Rough Justice (11 page)

With that in mind, he opened the top right-hand drawer of his desk and removed the pistol he kept hidden there. It was a LeMat revolver, designed and manufactured in New Orleans, carried by wartime Confederate officers including Generals P.G.T. Beauregard and Jeb Stuart. The .36-caliber weapon featured a nine-round cylinder, giving him three up on Samuel Colt's six-shooters, but the kicker was a second barrel, offset from the first, that delivered a sixteen-gauge charge of buckshot. The pistol's maximum effective range was forty yards, though it could kill by accident out to a hundred. Close in, where it mattered, it was devastating.

Coker checked the pistol's load, made sure that its percussion caps were firmly seated, then removed its shoulder
holster from the lower right-hand drawer and slipped it on, testing the leather straps to make sure they were properly adjusted. He had gained a little weight since last he'd worn the rig, but it felt fine. The three-pound pistol, holstered, drew his shoulder down a bit, but with his rigid military bearing, Coker guessed that it would cause no lasting strain.

A fast draw from the shoulder harness could be problematic, so he reached into the top drawer of his desk again and found the knife he used occasionally as a letter opener. It was a French switchblade with engraved ivory handles, S-shaped cross guards, and
Châtellerault
etched along one side of its razor-edged six-inch blade. In an emergency, Coker could draw the knife from a side pocket of his coat, snap it open, and strike at a foe in two or three seconds flat.

Practice made perfect, as they said.

Not that he planned on facing the Washington agent himself. Far from it. He had Chip and other soldiers to perform such tasks, while he directed them. The war had taught him that, while fighting men revered a leader who would actually
lead
them, it was dangerous in the extreme. Besides, he'd set his sights beyond the struggle, focusing on politics, where men with bloody reputations often failed to make the grade.

There was a new world coming, and if Coker meant to run it for the white man's benefit, he had to stay alive.

*   *   *

R
yder was early, even though he hadn't planned to be. He'd found another barber who agreed to trim his hair and shave him, didn't seem suspicious in the least about his northern accent, but he kept the Colt Army handy, in case things went awry.

Once he'd survived that episode, Ryder went off in search
of flowers for the lady of the house. That took a while, but he eventually found a small shop selling posies for a dollar and decided they were worth it. Then he had to worry that the blooms would wilt before he reached the Butlers' house, but they surprised him, holding up all right.

“They're beautiful!” said Anna, as she took them from him, on the doorstep.

Ryder couldn't think of anything to say, so bobbed his head and followed her inside, where Abel offered him an aperitif. That proved to be a glass of whiskey, which was a surprise, considering the pair's affiliation with a well-known missionary group.

“We're not fanatics, Gideon,” he said. “I hope we didn't give you that idea.”

“I hadn't thought about it,” Ryder lied. “But now that you mention it . . .”

“As I believe my sister told you, we're involved in teaching freedmen for the AMA, not saving souls.”

“And how's that going?” Ryder asked.

“Slowly. No one will rent us classroom space, so I'm negotiating for a plot of land. We'll build our own school, if it comes to that.”

“May not be popular,” Ryder suggested.

“With the KRS, I'm sure it won't be. We have good support among the freedmen, though. They'll help erect the structure, if we ever find the proper place.”

“You mean to build it right in town?”

“Ideally, but at this point, I suppose we'll take what we can get.”

“And what you get is supper,” Anna told them both. They trailed her to the dining room, where she'd placed Ryder's flowers in a small vase, making it the table's centerpiece.

“Something smells good,” Ryder remarked.

“I hope you like fried chicken.”

“Always have,” he granted.

“Also yams, green beans, and fresh-baked bread.”

“I'm not worth that much trouble,” he advised her.

Anna smiled and said, “I'll be the judge of that.”

They sat with Abel at the master's place, head of the table, Anna at his right hand, Ryder to his left and facing her. The food smelled heavenly and didn't let him down on taste. After he'd complimented Anna on her culinary skill, Abel returned their conversation to Roy Coker and his Knights.

“I understand from AMA reports that groups like his are popping up in all the former Rebel states,” he said. “They aren't connected to the KRS, as far as I can tell. Most sound like local operations, Confederates who can't believe they lost the war.”

“Or won't accept it,” Anna said.

“We hear a lot of that,” her brother added. “Some will tell you that they never lost a major battle. Lord, you'd think they never heard of Gettysburg, Shiloh, or any of the rest.”

“People are funny that way,” Ryder said. “They remember what they want to and forget the rest.”

“That bodes ill for our future, don't you think?” asked Anna.

“Hard to say,” Ryder replied. “My job leads me to see the worst in people, but I still keep hoping they'll surprise me.”

“Well, if I were you,” said Abel, “I would not count on a great surprise in Jefferson.”

“They're rock-ribbed Rebels, most of them,” Anna agreed. “The handful who don't share those views are too frightened to speak their minds.”

“Why stay someplace where they feel terrorized?” asked Ryder.

“It is still their home,” she said. “For some, the only one they've ever known.”

“Call that a choice, then,” Ryder said. “If they're content to live in fear, just for familiar scenery, I can't see any hope for them.”

“It isn't them we care about, primarily,” said Abel. “As you understand, the freedmen are our first priority. They've been oppressed too long to suffer any more delays.”

“You've got a long, hard road in front of you,” Ryder replied. “I don't see many native Texans lining up on your side.”

“Not at present,” Abel granted. “But we hope to change their minds, in time. Once they discover that their former slaves are human beings, that they share the hopes and dreams of any other soul, well . . .”

“I'm convinced,” said Ryder, pushing back his empty plate. “Between the two of us, I'd say I've got the easy job.”

“But it's so dangerous!” Anna protested.

Ryder shrugged. “You live with danger every day, among these people. When I'm done, my chief will send me somewhere else. You'll still be here, trying to change a way of life that's put down roots.”

“We won't give up,” she said.

“And I admire that. Now, I think it's time for me to go. Thank you for—”

“Wait!” she interrupted him. “You can't run off without dessert.”

“Well, if you mean to twist my arm . . .”

She brought out apple pie and coffee. Like the meal that went before, it was delicious. Ryder told her so and won another smile. They made small talk, avoiding any weighty subjects while their time ran down, and Ryder finally excused himself with thanks to both of them. They saw him
to the door, and as he started down the sidewalk, he glanced back to catch a glimpse of Anna watching from a window.

Ryder felt the tug of an attraction, but the time, the place, the woman with her open heart and high ideals—none of them fit the life he led. If he let something grow between them, it would feel too much like stealing from a child.

Distracted, Ryder missed the broken sidewalk slat in front of him and stumbled, almost going down. He caught himself, then heard the sharp crack of a large-bore rifle shot, the slug already past before the echo reached his ears.

Instinctively, he dived into the nearest patch of shadow, reaching for his Colt.

C
hip Hardesty cursed bitterly and hurried to reload his Sharps. He rarely missed a shot, couldn't recall when he had ever failed to drop a man this close to him, and chalked it up to pure bad luck.

Still no excuse.

He pulled down on the rifle's trigger guard, opened the breech, and shoved a paper cartridge in. The sharp edge of the breech's rolling block snipped off the rear end of the cartridge, as Hardesty advanced the Maynard tape primer, seating a copper cap filled with mercury fulminate into position for firing. He was fairly quick about it, years of practice on his side—but when he bent back to the rifle's sights, his man was gone.

Gone
where
?

That was the question. There were shadows all around that might conceal him, houses standing far enough apart to let a runner slip between them, hedges ringing several of
the sparse front yards. He had been counting on a one-shot kill, but now it had become a hunt.

Bad news for someone with a game leg, up against an able-bodied enemy.

Hardesty took a chance, aimed more or less where he'd last seen the target, squeezing off another shot that echoed through the streets of Jefferson. He pictured neighbors cringing in their homes, ducking for cover, then a muzzle flash across the street forced him to drop and grovel as a pistol bullet hummed past, overhead.

Reloading was more difficult while lying belly-down, but he'd grown used to it in combat. Simple motions, hurried without being rushed, a crucial difference in killing situations where a hasty move, a single slip, meant death.

The rifle was his favorite, although it couldn't match a six-gun's rate of fire. For that, if he was forced to work close in, Hardesty had an old Colt Walker Model 1847 tucked under his belt, gouging a kidney as he lay prone on the ground.

He had to glance down at the Sharps, couldn't reload it in the dark by feel alone, and lost track of his adversary as he cranked the tape primer forward, its scorched paper strip dangling over the rifle's receiver. Hardesty thumbed back the hammer, eyes straining into the night for a scurry of movement, feeling as if he'd gone blind.

Where in hell was the Yankee?

Why in hell hadn't he asked for more shooters to help him?

Too late. After three shots, he knew someone had to be fetching the law. Not bad news, necessarily, what with the sheriff behind him, but Hardesty knew it was better to just slip away if he could, try again under better conditions next time. He hated disappointing Mr. Coker, but he didn't fear
the boss man when you got right down to it. If Coker tried to punish Hardesty over a twist of fate, he'd better think again.

No movement yet, across the street, and he was easing backward into deeper shadows, lurching to his feet on one good leg, when Ryder fired again. This time, the bullet notched Hardesty's hat brim, nearly took it off his head. He fired reflexively, a wasted shot, then started running at the best speed he could manage, hampered by his wobbling stride as he reloaded on the move.

Footsteps closing behind him told Chip that the Yank was in pursuit. Again, he cursed his own pigheaded pride for making him insist that he could do the job alone. He wasn't finished yet, though. One leg might be gimpy, but he still had one or two tricks up his sleeve.

*   *   *

T
he sniper's first shot had been close, the next two rushed and off the mark, but Ryder wasn't taking any chances with a buffalo gun. Large caliber meant large wounds, and the thought of trusting a physician in a town where most folks would be glad to see him dead did not imbue Ryder with confidence.

He would be cautious, to a point, but didn't plan to let the rifleman escape. If he could take the man alive—

Rounding the corner of a cottage where his would-be executioner had vanished, Ryder saw another muzzle flash and pitched face downward in the dust. The slug hissed by where he'd been standing a split second earlier, and then the shot's reverberation stung his ears. Ryder returned fire, three rounds left before he had to switch out cylinders, and he could hear the sniper running for it.

Ryder knew the difference between a Henry's sound, or
one of Colt's revolving rifles, and the noise made by a larger weapon, like an Enfield, a Lorenz, or a Sharps. The big rifles were single-shot, the first two muzzle loaders, but he guessed this was a Sharps, if it could be reloaded on the run. An expert with a Sharps could manage eight to ten shots per minute in ideal conditions, dropping targets out to five hundred yards or better, but a footrace with an adversary who was firing back negated some of any shooter's skill.

Some, sure. But would it be enough?

Depends on how you play it,
Ryder thought.
Keep pushing him and hope he makes another dumb mistake.

Ahead of him, the running footsteps faltered, then quit altogether. Ryder stopped dead in his tracks, dropped to a crouch, and waited for a shot that didn't come. The sniper was recovering from his initial failure and would be more dangerous than ever now. Arresting him might be impossible, and while he'd hoped to quiz the shooter, squeeze some answers out of him by any means required, Ryder would pick survival over information if he had to choose.

The silence, stretching out, began to make him twitchy. Slowly, cautiously, he started edging forward, cringing at the sounds his boot soles made on dirt and gravel. Barely breathing, he advanced, and when the next shot came, instead of falling prone, he flattened up against a nearby wall.

The Colt bucked in his hand, no realistic hope of drawing blood, but he could keep his quarry running, maybe run him down. A stumble in the dark, at speed, could be nearly as bad as getting shot. Maybe he'd twist an ankle—break it, better still—and lose his weapon, giving Ryder time to overtake him.

Wishful thinking.

Ryder's man was off and running once again. He hurried
after, ears straining to catch another break in stride that meant the man had stopped to fight. It was a risky game, but Ryder couldn't tolerate the thought of letting him escape.

At the next street, he paused, listened, then dared a look around the corner of another bungalow. Saw nothing to his right, then glimpsed a loping figure to his left, one leg dragging a bit behind the other, running northward. Was the sniper wounded, after all? If so, it must have been dumb luck on Ryder's part.

Lungs burning from the chase, he swallowed hard, then set off in pursuit once more.

*   *   *

T
hat's gunfire!” Anna gasped. “Abel?”

“I heard it.”

“Someone's after Gideon!”

“We don't know that for sure.”

“But what else could it be, so close?”

He knew she must be right. His hesitation shamed him.

“All right,” he replied, retreating toward his small bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

He returned a moment later, with the Colt Paterson he kept under his pillow. The pistol made for lumpy sleeping, but it also gave him partial peace of mind.

Seeing the gun, his sister stepped in front of him. “Abel, you can't—”

“Can't what? Go out and help the man who risked his life for you?”

“You don't know where they are, much less how many.”

“I've heard two guns, one of them a rifle. And we're wasting time.”

“But—”

Abel stepped around her, reached the door before she had a chance to grab his sleeve. “Lock up behind me,” he instructed. “Don't let anybody in unless I'm with them.

Anna hesitated, seemed about to ask what she should do in case he never made it back, then swallowed it and nodded. “Please be careful.”

“Always am,” he said and ducked into the night.

Another rifle shot gave him direction, crossing underneath one of the city's streetlamps, quickly leaving it behind and jogging into darkness. Sounds could be deceiving in the city, more so after nightfall, but he had a fair sense of direction and paused every thirty yards or so, to get his bearings.

Only now did Abel stop and wonder what he planned to do if he found Ryder and the man or men trying to kill him. He'd been driven from the safety of his home by a desire to
help
, but what did that mean?

He was not a coward, but he'd never fired a shot in anger at another human being. Granted, he had thought about it many times since settling in Jefferson, surrounded by hostility, and had decided he could kill if need be, to protect his sister or himself. But
thinking
it and
doing
it were very different things.

What if he froze and could not pull the trigger when it mattered? What if he found Ryder dead or dying and was left to face his unknown enemies alone?

No, not unknown.

He might not know their names or recognize their faces, but they would be some of Coker's men, beyond all doubt. Ryder had earned their enmity that morning, helping Anna and defying Sheriff Travis. This was how they paid their debts, like yellow jackals in the night.

A sudden flush of anger strengthened his resolve. Abel
picked up his pace, just as another rifle shot rang out, immediately followed by a pistol's bark. He took the latter sound to mean that Ryder was alive and fighting back—not only that, but chasing down the man or men who'd failed to kill him on the first attempt. Encouraged, Abel homed in on the sound, ignored a sharp stitch in his side, and concentrated on the chase.

Worst damned mistake I ever made,
he thought, then shook it off. His worst idea had been allowing Anna to come with him, when he left New York for Texas—or, perhaps, the act of moving south at all.

Here's what your stupid conscience gets you into.

Mortal danger, courtesy of helping out his fellow man.

Cursing himself with every step, he ran through darkness, frightened of whatever he might find, more terrified of what awaited Anna if he died.

Don't die, then,
Abel told himself and nearly laughed aloud at the outrageousness of his conceit.

*   *   *

C
hip Hardesty stumbled and fell, kept his grip on the Sharps, but lost most of the skin on his knuckles to save it. When he cursed, it had a whining tone to it that made him hate himself—and hate his Yankee adversary all the more.

What should have been a simple job had turned into a nightmare, a humiliation, and he saw now that it just might get him killed. He wasn't giving up yet, having never learned to quit, but he was worried, and it troubled him.

In the battles he had fought, some of the war's bloodiest actions, Hardesty had never truly been afraid. He'd marched off into combat thinking the Confederacy would claim
victory within a few short weeks, and once that bubble burst, he had resigned himself to the fatalistic understanding that he might be called upon to sacrifice himself. Having accepted that, seeing the cause as something greater than himself, he had been more or less at peace. A tough shot still required his concentration, made him nervous in its way, but when the blue tide clashed with gray and men were dying all around him, he had simply buckled down and done his job.

Tonight was different.

This single combat, one man up against another, wasn't what he'd trained for or experienced while he was still in uniform. It was supposed to be an execution, not a running gunfight through the streets of Jefferson. To that extent, he had already failed, and felt the weight of grim knowledge with each step he took.

That didn't mean that he was beaten, though. He simply had to get his mind right, find a vantage point to shoot from, and for God's sake do it right next time.

Simply?
He almost laughed at that, but it was hard enough just breathing while he ran, his bum leg barely functioning.

He cursed the wound, the changes it had made in how he lived. Some people claimed to see it as a badge of honor, but to Hardesty it was a curse. Some Yankee who he'd never even seen or had the chance to kill had made him limp for life, goddamn his rotten soul.

He stopped to rest and listen for a second, straining to pick out the sound of his pursuer. Their exchange of shots was waking people, bringing light to windows on the streets they ran along. Soon, Hardesty supposed, there might be others in the mix, armed men worried about their families, with no idea of who was who in the original engagement. If he met the sheriff in his flight, that would be a relief and
an embarrassment rolled into one. If someone took him for a bandit in the dark and shot him . . . well, he'd simply have to take that chance.

Hardesty's horse was at the livery, a long eight blocks away from where he hunkered in the dark, waiting to kill a man he didn't know. Retreating any further now, unless he found a way to shake the Yank, would not be a solution to his problem. He would be exhausted by the time he reached the stable, with the damned relentless agent still behind him, and he didn't want to die smelling of horse manure.

He'd smelled worse in his time, of course: a battlefield, for instance, corpses bloating in the summer sun, believing he'd be one of them before another killing day was done.