Rough Justice (19 page)

Ryder stroked the Appaloosa's withers, saying, “But you wouldn't just run off and leave them here?”

The hostler wore a shocked expression on his face, maybe insulted. “Hell, no! They're my business, Mister. Some of 'em are more like friends, you know.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

Ryder left him frowning, wondering, and took the Henry rifle with him as he left. He had no one to back whatever play he made, and time was running out on any hope of rescuing the Butlers. Ryder told himself there had to be a reason they were snatched alive, or else he would have found their bodies at the house. He didn't know the reason, couldn't work it out, and had decided it was best to give up trying.

He would focus on retrieving them, and let the
why
of it come afterward.

Coker's people might be looking for him after his intrusion at the Red Dog. Ryder didn't know the gunman who'd surprised him in the office, hadn't left his name, but once the shooter came around he could describe the man who'd slugged him. Coker wouldn't have a lot of trouble putting it
together, and he'd have his people mobilized as soon as he worked out that he was being hunted.

So, how many men?

He didn't want to think about that, at the moment. Finding Coker was his first priority, on two accounts: to stop him doing any further damage to the Butlers, if it wasn't already too late for them, and to take Coker out of action as the brains and guiding hand behind the KRS. Removing one man likely wouldn't end the group, but Coker would be looking at a prison term for kidnapping—maybe a rope for murder, if he'd killed his hostages and Ryder got the evidence to prove it. Either way, he might prefer to bargain for a lighter sentence, giving up the men who'd killed or committed other crimes on his behalf.

A long shot? Probably. And Ryder had to be alive to make it work.

He passed by Coker's house, a waste of time, but making sure he'd covered all his options, just in case. Two kids were playing in the yard, a handsome woman hanging laundry on the line, a nice domestic scene. No common passerby would guess the master of the house was off somewhere, devising plans for murder and rebellion in the name of white supremacy.

He could have turned in at the gate, asked Mrs. Coker if she knew where he could find her husband, but the prospect set his teeth on edge. The lady must have known her husband's business, since he practiced most of it in public, and she likely sympathized with his ideas about the races. On the other hand, he questioned whether Coker would have filled her in on plans for a specific crime in progress.

No. He'd have to find his man some other way. Which meant grabbing another member of the KRS and squeezing him, hoping he knew where Coker and the Butlers were . . .
or causing a distraction that would bring the “grand commander” out in search of him.

Tricky, but Ryder had a couple of ideas.

*   *   *

C
oker was getting down to business—tools laid out, his workmen at the ready, looking forward to it—when the sheriff interrupted him. One of his Knights came knocking first and told him Travis was outside, needing to speak with Coker in a rush. Already in a sour mood, he scowled and went to find out what the lawman wanted.

Travis had a nervous look about him, edgy, pacing like a caged coyote. Coker took his cue from that, turned off the scowl, and tried to keep his tone flat as he spoke.

“Sheriff, some kind of an emergency? I'm rather busy at the moment an—”

“That's why I'm here.”

Coker couldn't recall the last time Travis interrupted him. In fact, he never had, before.

“Explain.”

“Them carpetbaggers.”

“What about them?”

“Ryder's lookin' for 'em.”

“Is he, now?”

“Came by my office, talkin' about my duty to the law, some kinda bull. Was askin' me to help him look for 'em.”

“And what did you say?”

“Put 'im off. Told 'im I wasn't buyin' into it.”

“And then?”

“The sumbitch threatened me. Can you believe it? Said that if he couldn't make it stick in court, he'd do the job hisself. Came out and said it just like that.”

“He is audacious,” Coker said. And smiled.

“Did I say something funny?”

“No. But you present me with an opportunity.”

“How's that?” The sheriff looked confused now, piling that on top of worried.

“Think about it, Harlan. What if you should change your mind?”

“On what?”

“Cooperating with our nemesis.”

“I don't get that.”

“The Yankee agent.”

“What about him?”

Christ all Friday, he was thick. Sometimes Coker despaired of working with the meager tools he had been given.

“Think about it,” he suggested. “Ryder comes to you for help. You turn him down.”

“Tha's right. I did.”

“Talking's not thinking, Harlan.”

“Right. Okay, then.”

“So, you turned him down, but now you've had a chance to think about it and you've seen the light.”

“What light is that?”

“Your duty, as you mentioned. You've decided you should help him, after all. It's preying on your conscience.”

“Is it?”

“You're still talking.”

“Sorry.”

“So, you find him and explain that you've decided to cooperate. In fact, you know exactly where the carpetbaggers are, and you can show him.”

This time, Travis raised his hand instead of speaking, like an oaf held back in school so long he's older than the teacher.

“What?”

“He's gonna figger that's a trick, ain't he?”

“Unless he's dumber than a cactus.”

“Well, then—”

“But I think he'll go along with you, regardless.”

“Why?”

“Because he needs a pointer to the carpetbaggers.”

“Yeah, but if he knows I'm lyin' to him—”

“You are still his best hope.”

“I don't get it.”

“
Think
, Harlan. If he believes you're helping him, he'll go along with you. If he suspects you're tricking him, he'll still think you know where to find the Butlers.”

“Yeah, but—”

“There's a certain risk involved, I grant you. Ryder may not be inclined to ask you gently. If he starts in acting rough—”

“I take him?”

Coker had to smile at that, asking the sheriff, “Does that seem a likely outcome?”

“Well . . .”

“Let's try it my way, shall we?”

“Okay. Sure.”

“If you come under pressure, make a show of stalling him, then let him see he's broken you. Tell him you know where he can find the carpetbaggers. Beg him not to make you go along.”

“You think he'll fall for that?”

“Of course not. He'll insist you lead the way, which you, reluctantly, will do.”

“I will?”

“And bring him to the spot where I have men awaiting him.”

“The trap.”

“You see? It's not so hard to figure out.”

“Uh-huh. So what stops him from figgerin' it out?”

“Nothing. He'll come expecting trouble, but he'll find a good deal more than he can handle.”

“Right. With me smack in the middle of it.”

“Where, I'm sure, you'll give your all to help the cause.”

“My all?”

“It means to do your level best.”

“Oh. Right.” If he was reassured, it didn't show. “So, where'm I leading him again?”

“Now that's the beauty of it,” Coker said, smiling again. “Right here.”

R
yder saw the sheriff coming from two blocks away, hurrying north along Camp Street. Travis had a flustered look about him, redder in the face than usual, as if he'd lost something and was afraid he wouldn't find it. When he spotted Ryder, headed south, he hesitated for a second, then veered off to cross the street.

“Looks like you're hunting,” Travis said, and nodded at the Henry Ryder carried in his left hand.

“You want something, Travis?”

“Yeah, I do. Been thinkin' 'bout our talk, a while back.”

“And?”

The sheriff looked both ways along the sidewalk, heaved a sigh, and said, “It sunk in you were makin' sense. This thing with Coker's gotten outta hand. You still want help, I'm with you.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

Travis dropped his voice an octave, even though there
wasn't anyone within a block who could have eavesdropped on them. “Think I got an idea where he's put them carpetbaggers you been lookin' for.”

Alarm bells started going off in Ryder's head. He kept his face deadpan and answered, “Oh?”

The sheriff nodded, just a bit too eagerly. “He's got a place downtown, on Walcott Street. Keeps some of his supplies there, for the Red Dog, if they won't fit into the saloon.”

“So, something like a warehouse?”

“Not that big. There's a shop in front, dry goods. He owns that, too, and stores the other stuff in back, or else upstairs.”

“Why would he take the Butlers there?”

“It's got a basement. Nice and private, if you get my drift.”

“I get it,” Ryder told him. And he wasn't buying any of it. “Will you show me where it is?”

“Be happy to. Can't promise they'll be there, but if they are, I'll help you get 'em out.”

“No worries about disappointing Coker?”

“Comes a time, man has to do what's right or just give up.”

“All right. Welcome aboard. You lead the way.”

The hike from Camp Street north and west to Walcott was a winding journey, fourteen blocks by Ryder's count, watching for ambushes along the way. He didn't know if Travis had described an actual establishment or not, but he was reasonably certain that the sheriff's offer was a trick. He felt insulted in a way, that anyone would think him dumb enough to fall for it.

Ten minutes after starting out, the sheriff stopped and said, “We're almost there. Cut down this alley, here, and then another half block west'll take us to the back door.”

“Anything you want to tell me now?” Ryder inquired. “Before we're in the middle of it?”

“I don't follow you.”

“That's right. You've had
me
follow
you
. Knowing the
way you hate me, hate all Yankees, I'm not buying your repentant act.”

“Reckon I'd try'n scoop you into trouble?”

“That's exactly what I think.”

“Well, I can't help that. If you wanna help them others—”

Ryder raised his Henry, shoved its muzzle deep into the sheriff's gut, making him wince. “First thing, I'll have your pistol. Any fancy moves, I'll let the daylight through you.”

Travis pulled his iron, a Colt Model 1861 Navy revolver, and handed it over. Ryder took it with his left hand, reached around, and tucked it underneath his belt in back. “That satisfy you?” he inquired.

“Not yet. You have a pocket pistol stashed away somewhere? Maybe a derringer? Some kind of knife?”

“The Colt is all I carry. Never used it on a man.”

“Just kids and women?”

Travis clenched his teeth. Said, “I know what you think a me an' every other southern man. The hell do you know about how we live or feel?”

“I know enough to tell you I don't give a damn. Next thing you want to do is tell me straight whether this place you're taking me is real or not.”

“It's real, all right.”

He didn't bother asking whether there would be a trap in place. That part was obvious. “Okay, then. Let's get to it. Anything goes wrong, you'll be the first to drop.”

*   *   *

D
oes everybody understand the plan?”

Sly faces nodded at him.

“All right, repeat it for me,” Coker said. He picked out one of them and pointed at him. “You.”

Wayne Henley answered back, “The sheriff brings 'im
in. We're waitin' for 'em, but we don't do nothin' till you give the signal.”

“Which is?” Coker prodded him.

“A whistle.” Henley frowned. “I 'member it. Can't imitate it, though.”

“You won't have to. Go on.”

“We hear the whistle, ever'body draws down on the Yank.”

“Remembering that . . . ?”

“You want him alive. If possible.”

“That's right. If he starts shooting, which he may, try winging him. Arms, legs, something to slow him down and let us get the drop on him. I want to have a talk with him before he dies.”

“An' what about the sheriff?” Orville Deen inquired.

“It would be helpful if he lived,” Coker replied, “but it is not obligatory.”

“Huh?”

“Means we can beef 'im if we have to,” Ben Kyle clarified.

“If absolutely necessary,” Coker said and realized the prospect did not faze him, either way. Travis was shaky, growing weaker by the day. If he could be disposed of, and his death attributed to Ryder, it would be a double benefit.

A silent moment passed before he said, “All clear, then?” and received another round of nods. “Go on and take your places. They should be here soon.”

If Travis found the Yank, that was. Coker was never sure how much of any order Travis really understood or paid attention to. He'd been a fair choice as the county's sheriff, and the only competition for that job had been a unionist who cast his vote against secession, back in February '61. Between the two, there'd been no choice at all.

Coker took a moment to examine his LeMat revolver, even though he knew the gun was fully loaded. Better safe
than sorry, when his life was riding on the line, along with everything he'd worked for up to now. The plan he had in mind wasn't ideal, by any means, but since his side had lost the war, it was the next best thing to victory in battle.

If his plan worked out, it meant more damage to his people at the outset. Some of them would likely die or lose their homes, but in the end, if he was resolute and led them well, the rest would benefit. Texans had beaten Mexico, not thirty years ago, when they had been outnumbered ten to one or more. Their problem in the last war had been putting too much trust in leaders from Virginia, Alabama, and the Carolinas, none of whom had kept his state's best interests in mind.

But this time, when his people rose in righteous outrage, Coker knew that it would be a marvel to behold.

*   *   *

T
hey skipped the rear approach and passed the street side of the building, Ryder peering through the shop's display window to verify that is was closed, no customers still lingering who might be in the line of fire. From there, it was a short walk through an alley, two doors down, to reach the back door unobserved.

“No second thoughts?” he asked the sheriff. “Anything you want to say before we go in here?”

The bleak-faced lawman said, “I've told you all I know. You're gonna do whatever suits you, either way.”

“Correction, Sheriff. You'll be doing it. The first man through that door, and first one down if somebody starts shooting. You can still fess up. If Coker doesn't have the Butlers here—”

“He does. At least, he
did
, last time I talked to him.”

“And when was that?”

“'Bout half an hour 'fore I found you on the street.”

“You saw them?”

“Nope. No reason why he'd lie to me about it, though, is there?”

“Maybe, if he thought it would improve your acting.”

Travis frowned at that, considered it, then shook his head. “Uh-uh. He didn't like me poppin' in on him, like it was keepin' him from somethin' else. I figgered he was workin' on your friends.”

“Nothing that bothered you about that?” Ryder challenged him. “I mean, since you pretend to be the law?”

“The only law we got in Texas now is what the Yanks tell us to do. Try livin' with your world turned upside down, see how you like it.”

“Race is that important to you?”

“What else is there?” Travis countered.

“Did you ever own a slave, before the war?”

“Couldn't afford none. Didn't have no land, neither.”

“But you're still working for the rich men. They still pull your strings.”

“No poor man ever paid my salary.”

“Which lets them tell you what to think.”

“I
think
, okay? I know my place. If I ain't better'n a nigger, then what am I?”

Ryder dropped the hopeless line of argument. Some people were too stupid to be helped. Instead, he asked, “What's next? Are you supposed to knock? Give out some kind of signal?”

“Just walk in,” said Travis. “After that . . .” He let it trail away and shrugged.

“They know you're coming with me?”

“How'n hell do I know? I can't even tell you who all's in there.”

“You're about to find out,” Ryder cautioned him.

“Still don't know what you need me for.”

“Coker used you for bait, Sheriff. In fishing, bait gets eaten.”

“You're supposed to be a lawman, too, ain'tcha?

“I'm playing by your rules. They don't seem fair to you, you should've thought about it earlier.”

Travis stood at the door, his shoulders slumping more than usual. He reached out for the doorknob, wrapped his hand around it, then turned back toward Ryder.

“Whatever we find in there, I had nothin' to do with hurtin' either one of 'em.”

“You didn't stop it,” Ryder said. “You swore an oath and broke it. You're as guilty as the rest of them.”

Instead of arguing the point, Travis turned back to face the door. The knob, unlocked, turned in his hand. He pushed it open on to darkness and went in.

*   *   *

I
t's been a long time since he left,” said Anna. “Do you think he's gone?”

“I doubt it,” Abel answered. “And it hasn't been that long.”

“Are you having any luck?”

“Not yet.”

Since Coker left, the two of them had worked on loosening the rawhide thongs that bound their wrists. Anna could feel the leather chafing at her skin, abrading it, and wondered whether she was bleeding yet. She didn't think so, but her hands were nearly numb, her wrists too sore to know for sure.

“You don't think . . . maybe . . . Gideon?” She was unable to articulate her hope, knowing it sounded desperate.

“Don't count on it,” her brother said. “Don't count on him.”

“He's helped us both. He's helped you
twice.
”

“Because it fit in with the job he's doing. Don't set too much store by him.”

“I'm not.” And yet, her cheeks were flaming.

“I'm just saying—”

“Ssshhh! Somebody's coming!”

It was Coker, stepping through the door with a revolver in his hand. At first, Anna imagined he had come to kill them, contradicting what he'd said before about requiring information. But he kept the weapon's muzzle pointed toward the floor, regarding them with an expression close to curiosity.

“We are expecting visitors,” he said. “
A
visitor at least. A friend of yours, I think.”

Anna could feel her pulse quicken.
Ryder!
She tried to keep her face blank, give nothing away.

“No ‘hallelujah'?” Coker asked. “Not even smiles?”

“We don't know who or what you mean,” Abel replied.

“Don't you? Ah, well, perhaps not. You will have a chance to meet him, though. Or, at the very least, to view his corpse.”

A sob caught in her throat on hearing that, but Anna tried to swallow it. She couldn't tell if Coker noticed, since he seemed distracted.

“As it turns out,” he went on, “this should work perfectly. Killing the pair of you, no matter what the means, might not arouse our heroes at the garrison. A Secret Service agent, on the other hand . . . well, that should send a ripple all the way to Washington.”

“You're not making sense,” Abel told him.

“Oh, no? What do you think will happen when the bluebellies are ordered to retaliate for Agent Ryder's death? Do you believe their captain will be able to control them? Think about the black troops, in particular. I personally think they will behave exactly like the savages they are.”

“You have some gall!” Anna replied. “There's nothing in the world more savage than a lynch mob.”

“That depends upon the cause, wouldn't you say? Threats
to a decent woman's honor, or her very life, bring out the rage in white men, I'll admit. They rise to the occasion in defense of hearth and home. In fact, I'm counting on it.”