Rough Justice (12 page)

Had that day come for him, at last?

He had no time to think about it now, heard someone coming, and was drawing back the hammer on his rifle when a voice behind him barked, “You, there! Lay down your gun!”

*   *   *

A
bel Butler was winded, felt like someone had been sticking needles in between his ribs. Each time he stopped to catch his breath, another gunshot echoed through the dark streets, drawing him along in his pursuit of shadows. Sometimes he was close, or thought so, then the sounds retreated, leaving him behind.

He was disoriented now, knew vaguely the direction in which home lay, and his sister waiting, but could not have walked directly to it on a bet. The good news was, he didn't have to. Not until he'd done his best to help Gideon Ryder, anyway.

And where in hell was he?

Somewhere southeast of where Abel was standing, he believed. Sounds were deceptive in the night, particularly
those that echoed from the dark façades of silent shops and homes. If Ryder and the man or men who hunted him weren't following the streets, they could be anywhere. His hope of finding them at all was dwindling when he heard a scuffling sound of awkward, lagging footsteps just beyond his line of sight.

Someone advancing, or retreating? Abel knew the only way to answer that was to creep forward, find out for himself, and put a stop to this, if possible.

The wooden sidewalk creaked beneath his feet, and Abel sidestepped onto sand. He clutched the curved butt of his Colt so tightly that his knuckles ached, worried that he would drop it if he let his grip relax at all. His hands were trembling badly, making Abel worry that he couldn't hit a barn door when it counted, but his only choice was clear.

He must proceed, for Anna's sake, and for his own.

He crossed a barren yard, its dry grass crunching underfoot, and edged along the east wall of a square two-story house. As he drew closer to the corner, Butler heard a rasp of tortured breathing, as from someone near exhaustion. Ryder, or somebody else?

Butler held his breath and peeked around the corner, saw a man half-crouching, the long barrel of a rifle rising over his left shoulder.

So, not Ryder, then.

What should he do now? Butler saw three choices open to him. He could turn and flee, then struggle living with himself, bearing the scorn in Anna's every look. He could attempt to make it easy on himself, shoot his opponent in the back. Or he could do the only honorable thing, giving the man a chance to save himself.

Considered in those terms, it was no choice at all.

Butler stepped out of hiding, pistol leveled in a firm
two-handed grip, and used his most commanding voice to say, “You, there! Lay down your gun!”

*   *   *

R
yder heard the shout, could almost place the voice, and then two weapons fired as one, the rifle and a pistol. Cursing reached his ears as he moved forward, following his Colt Army.

Two rounds,
he thought,
and then I'm empty.

Never mind. If it took more than two, up close, he was as good as dead.

Ryder reached the shooting scene to find the man he had been chasing, seated on the ground now, reloading a Sharps rifle. He was having a hard time of it, one arm apparently unwilling to cooperate. Across from him, some twenty feet away, a second man was lying on the ground, clutching his head with one hand, scrabbling with the other for a pistol he had dropped as he went down. The face, though streaked with blood, was recognizable as Abel Butler's.

Ryder put it all together in a flash, saw Butler rushing out to help him when he heard the first gunshots, meeting the sniper somehow as the chase had circled back toward Butler's home. He could as easily have missed the shooter, passed along another street and never even glimpsed him, but coincidence or fate had put the two of them on a collision course.

Ryder could not assess his new friend's injury without closer examination, but he had no time for that. His first priority must be the rifleman, disarming him, preventing any further damage.

“Drop it!” he commanded, and the sniper craned around to look at him.

“This little prick a friend of yorn?” he asked.

Ryder ignored the question. Said, “Lay down the rifle.”

“S'pose I don't?”

“Then you're a dead man.”

“See your point. Awright, then. Here it goes.”

He set the Sharps down carefully, as if afraid of causing any damage to it, then his hand whipped back and swung toward Ryder, brandishing a six-gun. Ryder fired without a second's hesitation, saw his bullet drill a dark hole through the rifleman's right cheek, then blood was spurting from the wound as he collapsed into a rumpled heap.

Ryder moved forward, freed the pistol from the dead man's grip, then kicked the Sharps away. He turned to Abel next and found him sitting upright, more or less, one hand still plastered to the left side of his head.

“You got him?” Abel asked.

“You helped,” Ryder replied.

“I didn't mean to.” Sounding dazed. “If he'd have dropped the rifle when I told him . . .”

“Let me see that wound,” Ryder instructed, prying Abel's hand away.

There was a shallow gash, an inch or so above his left temple. The wound was bleeding freely, but it didn't seem life threatening.

“Lucky you winged him,” Ryder said. “Another couple inches to the left and you'd have been a goner.”

“Christ, it hurts!”

“We need to get that cleaned and bandaged. It should heal all right, but you'll be having headaches for a while.”

“So much for good Samaritans.”

“You did okay.”

“It doesn't feel that way.”

“Is there a doctor you can trust?”

Abel began to shake his head, then groaned and answered, “No.”

“I think Anna can patch this up,” Ryder suggested. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

“Let's get moving, then.”

“The sheriff will be coming.”

“Let him wait. He took his sweet time turning out.”

“He'll try to blame me.”

“And I'll set him straight. Don't let it worry you.”

“Easy to say. We have to live here.”

“Do you, really?”

“Gideon—”

“Come on, now. Anna will be worrying.”

It seemed a long walk back, Ryder supporting much of Abel's weight and watching out for other shooters all the way. Along their route, men and a smattering of anxious women had emerged from their respective homes, talking about the racket, lowering their voices into whispers as the two men passed.

The sheriff shouldn't have a problem finding Butler now. Ryder decided on the spot to stay with him—and Anna—until Travis came around to question them. He'd set the lawman straight, and that should be the end of it.

Or would have been, except for Coker and his gang.

You're next,
he thought, as Anna rushed out of the house to meet them, tears of worry spilling down her cheeks.

A
nd you say he fired at you, before you killed him?”

“Third time that you've asked me that,” Ryder replied.

“I need to get it straight,” the sheriff said.

“Go back over the route we traveled. Look for damage from the shots we fired at one another. Work it out.”

“About that damage . . .”

“Bill it to the sniper.”

“Chip wasn't a rich man.”

“So, you're on a first-name basis?”

Travis reddened. “Nothin' wrong with knowin' my constishients.”

“Some more than others, I suppose.”

“What're you gettin' at?”

Ryder shrugged. “You knew the three drunks who were after Miss Butler this morning. Now, seems like you're friendly with this shooter.”

“
Friendly
would be stretchin' it. I knew him, sure,” Travis admitted. “And he weren't no troublemaker, that I ever heard.”

“Just lost his mind, I guess,” Ryder replied. “Decided he should shoot a total stranger on the street for no reason at all.”

“That's your side of it.”

“If you have evidence to contradict me, file a charge. That's how the law works, Sheriff.”

“You don't have to tell me—”

“But we both know you don't have a case. Isn't that right?”

“I reckon time'll tell.”

“Meanwhile, your buddy's getting ripe. You'd best convey him to the undertaker.”

“Bein' handled as we speak. How long you aim to stay in Jefferson?”

“Until my work's done.”

“And your work is . . . ?”

Ryder showed his badge again and told the sheriff, “Secret.”

“Hocus-pocus,” Travis sneered.

“Nothing for you to fret about, in that case.”

“I ain't frettin'.”

“What about your friend?”

“Which one? I got a lotta friends.”

“Roy Coker's who I had in mind.”

“Unless you're dumber than you look, you'll stay away from him.”

“Or . . . what?”

“Nothin' from me. I'll leave that between you and him.”

“After you run and tattle to him.”

“Damn your—”

“Sheriff!” Anna scolded him for swearing.

“Sorry, ma'am. This fella gets my dander up.”

“I'd rank that as a weakness,” Ryder said.

“Say what you want. I might surprise you.”

Ryder smiled. Said, “I sincerely hope you prove me wrong.”

“I had enough of riddles for one night.”

“Don't let us keep you, then.”

“I'm gettin' to the bottom of all this,” said Travis.

“Something tells me that you're near the bottom now,” Ryder replied.

The sheriff went out in a huff, telling the men who'd waited for him in the yard that they could go on home. Anna had balked at letting them inside her house, and that had set the tone for all that followed.

Ryder waited for the yard to clear, then said, “I should be going, too.”

“What if they circle back?” she asked him. “What with Abel laid up in his bed.”

“I'd stay,” he said, “but it would set your neighbors talking.”

“We may live next door, but they're not neighbors,” Anna told him.

“Still.”

“You're right, of course. The AMA insists upon propriety—or its appearance, at the very least.”

“Sounds like some preachers I'm acquainted with.”

“I take it that you're not a man of faith?”

“I've had to get by all my life,” Ryder said, “without help from some old invisible man on a cloud.”

“You've never seen a miracle?”

“Not one I'd recognize as such.”

“That's sad.”

“I'll have to take your word for it. And I should probably be getting on.”

“No, wait.” She caught his sleeve as he was rising from the sofa, to detain him. “I haven't thanked you properly for bringing Abel home. Saving his life, I mean.”

“His injury was my fault, in a way,” Ryder replied.

“But with your own life in danger—”

“It's what I get paid for. The people I deal with—most of them, at least—don't hail from what you'd call polite society.”

“Roy Coker, for example.”

“Haven't met him, but I hope to, soon.”

“Just know that I'll be praying for you, Gideon.”

He shrugged and said, “It couldn't hurt.”

Outside, the sheriff's posse had dispersed, but as he crossed the Butlers' yard, Ryder saw one man standing in the shadows, just beyond their fence. He drew his Colt and aimed it at the faceless stranger, without slowing down.

“Hold up there,” said the sheriff's voice. “I think you've killed enough men for one night.”

“Depends on what you had in mind,” Ryder replied.

“Thought you might like to meet the man in charge,” said Travis.

“What, that isn't you?”

“Come on with me, and learn somethin',” the lawman said.

“You lead the way,” Ryder instructed him. “And keep both hands where I can see them.”

*   *   *

T
he Red Dog?” Ryder asked, as they approached the two-story saloon.

“It's just a name,” said Travis.

“I expected something more Confederate. The Merrimac, let's say. Maybe the Slave Market.”

“Your jokes don't sit well here in Jefferson.”

“What makes you think I'm joking?”

“Either way, a smart man doesn't start a conversation with no insults.”

They were at the bat-wing doors by now. Ryder could smell the scent familiar from every saloon he'd ever patronized: stale beer, tobacco smoke, sweat generated by the booze or lust or gambling fever. Instead of a piano, Coker had a three-man brass band backing up a banjo player perched upon a stool.

The sheriff led him through the Red Dog's barroom, all eyes on them as they passed, around the south end of the bar and down a hallway, to a door marked
PRIVATE
. Travis knocked and waited for a voice inside to say, “Come in.”

They entered, Travis leading, while a tall man rose behind a desk. The boss man wore a satin vest, dove gray, over a crisp white shirt, trousers to match the vest. His hair was long enough to hide the collar of his shirt, slicked straight back from an oval face wearing a Van Dyke style of beard. He moved around the desk, offered his hand, and said, “We meet at last. Roy Coker, and I take it you're the famous Agent Ryder.”

“I hope not.”

“You don't crave fame and fortune?”

“Wouldn't mind the fortune,” Ryder said, on impulse. “But with fame, all kinds of people try to rob you.”

“Isn't that the truth? Sheriff, feel free to leave us.”

“Are you sure? I don't mind—”

Coker's eyes went cold. Travis swallowed whatever he had planned to say and left the office, making sure to close the door behind him.

“Harlan can be useful, but he's not the sharpest chisel in the toolbox,” Coker said, smiling.

“I meet a lot of dull ones,” Ryder said.

“I would imagine so.”

“Comes with the territory.”

“Which, in this case, happens to be Texas. More specifically, Marion County. May I tempt you with a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“So, straight to business, then. What brings you here?”

“My work.”

“A mission for the fledgling Secret Service, I've been told. But more specifically . . . ?”

“Investigative work.”

“Is there some reason why we can't speak candidly?”

“Beats me. Is there?”

“I'm hoping you can trust me.”

“I just met you.”

“Still—”

“And trust is something that I find in short supply, these days.”

“May I be frank, at least?”

“Feel free,” Ryder replied.

“You spend a lot of time with carpetbaggers.”

“You have someone watching me?”

“Despite its recent, rapid growth, Jefferson is still a small town at heart. Word gets around.”

“Apparently.”

“It seems to me you've traveled far, to spend your time with strangers in our midst.”

“Free country, since the war. People can travel where they want to, drift or put down roots.”

“You understand, I'm sure, how
sensitive
the common
Texan is right now, to matters touching on the racial situation.”

Ryder frowned. “Are you a common Texan?”

“Born in New Orleans, as it happens, but my family moved here when I was still a suckling. Texas is my home.”

“I meant the ‘common' part.”

“I do my best to rise above the herd, without losing the common touch.”

“Sounds like you've got an eye on politics.”

“It's crossed my mind. But at the present, while we're occupied by foreign troops, that's not an option.”

“
Foreign
troops?”

“We were a nation, as you know. First, the Republic of Texas, then a part of the Confederacy.”

“I believe you skipped a step between the two.”

“One of the U.S. states, of course. Until the government in Washington betrayed us.”

“By opposing slavery?”

“The war was based on economic issues, not some sudden urge to free the Africans. You must know that, at least. Slavery was enshrined in the original constitution. Article Five protected foreign trade in slaves.”

“Till 1808,” Ryder said.

“While Article Four, Section Two, forbade white citizens from aiding runaway bondsmen. My Lord, Article One, Section Two, permits slaves to be counted for purposes of determining representation in Congress.”

“Bound to be repealed, now that you've lost the war.”

“Did we?”

“The last I heard.”

“Great issues aren't decided in a day, a month, or in four years.”

“You think the Rebel states will rise again?”

“It's not rebellion, when you're fighting for principles the country was founded on to begin with.”

“We'll have to disagree on that,” Ryder replied.

“In which case, let me ask you whether you're investigating me.”

“I've had my hands full since I got here, dealing with your men.”

“
My
men?”

“Slip of the tongue. I mean to say dumb crackers starting fights they're not prepared to win.”

“Another man might take insult at that.”

“Glad he's not here, then.” Ryder rose and started for the door. “Next bunch you send, tell them I'm at the Bachmann House.”

“I own it,” Coker said. “You may sleep peacefully beneath its roof.”

“Appreciate it. You wouldn't want to see it damaged, after all. It's likely not your style,” said Ryder, one hand on the doorknob, “but if you decide to finish this like men, the two of us, just let me know.”

*   *   *

T
ravis had been waiting in the barroom. He returned when Coker summoned him and took the chair directly opposite, sitting with hat in hand. The sheriff had a sour look about him, and he clearly was not looking forward to their chat.

“He's not amenable to reason,” Coker said, without preamble.

“Huh.”

“That means he won't negotiate.”

“What did you offer him?”

The question was impertinent, but Coker chose to answer it. “We never got that far. He has the smell of abolitionist about him.”

“Well, then.”

“Hardesty was quite the disappointment.”

“Overmatched, I guess.”

“Indeed. We'll need to try a new approach, next time.”

“More men?”

“And smarter,” Coker said. “No more clumsy mistakes.”

“I thought Chip was the best we had.”

“I hope not, since he failed us.”

“I can put the word out. Get a bunch together, maybe take him out tomorrow.”

“You're forgetting something.”

“What's that?”

“Jesus, man. We've got a rally scheduled for tomorrow, noon.”

“Oh, right.”

“I don't want any more disturbances before then. Understood?”

“I hear you.”

“Make it crystal clear to anyone you speak to. If they spoil the rally, I'll be holding you responsible.”

“I'll wait till after, so there's no mistake.”

“Good thinking.”

“Is the other thing still happening?” Travis inquired.

“What other thing?”

“You know. After the rally.”

“Given the results desired, the answer would be yes.”

“Okay. And I'm not s'pose to interfere.”

Coker restrained an urge to roll his eyes. “That's right. Because you don't know anything about it, Sheriff.”

“Course not. How would I?”

“And when the first reports come in . . . ?”