Rough Justice (13 page)

“Takes me some time to raise a posse, swear 'em in and all. They'd have to fetch their guns from home.”

“Exactly.”

“I was thinkin', though.”

Never a good sign,
Coker thought. And said, “Thinking? About what?”

“Bluebellies. We got the garrison outside of town. They might jump into this.”

“I'm counting on it.”

“Oh?”

“We need a spark to set this county and the state on fire.”

“It could mean killin'.”

“Every war means killing. You know that.”

Travis was nodding. “Sure, I know. But folks elected me to keep the peace.”

“Did they? And what peace would that be? The one imposed from Washington, where black and white are equal? Do the people who elected you want field hands voting? Knocking on their doors to see if little Mary can come out and play?”

“Who's little—?”

“I'm referring to their daughters, damn it!”

“Right. Okay.”

“So, are we clear? No trouble with this Yank before the rally or what follows after. When that's done, have people standing by to deal with him. Before the smoke clears would be best. Tie all the loose ends up into one knot.”

“Got it.”

The sheriff didn't move, so Coker asked him, “Why are you still here?”

“Huh? Oh. Just going.”

“Saints preserve us,” Coker muttered, as the door closed, “from the shoddy tools we have to use.”

*   *   *

T
he Bachmann House was quiet by the time Ryder arrived. A bell above the front door jingled as he entered, and a sleepy-looking clerk emerged from somewhere in the back, blinked recognition of a paying resident, and wandered back the way he'd come.

Upstairs, Ryder listened outside his door and checked the keyhole for scratches, then passed inside and locked the door again, behind him. No one had been snooping through his things, as far as he could see—not that he'd left them anything to find. His telegrams from Washington were burned as soon as he had read them, and he had no other written orders for his job in Jefferson. The guidelines had been vague, which left him ample elbow room, but also furnished rope enough to hang himself if he got careless.

On his way back from the Butlers' place, he'd seen posters on several of the streetlamp poles, announcing a KRS rally tomorrow, at noon. Remembering the last one he'd attended, Ryder thought there was a good chance there'd be trouble, either with the local Union garrison or from the Knights themselves. He knew exactly where the troops were quartered, on the northern edge of town, and planned to visit their commander in the morning, introduce himself, and see if they could make some kind of an arrangement to cooperate in an emergency.

And failing that?

Then he was on his own. Again.

Before he went to bed, Ryder sat down to clean his Colt Army, keeping the Henry rifle handy just in case. He switched out cylinders, reloaded five spent chambers on the
one he'd used that night, and stowed it in a pocket for tomorrow. Next, he checked the Henry on a whim, found everything in working order, and finally tested the Bowie knife's edge on his thumb. Still razor sharp and ready for the ultimate emergency, if he ran out of lead before a fight was done.

What fight?

That was the rub. He never knew, until one started.

Lying back, the Colt beneath his pillow, Ryder let his thoughts return to Anna Butler and her brother. Mostly Anna, it was true. She seemed so out of place in Jefferson—or what he'd seen of Texas, generally—that he wondered how she stood it. If their places were reversed, Ryder imagined he'd have run back screaming to New York and never crossed the Mason-Dixon Line again. That she remained to labor in her brother's cause spoke volumes about Anna's courage and the bond between them. She was in it all the way, and any adversaries would be forced to drag her out feet first.

Sadly, from what he'd seen in Corpus Christi, Ryder didn't think that prospect bothered Coker and his Knights at all.

Some southern “gentlemen” they were.

The more he saw of Texas, Ryder realized it was a world apart from anything he'd known back East. Its cities, although some were fairly large, could not compare for size and crowding to New York or Philadelphia, even to Baltimore or Washington. The open spaces pleased him, and the weather he'd experienced so far, but people were the same, unfortunately, anywhere that Ryder traveled.

They were greedy, bitter, bigoted, and violent, whether you found them in the nation's capital, Manhattan's Five Points slum, or on the open plains. Not everyone, of course. From time to time, he got a nice surprise from someone like the Butlers or the Hubbards, but they seemed to be in a
minority, and they were usually victims of the others, those he was assigned to hunt and bring to justice.

Ryder took that strange, depressing fact of life into his dreams when sleep arrived at last, tossing and turning on his narrow bed through the small hours of the night.

*   *   *

I
know what Mr. Coker said. He ain't the one got buffaloed in public. Didn't get his nose broke, neither, far as I can see.”

Burke nodded in agreement, muttering, “Thash right.”

“So, are we gonna take it lyin' down, or do somethin' about it?” Ardis Jackson asked his friends.

“Do thumpin,” Burke agreed.

“I don't know,” Stevens said. “This ain't only from Coker. Sheriff Travis said—”

“That bag of wind? You know he only does what Coker tells him,” Jackson sneered.

“The same as us, I reckon,” Stevens answered.

“Nossir! There's a difference. We's free men, ain't we?
Knights
, we claim to be. The only one a Knight takes orders from would be a king. King Coker. Do you like the sound of that?”

“He started up the KRS,” Stevens reminded him. “We all agreed on him as leader.”

“Then he needs to
lead,
goddamn it! What's he done to make things right for Caleb, here? For any of us? Sends Chip Hardesty to do the job and gets 'im killed. What good is that to anybody?”

“Loss a good man,” Burke chimed in.

“Not good enough,” said Jackson. “Now, we's s'pose to let it go and wait some more. For what? Until the damn bluebelly dies from old age?”

“Maybe Mr. Coker's thinkin' of the soldiers,” Stevens offered.

“Mebbe so. We don't know, cuz he never tells us what he's thinkin'. All we get is go here, go there, do this or that cuz he says so. We ain't in the army no more, case you missed it.”

“I know that.” Stevens sounded irritated now.

“So, if we's fightin' for a cause, we should be
fightin'
, not sittin' around and waitin' all the time.”

“This thing tomorrow—”

“Helps the boys let off some steam. I unnerstand that. But it don't accomplish nothin' in the long run. Scare some darkies, shoot a few. It's fun, o' course, but who's the enemy? Bluebellies, carpetbaggers, and the radicals behind 'em. They's the ones we should be fightin', if we're gonna make a difference.”

“Dan rye,” Burke growled, agreeing with him.

“How we gonna fight the army when we ain't an army?” Stevens challenged. “You just said—”

“I
know
what I jus' said. The point is, I'm fed up with takin' orders when they make no sense and get us nowhere.”

“Okay, then. So, what's your big idea?”

“Take down this spy from Washin'ton our own selves. He's the one insulted us and made us look like rubes. Don't ask no one's permission, neither. We jus' up and do it.”

“When?” asked Stevens.

Jackson drained his whiskey glass and topped it up again before he answered. “Not tonight,” he said. “After the thing with Chip, he'll be expectin' somethin' else. Tomorrow's better, when the sheriff and his deputies are all distracted.”

“How we gonna fin' 'im?” Burke inquired.

“We know where he's stayin',” said Jackson. “Jus' watch
the hotel, follow him when he leaves. Once the rally breaks up and the boys get down to business, he's ours.”

“Jush da tree ob ud?” asked Burke.

“How many do you think we need?” asked Jackson.

Burke shrugged, raised a hand to touch his mottled face. “He purdy fass.”

“I seen him draw,” Jackson replied. “I don't plan meetin' him head-on.”

“Thash bedda,” Burke said. “Got mah shoggun rethy.”

“Are you in, or not?” Jackson asked Stevens.

“Hell, you know I'm with y'all. I jus' don't like surprisin' Mr. Coker.”

“What's he gonna do about it, once we're done? Thank us, is what.”

“Or kill us.”

“Bullshit! I'm expectin' a promotion.”

Stevens nodded, clearly skeptical, then asked, “How do we set the watch?”

“He's tucked in for the night. The rally's not till noon, but we should watch him from the time he leaves the Bachmann House. How bout we meet up there at six o'clock?”

“Right there, at the hotel?” asked Stevens.

“No, he'd see us. Over cross the street, that alley by the lawyer's office and that dress shop. We can watch from there, no problem.”

“Six o'clock,” said Stevens, woefully. “I need to get some sleep, then.”

“May too,” Burke agreed.

“Go on, then,” Jackson said. “But don't be late. Our honor's ridin' on the line.”

R
yder had a facility for losing track of dreams when he awoke. Some people suffered disappointment, waking, when their dreams blew out the window like a wisp of smoke, but Ryder figured he was lucky. He had passed a fitful night and had a long new day ahead of him. The last thing that he needed was anxiety conjured from somewhere in the depths of his unconscious mind.

He washed his face, got dressed, and went downstairs to use the privy in the hotel's fenced backyard. A dozen windows overlooked the yard, but Ryder wasn't bashful. Anyone who cared to watch him come and go was welcome to the pleasure, though he watched the window curtains for a hint of movement, keeping one hand near his Colt.

Relaxing of a morning didn't mean he was a fool.

For breakfast, Ryder tried a café called The Ruby. He had seen it twice in passing and was lured by the aromas from its kitchen. He ordered ham and scrambled eggs with
grits, a southern oddity that he'd grown fond of since he'd been in Texas. Thick toast and a mug of strong black coffee finished off the meal.

When he was finished, Ryder asked his waitress for directions to the livery. She gave him three choices, and Ryder picked the nearest stable, located a quarter of a mile from his hotel. The morning wasn't hot yet but was clearly on its way, and he enjoyed the walk. Some of the locals Ryder passed regarded him suspiciously; others pretended not to notice him at all. He'd known that word of last night's violence would make the rounds, but having total strangers focus on him in a town the size of Jefferson defied coincidence.

He wondered now if someone—Sheriff Travis, possibly—was marking him deliberately. That would be no surprise, considering the sheriff's ties to Coker and the KRS, but it could be an obstacle to Ryder as he followed his investigation. As a Yankee in the midst of Rebels, he had started at a disadvantage. Now, he hoped to even up the odds a bit.

The stable smelled of fresh paint and manure, a heady combination on a day that promised to be scorching by high noon. The man in charge was stocky, ginger-haired, and freckled, somewhere in his early thirties, muscular from shifting bales of hay and handling animals five times his weight. He was affable enough and readily agreed to rent Ryder a horse, providing that he paid a full day's rate up front.

Ryder had half a dozen animals to choose from, all appearing strong and healthy to his less-than-expert eye. He chose an Appaloosa gelding for its coloration, which the hostler said was called a roan blanket with frost—meaning its neck was mostly brown, the rest a mix of brown and white as if it had been through a storm of chocolate and powdered sugar.

“I call 'im Traveler, after the stallion rid by Gen'ral Lee. O' course,
his
horse weren't gelded and were mostly white.”

“It suits him, anyway,” said Ryder.

Ryder chose a trail saddle, designed with comfort of the horse and rider as a top priority, its rigging made of brass to ward off rust and leather rot. When Traveler was saddled up, he had the hostler add a rifle scabbard to the getup, for his Henry.

Playing safe.

Last thing, he got directions to the local Union garrison, northwest of Jefferson, two miles beyond the city limits. Ryder paid and left, thinking he'd got more than his money's worth.

He rode back to the Bachmann House, noting that people seemed to pay him less attention now that he was mounted. It was strange, but Ryder didn't try to work it out. He fetched the rifle from his room, secured it in its scabbard, and began his journey at an easy pace.

*   *   *

W
hern he gwan?” asked Caleb Burke.

“The hell should I know?” Stevens countered. “Nobody said nothin' about trailin' 'im if he left town.”

“Ardish ain't gwan lige us losin' 'im.”

“You'd best run on and tell 'im, then.”

“Canned run. Id huts mah node.”

“How long you gonna lean on that crutch? Go and ask 'im—”

“Ask me what?” Ardis surprised them, coming up behind them on the sly.

“The Yank picked up a horse from Jamison's and headed out of town,” said Stevens.

“And neither one of you saw fit to follow him?”

“We didn't think—”

“No
we
in dis,” Burke interrupted.

“You didn't think,” said Jackson, with a sneer. “The story of your life, Wade.”

“Hey, now.”

“Where's he headed?”

“Um, I couldn't tell you that.”

“And you don't think it might be useful if we knew?”

“Well, sure, I guess.”

“You see him ride out?”

“Sure did!”

“Which way was he headed?”

“North from the hotel.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Ten minutes. Mighta been a little more.”

“You've still got time to track him, then.”

“Track him? Jus' me?”

“Hands off. To find out where he goes and who he talks to.”

“Oh, well, sure. I can do that, I guess.”

“So, what'n hell are you waiting for?”

Stevens departed at a loping run, to fetch his horse and try to catch up with the Yankee agent. Jackson hadn't warned him to be careful, hoping it was understood between them, but he worried now that he was taking too damned much for granted. Stevens didn't have the nerve to jump the Yank himself, alone, but what if he was spotted and their quarry turned on him? It would be like Wade to run blindly, in a panic, leading the Yankee straight back to Jackson.

That's what I get for using idjits.

“Huh?”

“Nothin',” said Jackson, unaware that he had voiced his thought aloud.

And now I'm talking to myself. Jesus.

“You gwan ted Mr. Coker bow dis?”

“When I'm feel like it. How long the sawbones reckon you'd be talkin' like you gotta buncha marbles in your mouth?”

“Din't see none.”

“Didn't see a doctor?”

“Nuh.”

“Still hurts, though?”

“Ya dab right.”

“Well, lemme fix it.” As he spoke, Jackson reached out, gripped Caleb's nose between his thumb and forefinger, twisted, then yanked it straight—well,
straighter
—with a sudden jerk. Burke howled in pain, drew starts from passersby, but no one stopped to ask him if he needed any help.

“God
damn
it, Ardis!”

“See, you sound better already,” Jackson said. “What's that worth to you?”

“Boot up your ass.”

“Damned ingrate.”

Jackson left him whimpering and went in search of a saloon. He hadn't had a drink so far that morning, and his nerves were wearing thin. On top of going behind Coker's back to kill the Yankee, now he had to worry about
losing
him, before they had the chance. Five hours yet, before the rally started, and he was supposed to be there with the other Knights, hearing their leader's speech and hooting up a storm. When that was done, they had the other thing.

A little trip to Colored Town.

Sounded like fun, all right, but Jackson's mind was
focused on the Secret Service man, and what he planned to do to him.

A little taste of sweet revenge.

*   *   *

A
bel Butler's headache had retreated overnight. It still throbbed dully on the left side of his skull, but he no longer felt as if his head was going to explode.

Small favors.

He had never come so close to death before, much less to being murdered, and the shock of it had shaken him. Seeing the fear in Anna's eyes, on top of being hurt himself, had prompted him to reconsider what he'd taken for a righteous calling when they left New York for Texas.

It was easy to be ardent for a cause when you were sitting in a well-appointed home, twelve hundred miles from where the trouble was occurring. Once you had bridged that distance, though, and found yourself surrounded by a city full of people who despised you, offering your life up as a sacrifice for other folks who didn't understand or trust you, things were different.

Abel was starting to believe that he had made a serious mistake—and worse, that he had dragged his sister into it, placing her life in jeopardy.

“You're looking better,” Anna said, as she set breakfast down in front of him.

“I'm feeling much better,” he exaggerated.

“I've heard nothing yet today, from Gideon.”

“Were you expecting to?” he asked, eggs poised before him on his fork.

“Not necessarily. But after last night, I supposed . . . well, I don't know.”

“Don't tell me that you're falling for him.”

“What? Of course not!” Anna managed to look angry and to blush, at the same time.

“You know he won't be staying, Anna.”

“And are we?”

The question startled him. “What do you mean?”

“You almost died last night, Abel. That crazy man almost blew out our brains.”

“We both knew it was dangerous. We talked about it, back in Syracuse.”

“Talking about it's one thing. Living it is something else entirely.”

“Are you frightened?”

“Yes! Aren't you?”

He swallowed his eggs, along with his immediate response. Admitting nothing to his sister, Abel said, “The point is not to let your fear immobilize you. You remember Edmund Burke?”

“Not personally.”

“Please be serious.”

“All right. Which quote is it this time?”

“‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil—'”

“‘—is that good men do nothing,'” she finished for him. Adding, “Or women.”

“Exactly. We are on a mission, helping the less fortunate. Some evil men oppose us, but we have the strength of Providence.”

“I don't feel very strong. Last night was horrible. Yesterday morning, with those men out on the street—”

“You feel a debt of gratitude to Mr. Ryder, certainly. I understand.”

“It's more than that.”

“How could it be? You've barely known him for a day.”

“I fancy I'm a decent judge of character.”

“The man's a killer.”

“If he wasn't, you'd be dead now.”

“And he's a policeman.”

“So?”

“Their work corrupts them, rots their minds and souls. They see the very worst of other men and women every day. It gets inside them. Gnaws away at their capacity for caring.”

“When did you become an expert?”

“I have more experience. I'm older—”

“Two years!”

“And you've led a sheltered life.”

“I'd like to have it back,” she said, voice softening.

“I've thought about that. If you wanted to go home—”

“And leave you here? Ridiculous!”

“It's something to consider. You could help the AMA in other ways, with mailing, or—”

“Become a
secretary
.”

“Something to consider.”

“I've considered it. The answer's no.”

“If you would just—”

“Eat up,” she said. “Your breakfast's getting cold.”

*   *   *

T
he garrison wasn't what Ryder expected. He'd pictured the kind of stockade shown in Beadle's Dime Novels: a wall made from tree trunks, all sharpened on top to repel climbing foes, with log structures inside, and corrals for the horses. Instead, he was looking at tents pitched in rows on dry ground, with a cluster of picketed animals off to one side, what the Texans called a remuda. He counted five blue uniforms on guard duty, each with a musket and fixed bayonet.

The one who stopped him was a kid, late teens or early twenties. He demanded Ryder's name and business, studied Ryder's badge, and frowned when Ryder asked to see the officer in charge.

“Can't leave my post, sir. And you can't go in alone.”

“That's a conundrum.”

“Huh?”

“Could you call someone else to walk me in?” asked Ryder.

“Well, I guess so. Wait right here.”

“I promise.”

Ryder waited, still astride the Appaloosa, while the sentry walked a few paces away and called out for the sergeant of the guard. An older, larger man in uniform appeared, this one with fading yellow chevrons on his sleeve to designate his senior rank. The sergeant took his turn peering at Ryder's badge, then asked him, “What's your business with the captain?”

“To discuss affairs in Jefferson,” Ryder replied.

“Uh-huh. Well, I don't know if he'll see you, but it costs nothin' to find out. Follow me.”

Ryder dismounted, led the Appaloosa by its reins to reach a tent significantly larger than the others. While he waited, wishing there was shade, the sergeant paused outside the open tent flap and requested leave to enter. It was granted, he went in, and came back moments later to tell Ryder, “Sir, the captain is available.”