Rough Justice (17 page)

“Will do,” the sheriff said and left.

*   *   *

R
yder watched the carts and wagons leaving, escorted by soldiers. Most of the freedmen were walking, some accompanied by wives and children, carrying their meager belongings by hand or strapped onto their backs. The houses that had not been burned or shot to pieces overnight now stood abandoned, causing him to wonder who would occupy them next.

He found Captain Legere observing from the sidelines and approached him. The expression on Legere's face telegraphed displeasure, but still managed to keep a civil tone.

“Agent Ryder. You're here for the finish, I see.”

“The finish of what?” Ryder asked him.

“This social experiment. Shoving blacks and whites together by fiat and hoping it works. As you can see, it's failed.”

“Because of them
,
you mean?” asked Ryder, nodding toward the file of refugees. “How about
them
?” This time, his eyes fell on the whites who'd gathered at a distance, jeering and cursing the homeless freedmen.

“I hold both sides culpable,” Legere replied. “If God had meant the races to cohabitate, why did He draw a color line?”

“It's funny you should ask, since you just fought a war to win their freedom.”

“I fought to preserve the Union, nothing more or less. I do find slavery abhorrent, but that doesn't mean I wish to see one race lifted above another.”

“They've already tried that, with the whites on top,” Ryder reminded him. “It seems to me that you support the same old thing.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Beg away, but it won't get you anywhere. You could have stopped the massacre last night, just by marching your men out of camp for a change. I'd say you stood aside and let this happen, either out of prejudice or so you wouldn't have to risk soiling your hands.”

“You are entitled to your own opinion, sir, however ill informed. I would advise, however, against slandering a military officer.”

“Slander means something false. I file reports with Washington on what I see and hear. If that rebounds on you, so be it.”

“Call it extortion, then.”

“Extortion, Captain? All I've asked from you is that you do the job you were assigned to.”

“
You
do not decide my duties, Mr. Ryder. You have no idea what's written in my orders.”

“So, it's natural that I'd inquire, when I'm reporting back to headquarters. If you're all squared away, you've got nothing to worry about.”

Legere turned toward him, cheeks inflamed. “What
is
it that you want, precisely?”

Ryder nodded to the straggling line of freedmen once again. “These people have been driven from their homes. Some of them have lost family. They're in your hands now, till they find another place to settle. What I want is your assurance that you'll keep them safe by any means required, instead of resting on your laurels.”

“I will do what I think best for every person in my care,” the captain told him, through clenched teeth.

“Still leaves a lot of room for error,” Ryder said. “I'll keep an eye on things, in case it starts to slip your mind.”

“You realize I can't guard them forever?”

“Here and now's what counts. You start off owing them for what you didn't do, last night. How much you make up from now on depends on you.”

“And if I keep them safe, as you request?”

“You'll have the satisfaction of a job well done.”

Ryder turned on his heel and left the captain staring after him. He had no further time to waste on lazy men with puffed-up egos. Ryder knew enough of those back East, and everywhere he went he found a new crop waiting for him. Men who claimed they'd made it on their own, but nearly always had some “little people” laboring on their behalf. He had no argument per se with men of power and authority, but overlong exposure to their arrogance disgusted him.

Despite failing to burn out Colored Town, Roy Coker had achieved his primary objective. Jefferson's black
population was in transit, headed somewhere else. Wherever they touched down, Ryder supposed there would be more whites with the same old attitudes, prepared to torment them.

He wished them luck and went back to his job.

*   *   *

A
t lunchtime, Ryder found a little place downtown that offered Chinese food. He'd tried it once before, in New York City, but the offerings on that occasion had been mild. Whether this was a different kind of Chinese altogether or it had absorbed the influence of Mexico, it set his mouth on fire and made him order refills for his beer mug.

It was good, though. No denying that.

Ryder was nearly finished with his dumplings, rice, and spicy beef with vegetables, when Coker walked into the restaurant. He homed on Ryder's table, stood directly opposite, behind a vacant chair.

“May I?”

“You people love to watch me eat,” Ryder observed. “Go on, sit down.”

He sat. “I hope I haven't spoiled your meal.”

“Not yet.”

“I hope that we can talk about the late unpleasantness.”

“Which one?” Ryder inquired.

“The recent race war, obviously.”

“War, to me, means two sides fighting by agreement. Normally, you'd find them roughly equal. What I saw last night was an attempted massacre. It only evened out because the freedmen took your fellows by surprise.”

“My fellows?”

“From the rally. From the KRS. Don't waste my time pretending that you're ignorant. I know better.”

“Not ignorant,” Coker replied, “but
innocent.
At least, until I'm proven guilty.”

“Someone ought to work on that.”

“I understand that someone is.”

“Could be,” Ryder admitted, sipping at his beer.

“And how is your investigation coming, Agent Ryder?”

“One thing that I've never liked is spoiling a surprise.”

“I have the right to know who my accusers are.”

“No, sir. The Constitution says you have a right to face them at your trial. There's nothing about giving you a list of names beforehand.”

“So, a list, is it? That many?”

“You'll just have to wait and see.”

“How can I resolve this whole unfortunate misunderstanding?” Coker asked him.

“For a start, disband the KRS.”

“The First Amendment grants—”

“Free speech, free press, freedom to
peaceably
assemble,” Ryder interrupted him. “I've read it.”

“And we have the right to self-defense. When my men are attacked by savages—”

“That's all a crock of bull. I heard your speech and saw what happened afterward. You didn't have the nerve to join them, but you aimed those lynchers straight at Colored Town, like lining up a rifle shot.”

“You give me too much credit, sir.”

“I give you none at all. To me, you're nothing but a rabble-rouser. Slicker than most, I'll admit, but your patter's the same. ‘Hate those people. They don't look like us. Get 'em, boys!'”

“You think that's what I'm fighting for?”

“I've only seen you talk, so far. Your men do all the fighting for you.”

“Think of me as their commander.”

“Which makes you responsible for everything they do. I'm glad you cleared that up for me.”

Coker released a weary sigh and shook his head. “I'd hoped we could work something out between us.”

“Glad to disappoint you,” Ryder said.

“I hate to see an honest and courageous white man die for nought.”

“I'm not dead yet. Your side keeps getting whittled down, though.”

“My side, your side. We're the same. Why can't you see that?”

“If I did, I'd have to swear off mirrors.”

“Very droll. I hope that you'll be able to retain your sense of humor in the days ahead.”

“No worries there.”

Coker stood up, leaned forward, hand extended. “Just in case our paths don't cross again,” he said.

“No, thanks. I washed already.”

“Pride goes before a fall,” Coker replied.

“Bigger they are. I guess you know the rest.”

He watched the vigilante leader leave the restaurant, turn left, and move off down the sidewalk, out of sight. Ryder supposed he'd lit another fuse, but that was fine with him. He'd spent enough time as it was, in Jefferson, and would be glad to see it end, with gun smoke or indictments.

There were still some innocents to think about, however, and he didn't plan to let them down.

T
hat's the house, down there,” Wayne Henley said. “The green one with the white trim.”

“I don't see nobody,” Orville Deen announced.

“You wouldn't, if they's both inside,” Ben Kyle replied.

“What if they're gone?” Jed Barnhart asked.

“We wait,” said Henley. “Someplace out of sight, so we don't scare 'em off and have to chase 'em.”

“I hate runnin',” Orville offered.

“You been on the run long as I've knowed you,” Henley said.

“Not
runnin'
runnin', though. I
ride
from town to town.”

“We gonna do this now, or what?” Ben prodded.

“Hold your horses.”

“Didn't bring 'em,” Ben retorted, sniggering.

“Like workin' with a bunch a kids,” said Henley.

“Hey, now!” Deen protested.

“Never mind. Orville and Jed, you go around the back,
keep 'em from slippin' out that way. I'll take the front with Ben.”

They checked their pistols—wasted time, since they were always loaded—then split up. Orville and Jed ducked down between two nearer homes and disappeared. Henley and Kyle proceeded down the sidewalk, bold as brass, and turned in at the front gate of the green home's little yard. They left the gate ajar, climbing two steps to mount the porch, and Henley rapped his knuckles on the Butlers' door, no urgency about it, keeping down the noise.

It took a minute, but he heard footsteps approaching from inside. Told Kyle, “Be ready now,” and then the door was opening, a young woman confronting them. She was a looker, but suspicion drew her bee-stung lips into a frown.

“What is it, gentlemen?” she asked, sounding uncomfortable with the final word.

“Miz Butler?” Henley countered, flashing her a yellow smile.

“That's right. And you are . . . ?”

“Lookin' for your brother. Got a message for 'im. For the two of you, in fact.”

“You'd better leave it with me, then,” she said.

“He's not around?”

Suspicion shifted to alarm on the young woman's face. She gripped the door with her right hand, jamb with her left, prepared to slam it. “I expect him shortly. You can wait out there, if you've a mind to, or come back another time.”

“Ain't very friendly,” Kyle remarked.

“Good day to you,” she said. The door began to close.

Henley was quick enough to get his foot in there before she slammed it, sending bright pain shooting from his ankle to his knee. He cursed and shouldered through the door, too
strong and heavy for her to resist successfully. Inside, he shoved her back, leaving the round impression of a breast against his palm, while Ben hung back to close and latch the door.

The lady opened up to scream, then saw the pistol he was pointing at her. “If you're gonna squeal,” he said, “make it a good'un. It'll be your last.”

“Don't hurt me, please,” she whined, starting a tingle in his trousers, down below.

No time for that,
he thought. “Was that horseshit, about your brother bein' gone?”

She shook her head, afraid to speak.

“And when's he comin' back?”

“I can't be sure.” Too late, she understood the risk in what she'd said. A solitary tear spilled down her cheek.

“Take it easy. We ain't here to fiddle with you. Someone wants to see you and your brother, have a word with both a you. If you know where to find him—”

“Sorry. No. He didn't say where he was going when he left.”

“Goddamn it, Wayne! We ain't got time—”

“No names, you idjit!” Henley snapped at Kyle. “Shut up and let them others in the back.”

“Reckon we'll have to wait a spell,” he told the trembling woman. “See if he shows up. Might have to find some way to pass the time.”

“Please, no.” Barely a whisper.

“Hey, now, I'm just funnin' you. One a these rowdies tries to lay a hand on you while I'm around, I'll chop it off and stuff it where the sun don't shine.” Quickly amending it to add, “On him, that is, not you.”

“Who is it wants to see us?” she inquired.

“The man in charge,” Henley replied. “Tha's all you need to know.”

*   *   *

R
yder passed the hours after lunch collecting testimony from assorted residents of Jefferson. On his first pass, he'd noted those who didn't send him packing right away, determined to revisit them when he had time. Most were reluctant to discuss the KRS, but he appealed to them as Christian citizens, worked on their consciences, and took notes once they started talking, slowly, haltingly, until the words began to flow more naturally. Several of the downtown shopkeepers resented being pressured for donations to the Knights, others were simply sick of Coker acting like a tin-pot dictator. Their stories, pieced together, gave Ryder a picture of the way the KRS had grown to dominate the city, with assistance from the sheriff's office.

“Travis is no better than a thug, himself,” one merchant said.

“I wouldn't give you two cents for the lot of them,” another told him. “But they run the town. What can I do?”

“You ought to try the army,” said a third. “Whatever you do, don't trust the law round here.”

Ryder thanked each in turn and left them feeling worse than when he'd met them, some of them apparently relieved at having spoken, all now worried that their comments might get back to Coker or the sheriff. Ryder didn't plan on telling either subject of investigation what he'd learned, but in a town like Jefferson, he took for granted that their spies were all around him.

Too bad that people lived in fear of doing the right thing, while criminals lorded it over them and got away with murder. Ryder hoped to change that, but he wasn't giving any
kind of odds that he'd succeed. His motivation, now, was split between an urge to help the victims he had met in Jefferson and grim determination that he wouldn't die in Texas.

Thinking he might have set his sights too high.

Before he started looking for a place to eat his supper, Ryder thought he ought to check in on the Butlers. They'd been through a rough couple of days, testing their faith and courage all at once. He wished they'd leave and go back home to safety, but he didn't think that that was in the cards. Abel was more determined than his sister to remain, but Anna talked her way around to seeing his side of an issue, even when they started out in disagreement. Ordinarily, that wouldn't matter much, but in the present circumstances it could get them killed.

Ryder was worried, too, about how Abel might be holding up after two shooting scrapes within as many days. From teaching, preaching, or whatever, he'd become a gunman in his own right, not quite boasting when he told Ryder he'd shot six men during the riot. That was heady stuff to someone uninitiated in the ways of violence. There was no telling whether it would break him down or send him on a path diverging from his southern mission, to a place he didn't want to go.

Same place where I live,
Ryder thought, then shrugged it off.

He'd joined the U.S. Marshals Service on a whim, to seek adventure, maybe do some good along the way—and incidentally, to be excused from fighting in the war. He'd managed it all right, shot one man trying to invade the federal courthouse in New York, then plugged another to protect himself while tracking counterfeiters and was fired, when the assailant proved to be a politician's pampered son.

The way things worked in Washington—and everywhere, he guessed, to some extent.

Since switching to the Secret Service, he had done his share of gun work and confirmed it didn't cost him any sleep. He'd had no accidents so far, no wounded innocents. The men he'd shot, whether they lived or died, all had it coming under law. Ryder saw no cause to reproach himself or agonize over split-second choices he had made. But there were times, admittedly, when he wondered if he might be happier if he had picked another path.

Or had the path picked him?

“Shut up,” he warned himself and set off toward the Butler place.

*   *   *

A
bel Butler's feet were dragging as he turned in through the gate, closed it behind him, and proceeded toward the porch. The Colt felt heavy underneath his belt, more than its usual three pounds or so, as if the men he'd shot with it had somehow left their souls attached to weigh it down.

Stupid,
he thought.
That's childish superstition.

But he couldn't shake the feeling, even so.

His faith was all about the supernatural, things people chose to think and to believe in, even though they'd never see a speck of evidence before they died—and only then, if their selection of a faith had been the right one. What if they were wrong? What if they'd picked an ancient “holy book” that offered only parables and silly superstition?

What if Jews were right, and there was no Hell burning miles below his feet?

Might be a lucky break for me,
thought Abel, as he climbed the front porch steps and stood before his own front door.

In Jefferson, they kept the door locked at all times, a simple matter of security. He had a key, but knocked upon
returning home, so that he wouldn't startle Anna in the kitchen or the bedroom, entering too quietly. She always met him with a smile, no matter how her day had gone, and they were able to relax—or, at the very least, commiserate.

He knocked this time, waited, and saw her sweet face as the door eased open. No smile there, for once; a teary, worried look, instead, and he was reaching for his pistol when the door flew open wide, revealing two men he had never seen before, standing on either side of Anna, guns in hand. Two more were watching, farther back inside the house, also with pistols drawn.

“We'd like to do this peaceable,” the gunman holding Anna's left arm said. “It's your call, either way.”

“Who are you?” Abel asked him, tight-lipped from a mix of fear and anger.

“Messengers,” the one who'd spoken first replied. “We got a invitation for the two a you.”

“An invitation?”

“Step inside first, willya? We don't wanna draw a crowd.”

He did as he'd been told and heard the door close at his back. The man to Anna's right reached out to pull the Colt from Abel's belt, saying, “You won't be needin' this.”

“Will you be needing yours?” he asked.

“Not right away,” the first man said. “Unless you force it on us, bein' stupid. Play your cards right, and you might come out okay.”

Abel had no good reason to believe him, every cause to doubt, but there was nothing he could do about it at the moment. He would not risk Anna's life unless he knew their situation to be hopeless beyond any doubt.

“So, what's this invitation?” he inquired.

“Somebody wants to meetcha,” said their spokesman. “Somebody important.”

“And he couldn't come himself?”

“He's so important, people come to him,” the second gunman said.

“Impressive. How is Mr. Coker, by the way?” asked Abel.

Both men flanking Anna blinked at him. The leader of the pack recovered first and cracked a smile. “You ain't as dumb as some folks seem to think.”

“Thank you for that. What is it your employer wishes to discuss?”

“We don't get all the tidbits.”

“Just the orders, eh? And where should we expect to have this conversation?”

“Where we's headed for, directly.”

“And if we prefer to stay at home? What, then?”

“We got instructions to
persuade
you. Maybe startin' with your sis, here. She's a juicy little piece. I guess you noticed that already.”

Abel didn't plan to punch him, knew the risks entailed by doing so, but rage took over as the gunman reached across to lay a hand on Anna's breast. The impact of his fist against the gunman's face was satisfying, made up for the sharp pain in his knuckles as he spun to meet the second nearest shooter, swinging this time with his left.

The target ducked it, swung his six-gun in a high arc, grazing Abel's forehead with sufficient force to stagger him. Abel reeled off to his left and met another pistol whipping toward his skull from that direction. This time, colored lights exploded in his brain like fireworks, then the world went black.

*   *   *

H
e found the front door standing open, didn't like the look of it, and kept his right hand on the cross-draw Colt as he stepped through the gate, moving along the walkway to
the Butlers' porch. Before he climbed the steps, Ryder called out to anyone inside the house—a risky move, if enemies were waiting there, but better than surprising Abel, when he might be in a mood to shoot first.

No one answered.

Ryder drew his gun before he reached the open doorway, easier to offer an apology from that point on than risk his life, and felt a little foolish knocking with his free hand as his shadow fell across the threshold. Called their names again, louder this time, and still got no response.