Rough Justice (15 page)

“Why? You aren't a lawman. You have no official duties whatsoever.”

“Anna, you, of all people, should recognize a
moral
duty.”

“To be killed? To murder others?”

“It's not murder if you act in self-defense.”

“Matthew 5:39,” she replied.

Abel blinked at her. “What? You're not making sense.”

“The words of our Savior,” she answered. “Remember? ‘I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.'”

“We're not discussing a slap in the face.”

“No, we're not. You were shot yourself, last night, if you've forgotten. Nearly killed.”

“I'm fine.”

“Then why do you keep wincing when I raise my voice?”

“Because you're shrill and grating on my nerves!”

“Abel, if you go out tonight and die—or if the sheriff holds you for a lynch mob—what becomes of me?”

“You leave this cursed place. Go home and start a decent life, a thousand miles away from savages and crackers.”

“On my own?” Her eyes were brimming now.

While they argued, he was bent over the old Colt Paterson, confirming that all five chambers were properly loaded, spinning the cylinder, easing the hammer back and down with his thumb, staying clear of the trigger. Five shots wasn't much in the face of a mob, and there would be no chance to reload. It was a daunting prospect—frankly terrifying, in his present state—but he could not sit idly by while madmen pillaged a community of innocents.

“You'll be all right,” he said, as if conceding that this night would be his last. “You'll find a suitor, never fear.”

“A
suitor
?” Anna leaned across and punched his shoulder with her fist. “You think that's all I care about? My God, you don't know me at all!”

“I may not, but the neighbors will, if you keep shouting.”

“Damn the neighbors! You are all the living family I have, and now you'd rob me of it, in defense of total strangers.”

“They're not strangers. You know many of them.”

“I'm acquainted with them, but I wouldn't say I
know
them. When we visit with the freedmen, there's a wall between us. Don't you feel it? Most speak only when they're spoken to, and even then they keep the answers short. I'm not convinced they want us here at all.”

“Anna, we're white. They've been enslaved by white men since their grandparents were taken out of Africa in chains. You can't expect their trust to blossom overnight.”

“And they have no right to expect that you will die for them!”

“They haven't asked me to.”

“No. You're about to volunteer. But you are not their savior, Abel!”

“No. I'm just a man trying to do the right thing in a rotten situation.”

He was on his feet now, pistol tucked under his belt, donning his jacket to conceal it. Anna tried to block the doorway, but he moved her, gently but firmly, to one side.

“Please, Abel! Please!” she begged him, weeping openly.

“I'll be back soon,” he said and kissed her on the forehead. “Lock the door behind me.”

It was hot outside. He could have done without the jacket, but the pistol made him anxious. Many men in Jefferson wore firearms anytime they left their homes, but Abel knew he was a special case. The sheriff might arrest him, even though there was no statute on the books forbidding him to travel armed. Jail could mean death, or at the very least, a beating.

He was frightened, couldn't lie about it to himself, but
Abel still saw no alternative. He could not face himself tomorrow, or in years to come, unless he took a stand today.

*   *   *

C
hasing a mob was thirsty work. Ryder wished there was time for him to stop at a saloon along the way, but from the look and smell of things, most of the men around him had already drunk their fill of courage by the time they reached the rally grounds.

Ryder wondered which of them were KRS members and which were simply Negrophobes itching for any kind of action. He decided that it didn't matter in the long run. They had taken sides with Coker to commit a massacre, which made it Ryder's business as he understood the job he'd taken on.

If things went wrong, Chief Wood might claim Ryder had overreached, despite the vague instructions he'd received. Too bad. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been fired for stepping out of bounds. If he lost his badge—his
second
badge—Ryder could always find another line of work that didn't make him deal with human scum.

But he was still in Jefferson today, and he had work to do.

They were within a block or two of what white locals normally called “Colored Town,” if they were in a mood to be polite. The racket from the mob—shouting and cheering, some cretin with a bugle—must have warned the freedmen that a mob was on its way to visit them. A part of Ryder's mind hoped they would flee and leave their empty homes to burn, saving their children and themselves instead of fighting over property. The other part of him hoped they would stand and fight.

How else would lynchers ever learn?

Whatever happened, Ryder knew that he'd be in the midst of it, a target for both sides. If shooting started—
when
it
started—he'd have no friends in the mob around him. Meanwhile, to the freedmen, he'd be just another white man with a gun, invading their home ground.

He felt a bloodbath coming, either way.

And he had no plan yet in mind for stopping it. How could he? One man in the face of hundreds, while the local Union garrison remained in camp, either afraid to mount patrols or too damned lazy. It all came down to him, and if the best that he could do was save a life or two along the way, so be it.

Ryder kept his mouth shut while the rowdies who surrounded him were chanting, hooting, cheering long blasts from the bugle. He was marking targets to the best of his ability, noting the weapons those around him carried, which of them seemed most belligerent and therefore dangerous. Once battle had been joined, of course, his random survey wouldn't matter much.

It would be each man for himself, then—at least until the mob identified him as an enemy.

A half block now, and those at the front of the crowd had slowed down, jabbering amongst themselves. Ryder had no idea what they were saying from that distance, but he drifted to his right, jostling across the flow of foot traffic, until he had a clearer view forward. From there, he saw a line of freedmen spread across the street, silent and armed with weapons ranging from long guns to hatchets and hammers.

Somebody in the middle ranks of the advancing mob yelled, “Niggers!” followed by another blast from the discordant bugle. Instantly, the crowd surged forward and a crash of gunfire echoed down the street.

A
bel Butler heard the din when he was still three blocks away. Raised voices, rattling gunfire, and a bugle blaring wildly, tunelessly, before its noise was suddenly cut off. He nearly turned for home, but caught himself at the last instant, swallowed hard, and started running toward the mist of gun smoke rising at the far end of the street.

Madness.

He should be at the house with Anna. Better still, they should be back at home in Syracuse, content to mail out pamphlets for the AMA in their spare time. What had possessed him, coming to this godforsaken land? And what, in God's name, ever made him think that he could fight?

Too late.

He smelled the burnt gunpowder now. It overpowered the aroma of his own fear and sweat. Colt Paterson in hand, he reached the northern edge of Colored Town—and stopped
short, as a freedman with a shotgun suddenly appeared, his double-barreled weapon aimed at Abel's face.

“Hold up there, buckra!”

Abel kept his pistol pointed at the ground, mind racing. Was the black man's face familiar to him?
Yes!

“Isaac, you know me. Abel Butler. I've been working with your people for the past few months.”

The former slave regarded him suspiciously, then let the muzzle of his weapon dip. “You ought not be here, Mr. Butler,” he advised.

“I came to help.”

Ahead of him, another three blocks down, a house erupted into flames. More gunfire hammered at his ears. Butler saw white and black men locked in mortal combat, punching, stabbing, hacking at each other.

“Came too late,” Isaac advised him. “You should go back home.”

Damned right,
thought Abel. But he said, “My place is here.”

Isaac considered that. Replied, “Gwan, then. I'm s'poseta keep watch here.”

“God keep you,” Abel said, and moved on toward the fight.

Behind him, Isaac called, “Don't think He cares much what goes on down here.”

I hope you're wrong,
thought Butler, as he put another block behind him, slowing, pistol cocked so that its folding trigger was accessible. He kept his index finger clear of it, afraid to waste a shot by accident when he had none to spare.

The odds seemed roughly even, number-wise. He knew that some two thousand freedmen and their families inhabited the neighborhood, and while that made them a distinct minority in Jefferson, the number who'd turned out to face the mob approximately matched that which had rallied to
attack them. That would swiftly change, he realized, when word spread of a clash between the races. Once that happened, more whites would arrive to join the fray, driven by simple bigotry or by the fear of a rebellion that had haunted them throughout the war.

It was insanity, but Abel could not counsel them under the circumstances. He could only help where needed, do his best, until a blade or bullet cut him down.

Another half block in, and he saw two white men dragging a colored woman from the street, into a nearby alley, laughing as she struggled in their grip. The world went red for Abel then, all thought of Christian brotherhood forgotten, as he raced across the street to follow them.

Inside the alley, they were laughing, tearing at the frightened woman's clothes. He shouted, “Back away there, both of you!” and advanced to meet them, finger on his pistol's trigger now.

“The hell you want?” one of them asked him, obviously drunk.

“Stay put an' wait your turn.” The other leered.

“Release her instantly,” Abel demanded, pistol rising in his fist.

They did—and both reached for their guns at the same time. He shot the grinning maggot on his left first, saw blood geyser from a chest wound, then he spun to face the other, thumbing back his pistol's hammer for a second shot. The would-be rapist had his own gun out by then, but fumbled, nearly dropped it.

Abel let him get it right, then shot him in the face, surprised and shamed by how it pleased him.

He moved in to help the woman, but she lurched away from him. “No more!” she cried and ran off down the alley toward its far end, leaving corpses in her wake.

Abel stood watching for a moment, then she vanished, and he turned back toward the fight.

*   *   *

R
yder was watching when the bugler took a bullet, blatting out one final note before he dropped the horn and toppled to the ground. No telling whether he was dead or only wounded, and if he were being truthful, Ryder couldn't have cared less.

The freedmen had unleashed one volley at the mob, then scattered, seeking cover, buying time to stoke their muzzle loaders for a second round. The mob was short on long guns, mostly packing pistols, but approximately half of those guns were revolvers, giving them an edge over the team defending Colored Town. That didn't always help, as Ryder saw when one of them was skewered with a pitchfork, screaming, but the rioters took full advantage of it as they charged to meet their enemies.

Ryder knew he must choose his targets wisely in the midst of chaos. Random firing would be pointless, likely suicidal. To be helpful in the present situation—if, indeed, that was a possibility—he had to be selective, acting with precision, keeping a cool head. Strike first, strike hard, and then move on.

But where to start?

A house was burning on the corner, half a block in front of Ryder. What had sparked the fire, he couldn't say. None of the mob had carried torches; possibly one of their bullets struck a lamp inside and splattered flames to wallpaper or curtains. He saw dark folk running from the house, carrying furniture, one of them staggered by a gunshot from the street. Smoke poured out through the open doorway, smaller tendrils snaking from beneath the eaves.

Ryder saw one of the rioters a few yards distant, lining up his pistol on the freedmen scrambling to save the contents of their burning home. He rushed across the pavement, swung his Colt Army against the shooter's nearly hairless scalp, and put him down. Scooped up the second gun to use as needed and ran on, unnoticed in the tumult.

Out ahead of him, but closer now, the neighborhood's defenders had reloaded for a second volley, peppering the mob and adding more smoke to the air. A white man off to Ryder's left went down, clutching his stomach, and another to his right cried out, clapping a hand against his bloodied face. He felt a bullet sizzle past his face, inches to spare, but couldn't single out its source with all the firing, shouting, dashing back and forth. An image came to Ryder's mind of Captain Legere relaxing in his tent, and he unleashed a string of bitter curses at the lazy officer.

“Hey, now!” a shrill voice scolded him. “They's ladies present!”

Ryder turned to find one of the brothel doxies grinning at him, missing one of her incisors. He was startled that she'd kept up with the mob, less so when she held up a cutthroat razor, sunlight glinting from its wicked blade.

“C'mon!” she urged him, fairly cackling. “You don't wanna miss the fun!”

Ryder considered slugging her, but she was off and running in an instant, cackling like a witch out of some fairy tale.

Cursing again, he started after her, deeper into the fray.

*   *   *

T
he hell's he goin'?” Ardis Jackson asked nobody in particular.

“How should I know?” Stevens answered back.

“I seen him clout that fella,” Burke put in. “Don't know if he were one a ourn.”

“Don't matter,” Jackson said. “He's on our side today. Get after 'im!”

Ryder was well out in the lead now, putting space between them. To be fair, the riot helped him, all those other people ducking in and out in front of Ardis and his shadows, bullets flying everywhere, acrid smoke burning Jackson's eyes. He liked a fight as well as anybody, but it was an obstacle when he had work to do.

“I don't see Mr. Coker,” Stevens said, sounding surprised.

“Course not,” Jackson spat back at him. “He's stayin' out of it to keep his hands clean.”

“Don't know what he's missin',” Burke said, then squeezed off a shot toward someone running on the far side of the street.

“Quit that!” Jackson commanded. “Do you want 'im seein' us before we's ready?”

“Sorry,” Burke replied, not sounding it. “That were the biggest buck I ever seen.”

“And you missed 'im, anyhow,” jeered Stevens.

“Whyn't you shut up?” Burke challenged.

“Why don't
both
of you shut up,” Jackson cut in, “or get the hell away from me.”

That muted them, however briefly, and he concentrated on the Yank, running a zigzag line in front of them, some fifty yards ahead. He could have tried a pistol shot from there but didn't like his odds of hitting anything he aimed at. Wanted to get closer for a sure thing on the first try.

Jackson's lungs were aching. Too much smoking when he drank—which meant all day—and now fog of gun smoke mixed with smoke from burning houses didn't help. He wished that he could stop and rest, or just enjoy the riot with
his brothers of the KRS, but he was on a mission that allowed no time for play.

Jackson saw the Yank run up behind one of the fellow Knights—it looked like Tommy Beamish from a distance, with his long hair and big gut—just as Beamish grabbed a little black kid by the hair and sent him sprawling, rushing after him and brandishing a hunting knife. The Yank got there before Beamish could strike, spun him around, and pistol-whipped him with a double stroke that dropped him like a sack of apples.

“Sumbitch!” Burke spat out, raising a hand unconsciously to touch his wounded nose.

“We'll pay 'im back, don't worry,” Jackson wheezed. Hell of a time to suddenly develop breathing trouble.

“You all right?” asked Stevens.

“Shut your hole and get him!”

Stevens muttered something Jackson couldn't hear, but he'd have bet the farm it wasn't complimentary—if he'd had any farm to bet.

They'd closed the gap by half but couldn't get a steady fix on Ryder as he ducked and dodged around the battleground. They saw him shoot one of their brothers—only in the hip, as he was running down a couple of darkies—and he slugged another from behind while he was winding up to pitch a torch he'd gotten somewhere through the window of a little yellow house. The Yank seemed to have no idea that he was being hunted through the melee, which would work to their advantage.

If we ever catch him,
Jackson thought and had another coughing fit.

A moment later, Ryder stopped to help some women who were shrieking in the dooryard of a house in flames. They acted scared of him at first, but then he calmed them down
somehow and ran into the house through roiling smoke, returning seconds later with a squalling infant in his arms.

“Lookit the good Samaritan,” sneered Stevens.

“Screw 'im,” Jackson said and raised his pistol for the kill.

*   *   *

T
hree shots left,
thought Abel Butler. Then what would he do? The battle showed no signs of slowing down; if anything, its fury was increasing. Blacks and whites alike were laid out in the street, and something like a dozen homes were already on fire, the flames likely to spread from one cheap, dried-out structure to its neighbors. Three shots and he'd be unarmed, for all intents and purposes, as useless in the present situation as a circus clown.

He almost tripped over the shotgun lying in his path. He looked around for someone who might claim it, saw a trail of blood retreating toward an alley on his left and followed it no further. Scooping up the double-barreled gun, he checked its load and found only one barrel had been fired so far.

A small reprieve, at least.

Firing at anyone was perilous in the confusion, more particularly with a shotgun, where the charge would spread and might strike several people Butler hadn't planned on shooting. He would have to get in close, which didn't seem to be a problem at the moment, people rushing everywhere, sometimes colliding, sometimes locked in combat hand to hand.

Go where you're needed most,
he thought. But where was that?

A scream brought him around to find a freedman thrashing in the street, a white man kneeling over him, a bloody
hatchet raised to strike. Its first blow had already gashed the freedman's face, shearing most of a cheek away, and Butler thought the next would surely split his skull.

He aimed high, fired, and saw the hatchet man disintegrate. His hat went sailing, with a portion of his skull inside it, and the hand that clutched his weapon burst like ripe fruit falling from a height. The dead man slumped across his victim, smothering the freedman's ragged screams, as Butler dropped his empty shotgun, ran up to the huddled forms, and dragged him clear.

He didn't recognize the wounded black man through his mask of blood. Someone he'd never met, perhaps, or well disguised by pain and fear. The fear was winning out now, as the wounded man stared up at Butler.