Rough Justice (18 page)

Inside the parlor, he could see the signs of struggle: a small table overturned, a broken lamp soaking the floor with kerosene, which thankfully had not been lighted when it fell. He called once more, a waste of breath, and looked around for bloodstains—found some spatters on the floorboards near the entryway, but nothing serious—before he went to check the other rooms.

Nobody in the kitchen, with its small table and chairs for four. The bedrooms were immaculate, which eased his mind a bit for no specific reason he could name. A broom closet held only brooms and other cleaning articles, no bodies stashed away. He went out back to check the yard, and then the privy, but the flies in there were on their own.

Ryder went back inside the house and had a better look around. Inside the parlor, this time, he saw something sticking out from underneath the sofa. Bending closer, he made out an old Colt Paterson like Abel Butler sometimes carried, evidently dropped and kicked aside during a scuffle. That told Ryder all he had to know about the crime scene.

Abel and his sister had been taken. Whether they were still alive was anybody's guess.

He found the sheriff in his office, working on a sandwich big enough to choke a draft horse. Travis looked up from
his food as Ryder entered, mouth full, asking him, “The hell you want?”

“I'm looking for a lawman. Know where I can find one?”

Travis bristled. “If you come here to insult me, you can turn around and—”

“Chew your cud and listen,” Ryder snapped at him. “The Butlers have been kidnapped. Will you help me find them? Yes or no?”

“When you say kidnapped—”

“You know what it means. And something tells me you know who's behind it.”

“Hey, now!”

“If you do, and something happens to them while you're snuffling at the trough, I'll see you tried as an accomplice.”

“That supposed to scare me?” Travis asked him.

“If you're smarter than you look. You know about a murder in advance, being a lawman, and you do nothing to stop it, you're as guilty as the one who pulls the trigger. If it's rape—”

“Whoa, now!” When he spluttered, Travis spat small fragments of his sandwich out onto his desktop. “Who said rape?”

“You trust your cracker buddies to control themselves with Anna Butler?”

“You don't know a damn thing about—”

“What I
do
know,
Sheriff
, is that you're bound by the law to stop a crime from happening, or find the ones responsible if you can't get a jump on things. We both know you've been working with this lynch mob outfit Coker operates. That makes you an accomplice and conspirator. I'll see you charged, tried, and convicted. Failing that—”

“You can't just—”

“Failing that,”
Ryder repeated, leaning on his hands
across the littered desk, “I'll come back here and do the job myself.”

Some of the color drained out of the sheriff's face. “The hell's that s'pose to mean?”

“Use your imagination, Travis.”

“Christ! What kind of lawman are you?”

“One with nothing much to lose, if I can't find the Butlers while they're still alive.”

Travis dropped his sandwich, spread his hands, a helpless gesture. “Whadda you expect me to do?”

“Your job,” Ryder answered.

“That's pleasin' the folks who elect me, not some high-and-mighty federal from Washington.”

“And saving lives?”

“The ones that matter.”

Ryder felt a sudden chill, as if someone had spiked his veins with ice water. He fought an urge to drill the sheriff where he sat. Said, “Have it your way. Your life just stopped mattering to me.”

He left the sheriff's office, Travis staring after him. Ryder supposed that he would run to Coker next, and warn him, but it didn't matter now. He planned to get there first, surprise the man in charge, and squeeze him till he gave the Butlers up.

Failing at that, if they were dead . . . then, what?

He'd have to think that through, decide what he could prove and what he couldn't, if he started filing charges. So far, he had nothing against Coker personally, only supposition that he'd pulled the strings behind various crimes while standing back to keep his own hands clean.

Which didn't mean he was exempt from punishment. Not necessarily.

But Ryder had to find him first.

He walked down to the Red Dog, circled round in back,
and found the back door wasn't locked. Remembering the way to Coker's office, Ryder slipped inside and made his way along a poorly lighted corridor to reach the door marked
PRIVATE
. He tried the doorknob, gingerly, and felt it start to turn. Dispensed with knocking as he barged in, Colt in hand.

The empty office sneered at him. He checked behind the door, found no one hiding there, and closed it. Ryder moved around the desk, sat down in Coker's chair, and started going through his drawers, no real idea what he was looking for. It didn't bother him, the prying, but as each drawer failed to give up anything of value, he could feel the tension building in his chest, behind his eyes.

Where should he look for Coker next?

He likely wouldn't bring the Butlers here, where anyone might see them and connect Coker to whatever befell them afterward. That would be clumsy, and from what he'd seen of Coker, Ryder didn't think he was a stupid man.

A bigoted fanatic, absolutely. Maybe crazy. Stupid, no.

He ought to check the Red Dog's barroom next. Coker might well be killing time there, waiting for the word from his cronies that Abel Butler and his sister were securely locked away. He wouldn't want to rush off, make a great to-do of it, in case some hostile witness made a mental note. The key was acting normal in the public eye, until you had no further need of guile.

Ryder was on his feet and moving toward the door when it swung open. Standing there in front of him, with a surprised expression on his face, a cowboy type he'd never seen before, revolver dangling from his hip. The stranger blinked at Ryder once, seemed just about to ask him something, but he'd wasted too much time. Ryder reached out to grab the collar of his shirt, propelled him toward the desk, and kicked the door shut as he turned to face the new arrival.

Who was reaching for his six-gun now, too late again. Ryder was faster, pressed the muzzle of his Colt Army against the cowboy's forehead as he thumbed the hammer back.

“Can't miss at this range,” he advised.

“Awright! Le's not be hasty, here!”

“You want to live, I take it?”

“S-s-sure!”

“Then, when I ask you something, answer me straight off, and keep it honest. Otherwise, your life's not worth a nickel to me.”

“Ask away,” the cowboy said.

“Where's Coker?”

“Thought he was in here. He's who I come to see.”

“For what?”

“I'm s'pose to tell him how the boys are doin', them got hurt in Colored Town.”

“And if he's not here,” Ryder prodded, “where would you look next?”

“A couple places.” Starting to look crafty.

“Spit it out. You're running short on time.”

“Okay! I'd ask the barkeep if he's gone to eat somewhere, then maybe try his house.”

Ryder already knew where that was, having made a point to track it down soon after reaching Jefferson. “Where else?” he asked. “I need someplace he'd go to have a private talk with someone, where they won't be interrupted.”

“Here,” the cowboy said, then winced as Ryder poked his skull more forcefully. “Jesus! I don't know ever'thing about him, mister!”

“Then you're no damned good to me,” Ryder replied.

And knocked him cold.

B
oss oughta be here any minute now,” Wayne Henley said. “He never likes to keep folks waitin'.”

“That's considerate,” the carpetbagger with the bloodied head replied, “for a kidnapper.”

“I'll warn you now. Best watch your mouth when he gets here. The boss ain't got my sense a humor.”

Now the woman spoke up, asking him, “Why are you doing this?”

“I told you that awready. Boss just wants to have a talk with you. Show you the error of your ways.”

“Our ways?” the man came back at him. “Given the choice, you'd still have slavery.”

Henley responded with a shrug. “Why not? Jus' think of all the good we done for darkies.”

“Good?” The woman wore a shocked expression.

“Sure.” He started counting on his fingers. “First, we brung 'em here from Aferca. We gave 'em jobs, good food,
someplace to stay outta the rain when they ain't workin'. Saved their heathen souls for Jesus, if you're one of them who thinks they got souls. Me, I ain't so sure.”

Now she looked disgusted. “God, I don't believe this.”

“That's 'cause you's from way up North. The only darkies you see are the servants in your houses, all cleaned up and dressed proper. The only thing you know about our life down here is lies told by them abolitionists.”

“We've seen enough firsthand,” her brother said, “to know that you're barbarians.”

“See, that's the kinda thing you shouldn't tell the boss,” Henley replied, then kicked the smart-mouthed captive in the stomach, where he sat against the wall. “Could get your ass in trouble, if you don't watch out.”

“You brute!” the woman hissed at him.

“Keep talkin', missy. You ain't winnin' any friends, and friends is what you gonna need, about the time boss man gets done with you.”

She glared at him but held her tongue this time.

“You know,” he told her, smiling, “I can be the friendly sort, I put my mind to it. I don't ask much, except a little 'preciation.”

“You're disgusting!”

“Lotta women think so, when we start to get acquainted, but they come around.”

She turned away from him, cheeks reddening. It made him smile.

The other carpetbagger didn't like it, though. “If you so much as touch my sister—”

“What?” Henley demanded. “You gwan jump up here and whip my ass? Seems like you tried that once already.”

“If you're half a man, give me a second chance.”

“Half stupid's what you mean to say, I guess. You think
I'm gonna loose your hands before I get the boss's say-so, you're the stupid one.”

“What do you hope to gain from this, harming a woman and an unarmed man?”

“Gain ain't got nought to do with it,” Henry replied, his temper heating up. “You seen how much we
lost
awready, in the war you goddamn Yankees started. Nothin' any one of us can do to get that back again, until the lot o' you is dead and off our backs!”

“You can't go back in time,” the carpetbagger said. “What's gone is gone.”

“Like you'll be, in a little while. Not sure about your sister, though. I might just—”

“Might just what?”

The deep, familiar voice made Henley jump. He hadn't heard the door open behind him, raging as he was against the carpetbagger. Now he spun to face the boss.

“It's nothin', Mr. Coker. Just havin' some fun, is all.”

“What happened to your face?”

He raised a hand to touch his bruised right cheek, wincing. “They didn't want to come along at first.”

“Which one did that to you?”

He blinked at Coker. Said, “The fella.”

“Well, that's something, anyway. I see that you repaid him.”

“Sure, we got a few licks in.”

“And now you're starting on the woman?”

“Huh? Hey, no! I wouldn't—”

“Wayne?”

“Yessir?”

“Get out.”

“Um, sure . . . if you don't need—”

“Get out!”
Barely a hiss, this time, but carrying the menace of a coiled-up rattler.

“Yessir!”

He wasted no time getting to the door and through it, closing it behind him, careful not to let it slam, in case it sounded like a gesture of defiance. Henley had a sudden need for daylight and fresh air, to calm his churning gut.

*   *   *

R
yder got the Appaloosa back, same daily rate, and pushed it to a gallop on his way out to the Union garrison. Arriving there, he found the soldiers and freedmen working together, setting up tents on a dry patch of ground beside the military bivouac, neither side saying much to the other as Ryder passed by on his way to see Captain Legere.

The captain, as expected, wasn't thrilled to see him for the second time that day. The sigh that he released verged on theatrical. “What is it this time?” he demanded.

Ryder laid the story out as briefly as he could: the Butlers missing, obviously kidnapped from their home, likely snatched by Coker's Knights. The captain didn't yawn, exactly, but he didn't seem impressed, either.

“Likely? That's all you have for evidence?”

“If I knew where they were beyond a doubt, I'd spit it out.”

Legere stared off beyond the new addition to his camp, under construction. “Well, it makes no difference, in any case,” he said.

“How's that?”

“Kidnapping is a local crime, perhaps a state offense. Who knows, for certain, in this godforsaken territory? Either way, I have no jurisdiction.”

“There are lives at stake,” Ryder reminded him.

“And constitutional restrictions which you ought to be aware of, as a federal agent. Tell your story to the sheriff.”

“He's a part of it!”

Legere turned back to face him, cocked one eyebrow. “Is he, indeed? And how would you know that?”

“Because I've dealt with him. Because he next to told me so.”

“Next to? That's pretty flimsy, you'll admit.”

“What is it, Captain?” Ryder challenged. “Do you hate this place so much you won't do anything to help its people? Are you worried about drawing notice to yourself? Afraid someone will ship you off to fight the Indians, instead of lounging here in camp?”

Legere's face colored, not from any heating by the sun. “You have the gall to ride in here and ask for help, then to insult me when I tell you it's beyond my legal obligation?”

“Damn your obligation! Get your nose out of the rule book for a minute. Help me save two lives!”

“At the expense of my career?” Legere frowned wearily and shook his head. “This town is volatile. You've seen it for yourself. A spark could set it off. I won't provide that spark by usurping the sheriff's powers, going door to door in search of two lost do-gooders who should have stayed at home.”

“You're that determined not to budge? You'd let them die? Likely condemn the woman to a foul indignity before her end?”

“Texans are savages,” Legere replied. “I can't fix that with eighty men—or eighty thousand, if it comes to that.”

“You're useless,” Ryder spat, turning on his heel, toward where his mount was tethered. “Have another cup of tea. I'll deal with it myself.”

“I would advise against—”

“To hell with your advice. I'm doing this, and if I light that spark you're so afraid of, you can either put it out or watch it burn.”

“Hold up!” Legere called, catching up to him with long, swift strides. Reached out to pluck his sleeve, then yanked his hand away when he saw Ryder's face.

“Don't waste my time, Legere.”

“A word on strategy, since you appear to be a novice in the realm of martial law. I am required, under my orders, to provide assistance if the town is seriously threatened. If its normal daily operations are endangered by a lawless element, as in the case of an uprising or rebellion, I would have no choice.”

“You missed one yesterday.”

“A racial skirmish, nothing more. I need something . . . impressive. Something that would justify my intervention to restore the lawful order.”

Ryder thought about that, frowned, and said, “I'll see what I can do.”

*   *   *

Y
ou've caused us all a world of trouble,” Coker told his prisoners.

“What trouble?” Abel Butler asked.

“Meddling where you're not needed, much less wanted. Stirring up the coloreds, filling their woolly heads with impossible dreams.”

“I still don't follow you.”

Vague sadness settled over Coker. How could anyone be so demented without blatant evidence of injury? “You come down here from . . . where was it? New England?”

“New York,” Butler corrected.

“All the same to me. You come to Texas, thinking you can make a herd of animals our
equals
. That we'll stand by idly while you hand them ballots, let them wreck the land and government our fathers fought and died to wrest away
from heathen Mexicans and red men? Worse, that we'll allow them to commingle with our daughters? To pollute our bloodlines and destroy the race?”

“We came to build a school, that's all,” the woman answered back. “What harm is there in that?”

“What harm?” Coker could only shake his head in wonder. “They were banned from reading under servitude because it stirs them up. They do not have the intellect or the discretion to reject ideas that may be harmful to themselves, or to the civilized society they serve. You've seen them, spoken to them. Do they not strike you as childlike?”

“Not at all,” Abel replied. “You and your Knights strike me as brutes and cowards.”

“I suppose we do. Up north, you push your coloreds into slums and let them starve or kill each other as they please. We in the South have walked another path, controlling their energy, guiding it into productive channels.”

“Productive for
you
,” said the woman.

“And what's wrong with that, if it serves them as well? We brought them here from Africa—a haven for disease, devil worship, and cannibalism—to house them here and civilize them at our own expense. You don't think we're owed something in return?”

“What are you owed?” Abel replied. “The bondage of their offspring spanning endless generations?”

Coker tried another angle. “You're an educated man, I gather. Have you studied history?”

“I have.”

“Then tell me, what great empires have the colored people founded? What thing have they built, in all of history, that's worth a walk across the street to see? Who are their
famous kings, outside of stinking jungle villages? White men are the explorers, settlers, builders, and inventors. How can you not see that?”

“The Chinese—”

“Celestials!” Coker cut him off. “We can't even be sure they're human. Slaves to opium, their nation overrun by Europeans with a mere handful of troops against their tens of thousands.”

Abel Butler drew a deep breath, then replied, “I see a race in subjugation, through no doing of its own. The so-called benefits you cite—transportation in chains, infliction of an alien religion—are like brands on livestock, nothing that a human should endure. With help and care, I see them lifted up and educated to a point where they can join society as useful members or, if nothing else, create their own.”

“I see that you're beyond redemption,” Coker told him, almost sadly. Turning to the woman, he asked, “And do you share these misguided visions?”

“Not misguided,” she informed him. “But the answer's yes.”

“In that case, I'm afraid there's nothing to be done for you. Before your trial and sentencing, however, you may spare yourself unnecessary suffering by answering some questions that I have in mind.”

“Questions?” Fear mixed with anger in the frown on Abel's face.

“I need more information on the group that sent you here, its aims and tactics, what it hopes to gain by agitating southern blacks to rise against their betters.”

“We've been over that,” Abel replied. “There's no conspiracy. Just Christian love.”

“You choose the hard way, then. I'll make the
preparations,” Coker told them. “If you truly recognize a god of any kind, this is your time to pray.”

*   *   *

B
ack in town, Ryder returned the Appaloosa to the livery and asked its owner what provisions were in place to save the horses, in the case of an emergency.

“Emergency?” The hostler didn't seem to follow.

“Like a fire, flood, or tornado,” he elaborated.

“Well, if time allows, I'd get 'em out, o' course. Got a corral out back to stop 'em scatterin' if somethin' happens to the barn, like fire. A flood or storm, now, that's another story. Bein' penned up wouldn't help 'em none, I guess.”