of them!”

Flaire moaned then, and Chris turned toward her.

“Helga,” he called. “Come see to the girl. She is still alive. And she is naked!”

Helga climbed down from the wagon then, and hurried over to attend to Flaire. Not seeing any wounds on her body, she picked up Flaire’s nightgown and handed it to her.

“You had better put this on, child,” she said.

“Mama!” Flaire said. “Papa!” Memories of what had happened the night before came flooding back to her and she started toward her parents.

Helga held her back. “No, child,” she said. “You can’t help them now.”

Flaire went home with the Speers and stayed with them until her family had been buried. But like the Delaneys, Chris and Helga Speer were Union sympathizers in a county that was predominantly pro-South. Frightened that their farm would be next, Chris sold his place and he and Helga planned to move back to St. Louis, where they felt safer.

“We want you to come with us, child,” Helga said. “You’ve become almost like a daughter to us.”

“Thank you,” Flaire replied. “I feel the same way about
you and Mr. Speer. But I fear that if I leave town, my brother won’t be able to find me when he returns.”

“I understand,” Helga said. “Still, I wouldn’t feel good about leaving you alone, with no means of support. Let me look around and see what I can find for you.”

It took a few days, but Helga found a spinster seamstress by the name of Emma Rittenhouse, who agreed to take Flaire on as an apprentice.

“I can’t pay anything,” Miss Rittenhouse said. “But I will feed her and give her a place to stay.” She smiled. “And if she is a good student, she will be able to make her own clothes.”

Flaire had been totally unprepared for her reaction to the art of sewing. She loved it…loved taking bolts of cloth and turning it into beautiful things. She discovered a talent for designing, and quickly became such a valuable asset that Emma Rittenhouse’s business increased and Miss Rittenhouse started paying her.

“You’ve gone far beyond me,” Miss Rittenhouse said. “You have a God-given talent and you should study under someone who could do more for you. Perhaps someone in New York, or even Paris.”

Although the suggestion that she was good enough to study in such places as New York or Paris was very flattering, Flaire knew she would never be able to do anything like that. But when the war ended and she moved to Texas, she felt very confident when she started her own business.

IT HAD NOT BEEN MERE IDLE CONVERSATION with Doc Urban when Cyrus Green started talking about the exorbitant taxes the Regulators were extracting from the town. Cyrus was having an epiphany. He had been one of the first supporters of the Regulators Brigade, and a staunch defender of the brigade ever since its inception. And he had remained steadfast despite the complaints he was hearing about them from so many of the townspeople.

“You’re like a ship underway,” Doc Urban told him. “Once you have your course set, it is very difficult to come about.”

Cyrus chuckled at the analogy. “You have a point there, Doc. But I have to tell you, as I told you before, I am now having second thoughts.”

At first Cyrus had thought the complaints were because of the strictness with which the Regulators enforced the law. Spitting on the sidewalk could bring a cowboy a crack on the head and seven days in jail. Laws against public drunkenness were so rigidly enforced that the jails were filled every night with people who did no more than take a stutter step as they left the Golden Calf.

Each of these offenses brought fines that did not go to the
operating costs of the town, but directly into the coffers of the Regulators Brigade. What Cyrus was beginning to question more than anything else, though, was the taxation the Regulators had levied on the businesses of Salcedo. When the town council hired Culpepper, they also authorized him to recruit volunteers to serve in the Salcedo Regulators. At the same time, they vested Culpepper and the Regulators with law enforcement authority.

It wasn’t until later that Culpepper returned to the council to ask that a tax be enacted that would enable him to hire and pay deputies.

“To run this operation right, it’s going to take money,” he said. “More money than my contract calls for. I am going to have to hire and equip deputies, and pay them well enough that they will risk their lives in our service. And the only way I can do that is if I am given the authority by the town council to levy taxes.”

Although taxing authority had not been a part of the original contract, Cyrus Green, as mayor, had been an early supporter of the idea. But lately he had started paying attention to the people who were complaining. He also began adding up all the taxes the Regulators were collecting, and he was shocked by the figures.

Just from the people who willingly gave information, Cyrus figured that Culpepper and the Regulators were bringing in over two thousand dollars every month.

In addition, Cyrus know there were many who wouldn’t share the information with him, either because they were frightened, ashamed, or genuinely felt that it was none of his business. He believed that if all those numbers were factored into the equation, the actual amount of money might be twice as much.

Cyrus had already asked Culpepper when he planned to
have the town council hire a new city marshal so he could disband his Regulators.

“Soon,” Culpepper answered whenever he was asked. “Soon.”

Cyrus used to wonder why Culpepper kept putting off the hiring of a new marshal. Now he knew why. He hated to admit it to himself, but he was convinced that Culpepper had no intention of ever giving up the position he held. Why should he? What he had grabbed hold of was a money cow.

That gave Cyrus an idea for an editorial. Moving to his layout table, he began setting type, starting with the larger font for the headline.

WOC YENOM EHT

He looked at the head he had just set, able to read it as easily backward as nearly everyone else could the right way.

THE MONEY COW

Cyrus’s hands flew from type box to type box, selecting the lead letters, headers, and spacers as he assembled them, composing the editorial as he went along.

On the afternoon of the day Cyrus Green’s editorial appeared, several of the deputies gathered in the headquarters building to discuss what they should do about it.

“He has some nerve, printing something like this with the colonel gone,” Deputy Hooper said, slamming the newspaper on the desk.

“Yeah,” Deputy Moody said. “He wouldn’t dare have done that with the colonel here.”

“I think we ought to go over there and knock him around a bit,” Vox said.

“Yeah, and tear up his damn shop,” Hooper added.

“Hold on,” Deputy Bates said. “We ain’t goin’ to do nothin’ like that lessen the colonel tells us to.”

“We don’t need Culpepper’s permission,” Vox said. “He left me in charge while he’s gone, so anything I say we can do, we can do.” Both of Vox’s eyes were black and his nose was swollen and discolored from the blow he had taken in the face the night before.

“Right!” Moody said.

“And I say we go over there right now,” Vox said. “But don’t just tear it up, let’s burn the whole building down.”

“You don’t want to do that, Vox,” Bates said.

“And why the hell wouldn’t I want to do it?”

“Well, for one thing, it was the Dawsons doin’ that to ’em that got the town all riled up in the first place, remember? Now you want to do the same thing and get them riled at us?”

“You think I care about whether or not the town is riled at us?” Vox asked. “What are they going to do about it? Nothing, ’cause there’s nothing they can do. It’s the town should worry about us, not us them.”

“Maybe so, but if we do somethin’ like that, the colonel can just kiss his chances of getting elected good-bye.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Culpepper’s problem, not mine,” Vox said.

“Maybe,” Bates agreed. “But don’t forget, when the colonel goes to Congress, you’ll be taking over here.”

Vox stroked his chin for a moment, considering that. Then he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, you’re right. All right, we’ll hold off for now. But you mark my words, when Culpepper gets back, he’ll have a few choice words for our mayor.”

Vox made it a point always to speak of Culpepper as
“Culpepper” and not the colonel. In that way, he set himself apart from the rest of the deputies, showing them that his position was elevated enough to allow that type of intimacy.

Gillis, who had not been told of Vox’s adventure in the saloon the night before, was staring at him.

“What the hell are you staring at?” Vox asked irritably.

“I was just starin’ at your face,” Gillis replied. “Damn if you don’t look like you was hit by a train. What the hell happened to you?”

“The piano player done it,” Spellman said, barely able to suppress his laughter.

“The piano player done that to you?” Gillis said. “Damn, he don’t look that tough to me.”

“He was hiding behind a wall and he hit Vox when he wasn’t expecting it,” Bates said, covering for the chief deputy.

“And you’re just going to let him get away with it?”

“No, I ain’t going to let him get away with it,” Vox said. “I figured on settling the score with him today, only the son of a bitch is gone.”

“Where’d he go?”

“How the hell do I know where he went?” Vox replied. “He just tucked his tail between his legs and skedaddled. He’s running from me, the cowardly son of a bitch.”

“Nah, he ain’t runnin’ from you,” Gillis said. “Him an’ the Delaney woman took the stage out this mornin’. Hell, ever’-body in town is talkin’ about it. Them runnin’ off together like that.”

“Runnin’ off to do what?” Spellman asked.

“What do you think?” Gillis replied. “She’s a good-lookin’ woman. I figure he’s just takin’ her somewhere so’s he can bed her without folks talkin’ about it.”

“That don’t make no sense,” Bates said. “Didn’t you just say ever’body was talkin’ about it?”

“I tell you what,” Gillis said, grabbing himself unconsciously. “I sure wish I had knowed that about her before now. I wouldn’t mind takin’ her off somewhere my ownself.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure she would go with you,” Bates said sarcastically.

“I figure she would,” Gillis said. “After all, women like that will go with just about any man.

The rims of the stage wheels were covered with steel bands, and they rolled over the hard dirt road with a quiet, crunching sound. As the wheels whirled around, dirt adhered to the rims for about half a revolution, then was thrown back in little rooster tails to be carried off by the whispering breeze. The sun was still early morning low in the east, and a morning mist wrapped itself around the cottonwood trees, clinging to the branches in flowing tendrils of lace.

There were five passengers on the stage: Hawke, Flaire, a young mother and her baby, and a whiskey drummer. The driver explained that the trip to Marva would take just over four hours, counting the time required for a change of teams at the halfway station.

As Flaire looked through the window at the wildflowers growing in colorful profusion alongside the road, she thought of her luggage back in the boot of the stage. In her suitcase was the new dress she had just finished making, and it excited her to think about wearing it.

The thought of going to a grand concert and then meeting the famous performer afterward was also exciting. But then, though she dared not admit it even to herself, so was the thought of making a trip with Mason Hawke.

Hawke was looking out the window on the opposite side of the stage from Flaire, but his attention was directed inside. The drummer was staring at him, and had been staring at him for some time now.

“Puxico,” the drummer finally said, holding up his finger. “I knew it would come to me. That was you, wasn’t it?”

“I beg your pardon?” Flaire asked, turning her attention back into the coach. “Did you address me?”

“Not you, ma’am. I was addressing this gentleman here. That was you at Puxico, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, I’ve been to Puxico,” Hawke said. He knew what was coming next. He’d been in this same situation many times before. He wished there was some way he could head it off, but knew that there wasn’t.

“You’ve been to Puxico?” the drummer said. He laughed. “Is that all you have to say about it? Just that you have been there?”

“It’s all I care to say about it,” Hawke said.

“I’ll tell you this: That was the damnedest thing I ever saw in my life. They was three of ’em drawed their guns on you, and you kilt all three of ’em, slick as a whistle.”

“Oh!” the young mother said in alarm. Almost involuntarily, she scooted farther over in the seat, holding her baby closer to her.

Hawke could feel the woman’s fear.

“I’m afraid you have mistaken me for someone else,” Hawke said.

“Look, this isn’t an accusation. Ever’one that saw it said there was nothin’ you could do about it. They drawed down on you first.”

“I said, you have mistaken me for someone else,” Hawke said, more resolutely, almost menacingly, this time.

Finally the drummer caught on. “Uh, yes,” he said. “Yes, now that I look at you more closely, I think I have made a mistake. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right, it happens a lot,” Hawke said. “I have one of those faces that everyone thinks they recognize.”

Convinced that the drummer was mistaken, the young
mother visibly relaxed, and the fear left her face. The rest of the coach trip was uneventful.

They boarded the train at six o’clock that evening for the fourteen hour trip to San Antonio. Not until they were having their supper in the dining car did Flaire bring up what the drummer had said.

“That whiskey salesman didn’t mistake you, did he?” she asked. “You are the one he saw.”

“What makes you think that?” Hawke asked as he took a sip of his wine.

“He said there were three men who accosted you in Puxico.”

“There were three men who accosted the person he was talking about,” Hawke corrected. “I did not concede that I was that man.”

“Maybe it is just a coincidence, but there were three men who accosted us on the day of our picnic,” Flaire said. “I wondered how you could have handled the situation as easily as you did. This would explain it.”

“Would it?”

Flaire reached across the dinner table to put her hand on his. “It’s all right if you don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “I won’t bring it up again.”

“Thank you,” Hawke said.

Flaire lay in her bed that night, rocked gently by the motion of the train, and listening to the sound of steel wheels rolling on steel track.

Despite Hawke’s reluctance to concede that the drummer had not made a mistake, she was convinced that Hawke was the man he was talking about. She had seen him in action and knew that he was quite capable of performing the feat described by the salesman.

But it was more than his ability to do it; it was his willingness to do it. He had told the three men who accosted them on the day of the picnic that he would kill them. He had spoken the words as calmly as if he had just said that he would open the door for them, and it was that quiet, deadly calm that sent chills running down her spine. It was as if she had just heard the quiet, fluttering wings of the angel of death.