The Cotton Run

by Daniel Wyatt

  * * * *

  Marie tolerated the wearing of black as long as she could. But she had to ride. She undressed, and threw on her usual riding gear and dashed from the house, anxious to relieve her tension on horseback. Inside the stable she greeted her horse, Lavender, with a pat on the mane, then strode to her saddle hanging on the wall and reached for it.

  Her hand never made it. Someone grabbed her from behind so quickly that it knocked the wind out of her. She felt a tremor of panic as a hand pressed over her mouth while the other hand shoved her headfirst into the wall. Pain shot through her body. Looking down, she saw a hand against her chest. It was a man’s hand, hairy, full of veins, holding a knife. The man shoved his body up against hers. She tried to scream but couldn’t, nor could she move.

  She struggled, but the more she did that the more the man jammed her to the wall until she was finding it hard to control her breathing. With his knife, he started cutting away at her blouse. She felt several cuts into her chest. She winced. The man was a pig. He was going to rape her. After a few moments the top of her breasts were exposed. Blood clung to what was left of her slashed blouse. The knife dropped to the straw-covered, plank floor. This was her chance to sneak a look. Craning her neck sideways, she saw that his face was covered in a black mask, two slits for the eyes. She wriggled her mouth free from his grasp and bit into the fleshy part of his hand as hard as she could.

  “Help!” she screamed, her breath returning to her. “Help! Someone help me!”

  “Shut up!” the man threatened, his hand firmly over her mouth again, “or I’ll run you through with the knife.”

  Marie’s horse kicked at the stall, aware that her owner was in trouble. Marie freed her mouth and screamed again, as the man held her and tried to muffle her while he stooped to pick up the knife. Then he threw Marie to the floor, where she banged her head. He was on top of her now. His hand slid to her mouth. The knife grazed her neck. He began to rip the front of her riding dress.

  “One more sound and you die!” the man snorted.

  Marie was too weak to reply, to argue, to scream, or to move. She wanted to beat her fists into his face, but she hadn’t the energy. Then she thought she heard hooves in the yard. The stable and the dark figure over her started spinning around and around...

  * * * *

  She came to.

  She heard a pistol shot and realized she had been unconscious. She had no idea how much time had passed. Her vision was blurry, and she tried to focus. She caught the silhouette of someone at the door opening. What was he going to do? She heard the gallop of a horse far in the distance. What was happening? Had the man an accomplice? Had she been raped? No, she still had the dress and breeches on, although she had been stripped bare to the waist. Leaning on one elbow, she looked up to the figure, then frantically dragged herself along the floor to get away from him. The man moved slowly toward her, her vision still too fuzzy to see who it was.

  She pulled herself to a support post and clung to it, as though it would protect her. “Leave me alone! Go away!” she said, frantically.

  “Don’t worry, Marie.”

  She wanted to scream, but held back. It was a different voice, not the man who had attacked her.

  “It’s me, Joshua.”

  “Joshua?”

  She collapsed, barely conscious. She felt gentle hands and strong arms slide under her with tenderness and scoop her off the plank floor as if she were as light as a baby.

  “Marie. You’re safe now. He’s gone. He can’t harm you now,” the kind voice whispered in her ear.

  “Joshua! Oh, Joshua. Is that you?” His voice was a tonic to her. She slipped her arms around his neck.

  “Yes, it’s me. I’m taking you into the house.”

  The last thing she remembered before she passed out the second time was Denning’s jacket going over her bare shoulders and breasts, and being carried out into the bright sunshine.

  * * * *

  Once the doctor arrived, Denning left the house to check the stable for clues. The attacker had been dressed entirely in black, including a black mask covering his face. Denning had seen that much, but he had been more concerned for Marie’s safety at the time or he would have chased the hooded attacker and killed him with no questions asked. Instead, he chased him off with a shot that must have missed the man by inches as he jumped on his horse and fled. Denning noted that the man was of average to medium height, maybe average build, with long hair escaping from beneath the mask.

  Denning heard Marie’s horse stir in the stall. He walked on the straw, kicking at it as he went, up to where Marie’s English saddle was hanging. Bending down, he saw blood on the plank floor. Realizing it was probably her blood, he felt a spark of anger at the viciousness of the attack. He patted Marie’s horse on the nose as the animal poked his head through the stall’s opening.

  “Fella,” he said, softly, “if you could only talk.”

  He walked out the back door to where the killer’s horse had been tied. In the red clay earth were hoof and boot prints, the latter made with a wide, flat heel and round toe. He knew the type of boot, a fashionable one. He returned to the stable. Then, in front of one of the empty stalls he saw a gold-colored handkerchief buried in the straw. Why hadn’t he seen it before? He picked it up.

  There were two initials embroidered on it.

  Chapter twenty-five

  Wilmington

  Doctor Stephens was leaving Marie’s bedroom when Denning took the wide circular staircase to the upper floor of the Keating home.

  “How is she?” Denning asked, hat in hand.

  The doctor wiped his forehead before he spoke. “She’s awake. Right off, I suspected a concussion, I did, but not now. However, she will have a nasty bump on her head for a spell. She’s still in something of a state of shock.”

  “No wonder. The cuts to her chest, were they deep?”

  “They’ve been taken care of and washed, sir. She’s bandaged. Nothing serious there.” He sighed, resting his hand on Denning’s shoulder. “My friend, if you had not come to her aid, it’s no telling what might have happened.”

  “May I see her?”

  “Yes. She has been asking for you. Keep your visit short.”

  “Of course.”

  One of the servants approached. Denning took the doctor by the arm into the adjacent parlor. “Let’s keep this incident to ourselves for the time being and not tell anyone,” he whispered.

  “But why?” the doctor whispered back. “Do you not want to see this madman apprehended?”

  “We might be drawing some unpleasant and unnecessary attention to the Keating family at this time. Leave this to me. Trust me, doctor, please.”

  “As you wish, Captain Denning.”

  Denning left the parlor. He opened Marie’s door. The room had a tranquil feeling. The window was open and a slight warm breeze stirred the curtains. The wallpaper was a soft blue. Marie was wearing a nightgown, laying on her back, eyes closed, a comforter up to her waist. She turned at the sound of Denning’s footsteps.

  “Joshua,” she said weakly. She held out her hand and Denning gripped it, then let it go limp by her side.

  “You do remember my first name,” Denning remarked.

  “Yes. I don’t know what made you come to the house, but I’m glad you did. He was going to kill me!” She cried out, covering her face with her hands. “I’m so sorry for the way I treated you at the office.”

  He looked down at her watery eyes. Her delicate skin was pale, scarred from the attack, her former radiant color gone. “That’s neither here nor there. You’re safe now. That’s what counts.”

  “Do you forgive me?”

  “What’s to forgive?”

  “You really are a good man.” She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “What’s that? Under your arm?”

  “A little something. A present I had bought you in Nassau.” He set the long flat box on the dresser. “I had it with me that day in Wilmington.”<
br />
  “You did?”

  “I came to the house today to give it to you. Now I wonder if it’s the right time after what happened. You can open it at your leisure.”

  “Merci.”

  He saw the stable through the open window. “I do hope you will continue your riding.”

  “I want to.”

  Denning pulled a chair close to her, and settled in it. “Marie, I have to ask you some questions about what happened. Are you up to it?”

  “Yes.” She took a shaky breath. “I’ll try.”

  “I know the person was hooded, but did you get a look at his face during the... the struggle?”

  “No.”

  “Did you notice anything about him that might tell me who he was?”

  “No,” Marie replied, her breathing labored.

  “You realize that it might have been the one who’s murdered the Wilmington widows?”

  “Oui. I thought about that.”

  “Did you know the other victims?”

  She rubbed the back of her head and felt a lump. “I knew two of them. The other two, I knew of their families. That’s all. Why?”

  “Did Maxwell Toland know them?”

  “Maxwell? Why would you ask that?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Why Maxwell?” she persisted. “Joshua, I want you to answer me. What does Maxwell Toland have to do with this?”

  Denning pulled the handkerchief from his pocket.

  When she saw the initials MT, her eyes widened, and her mouth quivered. “Joshua! But that still doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It fits, though. The killer had long hair. So does Toland. They’re about the same height. Around six feet.”

  “Oui, but how many other men, and women for that matter, have those initials? Oh—” her voice trailed off.

  “What?”

  “I bit his hand.”

  “Which hand? Left or right?”

  Marie tried to recall. “Ah... right. No left.”

  “Left. Are you sure?”

  “Oui. His left.”

  “Did you bite him hard?”

  “Hard enough to bleed. I can still taste his blood in my mouth.”

  “Did you notice anything else about your attacker? Did he smell?”

  “Smell?”

  “Yes. Any unusual odors. Cologne? Leather?”

  She couldn’t remember.

  Denning brushed his hand against her cheek. She reached up for his hand, squeezing it.

  “Get some rest, Marie.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Leave that to me. I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”

  She tried to sit up but her head was too sore to even raise it a few inches off the pillow. “Do you really suspect Maxwell?”

  “I’ll have to find out.”

  “What if the killer comes back?”

  “He won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  Denning was determined. “He just won’t. I guarantee it. Not ever again.”

  * * * *

  That evening, Denning waited patiently in the lobby of the Fountain Hotel. He had left a message at the mayor’s office for Maxwell Toland to meet with him. When Toland finally walked through the wide entrance door, Denning gave him the handkerchief, monogrammed MT.

  “Did you lose this?”

  Surprised, Toland took it in his hands. “Why, yes I did. But you asked me here for that?”

  Denning looked down at Toland’s hands. Both were unmarked. He wasn’t the killer. “I have something to tell you about Marie. She was attacked today.”

  “That’s awful. By whom?”

  “I don’t know,” Denning replied. “But I found your handkerchief there.”

  Toland went white. “You don’t suspect me, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. Not now. Let’s talk. How about we have that drink I promised back a while ago?”

  “Now might be a good time. Yes, I’ll take it.”

  They stepped inside the bar, had two brandies each, and after Denning had given Toland the details of the attack, they left an hour later. While standing in the lobby with Toland, Denning saw Eli Jacoby emerge from a staircase, talking with a young man. Denning had seen the two together the last few days. Jacoby left the young man and walked through the lobby to leave through the front entrance.

  “Maxwell, I have to go,” Denning said briskly.

  Outside, he watched Jacoby take the stone steps to the busy street. The sidewalks were roaring with drunks. Denning heard a crowd of carousers on the other side of the road emerging from another hotel. Every night seemed to give rise to a celebration in Wilmington. The crowd would be a good cover for him.

  Denning followed Jacoby down a long dark alley. Jacoby suddenly stopped and turned as if he had heard something. He picked up his pace and soon came to the end of the alley, adjacent to the Prince Hotel. Denning was right behind him, in the darkness.

  “Jacoby.”

  Jacoby whipped around. “Who are you? Come out of there!”

  Denning moved out from the shadows, into the light of the noisy street. “Don’t be so jumpy,” he said. “Compose yourself.”

  “Captain Denning. What are you doing? Why are you following me?”

  “I want to do business. Right here and now.”

  “Here? The alley? What do you want?”

  Denning reached for the speculator’s sleeve and pulled him back to the alley. “Come with me.”

  “Unhand me.” He flicked Denning’s grip off. “I don’t like people sneaking up on me.”

  “I didn’t want to be seen. Let’s talk business. I want rifles. You said you had a supplier. Where is he?”

  Jacoby paused. “Bermuda. He can get you almost anything you fancy.”

  “How about Spencer repeaters?”

  Jacoby didn’t flinch. “You and everyone else.”

  “I said I want Spencers.”

  “They won’t come cheap.”

  “Neither will my cotton. Sea Island for Spencers. What do you say?”

  “Very well. It could be done.”

  “What’s your associate’s name?”

  “Burns. Douglas Burns,” Jacoby said.

  “Northerner, I bet?”

  “Ohio man.”

  Denning grinned. “It doesn’t bother you, does it? Dealing on both sides, I mean.”

  “No. Why should it?”

  “Whose side are you really on?” Denning asked.

  “I was beginning to wonder that of you? And why the sudden change of heart? I never expected you, of all people, to deal directly with the North.”

  “I don’t see it that way at all,” Denning replied. “The South could use those Spencers. At least they’d have a fighting chance.”

  There was a long moment of silence between the two. On the street, the action didn’t let up. “Is that it, Denning?”

  Denning shrugged, dropping his hands into his pockets. Jacoby turned away.

  “Yeah, except for a couple things.”

  Jacoby turned back to face Denning. “Well...”

  “I watched you leaving the hotel. I was wondering about your boots. You wouldn’t happen to have any red clay on them?”

  “Why should that matter to you?”

  Denning played with Jacoby’s lapel, then grabbed him by his collar. “Your left hand. There’s a bandage on it. There couldn’t be any teeth marks under it, by chance?”

  Jacoby stepped back and pulled a knife from his breast pocket.

  “Hold on, Jacoby. I just asked a couple of simple questions.”

  “That’s enough. How dare you handle me! You didn’t want to make a deal at all. What do you want?” Catching Denning off guard, Jacoby took a quick swipe at him, cutting him across the right knuckle.

  “It was you.” Denning reached down into the top part of his boot for his knife, ignoring his bleeding knuckle. “And you probably killed those other widows, didn’t you?”

  Jacoby took ano
ther swipe that missed. He was fast with a knife and quick on his feet. “What are you talking about?”

  Denning stepped back, knife in hand. His arms were out in front of him, ready to spar. “What’s the matter? They couldn’t stand the sight of your ugly face?”

  In a lightning move, Jacoby kicked the knife from Denning’s hand. As Jacoby rushed forward, Denning kicked him in the chest. Although he dropped quickly, Jacoby’s knife was still in his hand. He faltered, then came back at Denning with even more strength. Denning kicked him down again, then grabbed him by his lapels and threw him across the alley into a wall. Once again, Jacoby got to his feet. Frantically, he looked about for his knife. Unable to find it, he took a run at Denning, who slid away and pushed Jacoby into a stack of empty barrels.

  Denning kicked the barrels away as he jumped on Jacoby and held his face down, a knee crunching his back. He grabbed Jacoby by the hair and rubbed his face into the ground until he almost choked. In a rage, Denning flipped Jacoby around and punched him in the side of the head, then grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. “Admit it! It was you! I know you attacked Marie Keating today. You left a monogrammed handkerchief behind. MT. Maxwell Toland.” He shook Jacoby. “You tried to blame it on him, but it didn’t work.” When Jacoby didn’t answer, Denning got up, pulling Jacoby to his knees, then kneed him hard in the ribs.

  Jacoby leaned over, coughed and spat out some dirt. “Why don’t you just call the law, if you think it was me?”

  Denning laughed. “The law you say. There’s no law in this city. I’m the law for the moment.” He pulled out his Navy revolver, and Jacoby looked up at it. “I’ll shoot you right here and now. Confess! Or would you rather I break every bone in your body? Did you attack Marie Keating?”

  “All right! All right! It was me. Pompous bitch!”

  “Bastard!”

  Jacoby then pulled Denning’s feet out from under him. The gun fell away. Rolling over, they both scrambled for the weapon. Denning came up with it, threw it to one side, and kicked Jacoby in the midriff. Jacoby took the pain and bent over, which gave Denning the opportunity to kick him in the face. Then Denning punched him again, and again to the chest.

  “Stop it, Denning!” Maxwell Toland ran up the alley. “Stop it, I said!” He grabbed hold of the captain’s shoulders. “What are you doing?”