Rings of Trust

by Kittie Howard

As David approached his Ford, Popsicle tossed him the Remington Wingmaster. David caught his shotgun by its stock and nodded to the former sniper. After removing his Springfield 1903A4 rifle with the Weaver telescopic sight from the Ford’s back seat, Popsicle stepped to the back of the sedan. “I think the distance from here to the curve in the driveway is about 50 yards,” Popsicle said.

  “Good eyes,” David said. “The distance is exactly 52 yards, with another 10 yards to the pine trees.”

  “If I put the point of impact at 45 yards,” Popsicle said, “a round would scatter enough rocks to make a horse rear up, maybe toss its rider. If the rider isn’t thrown and controls the horse, a second round at 35 yards would create problems I don’t think a rider could handle.”

  “Dat’s w’at we need.” David turned toward the pine trees near Blanchard’s property. “W’at ’bout ova dere? Riders dôn have much room to git t’rew dose pines, but dey kin. Is dere ‘nuff time to work da scope? Wid Gerald an’ Chuck shootin’ from da side a da Gerard’s house an’ you shootin’ from here, dose horses are gonna buck.”

  After Popsicle stepped around the Ford’s trunk, he positioned the Springfield on his shoulder and sighted points of impact on both sides of the lawn. “As long as the goal is to scare the horses, I’m good. This Weaver scope didn’t fail me on Tarawa,” he said, the rifle at his side.

  David stood with his thumbs hooked on his jeans’ pockets and scanned the three lawns. After long seconds, he nodded. “Merci, pod-nah. When da Klan sees dese trucks, da riders won’t know how much firepower we’ve got. Dat might be all we need to keep ’em from chargin’ da houses,” he said and raised his rifle. While Popsicle passed time inspecting his weapon, David made a series of sprints from the side of the Ford’s hood with the pump action Remington at his waist. With a satisfied nod, he re-joined Popsicle. “Where’s mah Colt?” he asked.

  “Next to the Ford’s front wheel,” Popsicle said.

  After stooping to get the weapon, David checked the pistol’s chamber and stood next to Popsicle. “Now’s da hard part, waitin’. A minute kin seem like two hours.” He glanced at the front porch. “Merde. Da women are at da window.”

  “When I find a good woman like them, I’m gittin’ married,” Popsicle said.

  “Mais, you’ve got yo hands full if you marry a Cajun,” David said, pride in his voice.

  “I know,” Popsicle said in Cajun French. “My father’s English, but my mother’s Cajun.”

  Surprise filled David’s face. “Good God, I knew you were a good man. Now I know you are,” he said in Cajun French.

  “When you think your wife is too hard to handle,” Popsicle said with a laugh, “give me a call. After a few days with my mother, you’ll think your wife is boring.” He paused. “Before I forget, congratulations.”

  “For what? Marrying a powder keg.”

  “No. For the baby on the way.”

  David’s mouth fell open.

  “I heard your neighbor say your wife’s got a bug that’s growing.” Popsicle patted David’s back. “I’m going to take another look at that road with my Weaver’s sight.”

  David turned to the porch window. The darkening sky silhouetted two women behind the window. His eyes misted as he blew a kiss from his fingertips. The curtain closed with a flourish.

  “Shit, there’s a dust cloud to the far right,” Popsicle said. “The Klan’s ridin’.”

  After David tossed a rock in the direction of René and Allen, he whistled. One veteran behind each truck returned the whistle. “You ready?” he asked Popsicle in English.

  “I’m ready, even if I’m not believin’ this shit. We’re gonna be shootin’ at Americans.”

  “Dat’s a double whistle. Git down.” David returned the two whistles, as did the other men. “Riders must be on da side a da drainage ditch an’ headin’ fo’ da pine trees.”

  “The ground’s tremblin’,” Popsicle said.

  “Look at w’at’s comin’ on da right,” David said as riders kicked horses to go faster on the dirt road. White robes billowed behind the Klansmen like clouds escaping a dust storm. A hooded rider raised his arm and fired into the sky. Thundering horses ate the echo. A second rider fired.

  Two riders broke through the pine trees on the left. Six more followed. Klansmen pranced their horses in a circle on the far side of the lawn. The waning sun bounced off dark eyes and lips behind white masks. Catcalls taunted the veterans. Klansmen reared spirited horses and fired shots into the air, but remained in their circle.

  Klansmen with unlit torches whipped horses up the driveway. Hooves scattered rocks like marbles. Fifteen riders pranced and reared their horses on the right side of the lawn and along the driveway’s edge. Klansmen in the two circles of hate broke ranks and charged the three houses, then swerved mid-lawn and returned to their groups. The catcalls stopped. Nothing moved in a night grown too quiet.

  As if from one of history’s darkest corners, the voices of two Klansmen fell into the present. “The South will rise agin’!” they yelled and kicked their horses into a gallop with the practiced movements of a choreographed dance. As the performance ended, the Klansmen held metal cans high and retreated. A third Klansman swooped forward and tossed a cigarette. A flame flickered on the grass and then roared up the cross and exploded with a whoosh that licked the heavens. Strains of “Dixie”—in Dixieland I’ll take my stand, to live and die in Dixie—filled the air with a melancholy born of determination as the burning cross bathed white-hooded Klansmen with hell’s fiery orange.

  When the flames dimmed into a hearth’s glow, a stoop-shouldered Klansman trotted his horse to the cross’s out-stretched arms and stopped. “Broussard, you’s got one chance to git outta here wid yo people. If you dôn, we’s lightin’ dese torches an’ burnin’ ya out.”

  David passed his Remington to Popsicle and walked to the front of his car. “Where’s Henri Doucet?” he asked, his voice loud and firm.

  “Dat’s none a yo fuckin’ bidness.”

  “I’s mekin’ id mah bidness.”

  Popsicle stood, his Springfield on his shoulder. “I’m making it my business, too.”

  Chambers clicked, metal on metal, as the other veterans stood. “Where’s Henri Doucet?” Gerald asked and stepped forward in tandem with the other men.

  The Klan’s leader ignored the men. “Broussard, eidder you git yo ass outta dis house tonight or Doucet’s a dead man.” He leaned forward in his saddle. “You an’ yo men kin kill all a us, mais, id dôn matta. Dere’s mo’ a us waitin’ to take care a Doucet.”

  “Dôn play boo-ray wid me, Franneaux. You kan’t take no tricks in dis hand a cards. You’s boorayin’, an’ you knows it. Mr. Laurent’s got da govna’ comin’ at ya. Dat’s yo penalty.”

  “I dôn give a fuck w’at yo pa-rân do,” Franneaux said.

  “Yeah, you do. When dose special police git here, dey’s goin’ straight to yo house. Den you’s goin’ to prison at Angola. Even da devil kan’t hep you in dat hellhole.” David’s eyes traveled to the Klansmen behind Franneaux. “Meybe some a yo men might wanna go wid you. Meybe dey’s gonna git bored, not workin’ at da sawmill.” David smiled as the murmur of voices grew. “Yo men’s not likin’ w’at dey’s hearin’, Franneaux.”

  “Dat’s bullshit. Mah men do w’at I tells ’em to do,” Franneaux said and jerked his head left. “W’at da fuck you up to, Broussard?”

  “Collectin’ da money I’s won from dis Boo-Ray hand,” David said, his eyes on the driveway.

  “Get behind the Ford,” Popsicle said. “There’s no tellin’ who’s in that car.”

  David remained where he was as the four-door black sedan inched up the driveway and parked behind his Ford. When the driver’s door opened, a white man with greying hair got out. A black man built like a tree stump got out of the back.

  “Blanchard, w’at da fuck you doin’ here?” Franneaux asked.

  “Doing what I should have done a long time ago.” Blanchard walked to
ward Franneaux. “You can’t blackmail me any longer, Franneaux. You can’t tell me my family won’t get hurt unless I do what you want. I got my daughter and my grandson out of Mississippi. They’re someplace safe. Louie won’t be able to slap my daughter around when he gets out of Angola.” He gave Franneaux a hard look. “The police arrested Louie when he showed up at the bank. The manager will escape the law. Louie won’t.”

  “Where’s Henri Doucet?” David asked. “Dere’s not much a yo hide left to save, Franneaux.”

  Blanchard nodded toward the black man standing near him. “This is Henri Doucet’s friend. Samuel wants to take his friend home alive.”

  Franneaux spit on the grass. “None a you’s seen da last a us. We’s gonna be back. An’ nuttin’s savin’ yo asses.” He pointed at David. “Say yo prayers, Broussard. You ain’t long fo’ dis world.” Franneaux kicked his horse forward and spit in David’s face as he yanked the reins. “Doucet’s gonna be out front on da road in fifteen minutes,” he said over his shoulder. The Klansmen followed him down the driveway as cheers erupted in front of the three houses.

  As the riders disappeared, Arlette and Lucille stepped onto the porch. “Merde,” Arlette said. “Dat was close.”

  “Yeah, but nobody got hurt,” Lucille said.

  “You’s talkin’ funny,” Arlette said.

  Lucille shook her head. “No, I’m not. Madeleine’s been teachin’ me how to talk right. It’s time I did.”

  “Ain?”

  “I decided tonight I dôn want to be like dose men in da Klan. Dey’s scared times are changin’. I dôn want to be an ole lady an’ tink like dem.”

  “Mais, we’s Cajun,” Arlette said. “We talks like we do.”

  “I’m proud a bein’ Cajun. I love mah language. But I kan’t go to LSU and learn how to be a teacher if I kan’t speak English properly.”

  “You wants to be a teacher?”

  Lucille smiled. “Since I love to cook, I want to teach home economics.” She gestured toward the flowerbeds along the walkway. “Cher, we’ve got to be like dose marigolds. No matta w’at happens to dem, dey keep bloomin’. Da marigold’s not da prettiest flower in da world, but id neva gives up,” Lucille said and walked down the steps.

  “Wait fo’ me.” Arlette giggled. “Meybe dere’s a place fo’ me wid da 4-H kids. I’s gonna axe David to hep me wid English.” Lucille smiled as Arlette bolted ahead, then raced to grab her arm. “Wait, cher. Let’s stand in the shadows.”

  “Your family’s not safe as long as you live in this house,” Blanchard said as the women approached. “Franneaux’s hatred for you is too deep. He’s going to come back at you another day.”

  “Mr. Blanchard’s talkin’ da troot. I’s been hearin’ bad tings da Klan’s sayin’ ’bout you,” Samuel said. “I dôn want no harm comin’ to ya ’cause how you done saved mah friend.” Samuel paused. “I come up from Willow Weeps when I’s heard ’bout Moses Dubois. He was like mah brodder when we was growin’ up.”

  “I’m sorry ’bout what happened. Dat wasn’t right, no. I know da Good Lord will keep Moses safe in his arms.” David hesitated. “Was Ruby hidin’ out wid you?”

  Samuel nodded yes. “Ruby done disappeared ’cause she got scared da Klan was comin’ afta Mr. Laurent. Him and da Missus been some good to her.”

  “So she ran ’way?” David asked.

  “No, sir,” Samuel said. “She done went to git hep. Dere’s gotta be ten sharecroppa wagons ’round Mr. Laurent’s house. All a dem’s filled with black an’ white sharecroppas an’ farmers not likin’ da Klan eidder.” Samuel pointed to the bayou across the road. “An we’s got people hidin’ dere juz in case you was needin’ hep.”

  “Cher Bon Dieu,” David said. “Dere’s good, good people livin’ ’long dis bayou road.”

  “I’m not one of the good ones,” Blanchard said. “It’s time for me to leave. I’ve got a family to take care of. Maybe I’ll do a better job this time.” He stopped to catch his breath. “Mr. Broussard, you and your family suffered because I was a coward. It’s my fault Louie stole your money and spent some.”

  “Mr. Blanchard, mah family’s goin’ to be fine. We kin mek it widout da money Louie took. You need to git wid yo family an’ take care a dem.”

  “Not until I take care of a few legal matters.”

  “Ain?”

  “Mr. Broussard, my sons aren’t interested in my farm. I don’t need the money I would receive from selling the property. However, it would give me some peace of mind if I could pay off Louie’s debt. I want to sign my farm and the manor house over to you.”

  “Cher Bon Dieu,” Arlette said, her hands at the sides of her face.

  As David turned, the men stepped back. They exchanged smiles and drifted toward the porch. Mr. Blanchard and Samuel joined them.

  “Dôn worry, bébé,” David said to Arlette. “We’re not leavin’ our house.”

  Arlette patted her stomach. “Mah sister was a twin,” she said and reached for him. David laughed and swung Arlette around and around.

  “Stop,” Arlette said, her eyes filled with laughter. “I’m gittin’ dizzy.”

  When her feet touched the ground, he pulled Arlette into a tight embrace. “Je t’ame,” David said.

  “I love you, too,” Arlette said.

  When they kissed, Venus winked in the evening sky.

  THE END

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