The two Templars had set out from Chicago for St. Louis by a combination of riverboat and train. In St. Louis, they purchased horses and set out straight for Ft. Smith, Arkansas. Why Col. Winfred and the abbot sent two Templars, rather than just Jacob, was a mystery. Christopher was a colored man, formerly a slave, and right now the South wasn’t exactly amenable to his presence. Hell, Hatsuto, the Nipponese Templar, would have been a safer choice than Freeman.
But, Jacob was sure they had their reasons. Their superiors always had their reasons.
Jacob convinced Christopher to push on to Grace, the next town. He’d figured they could make the trip before the storm hit. He’d been wrong, of course, and the going was rough. That’s what Jacob got for making a rush of things.
“Christopher,” Jacob said, raising his voice over the torrent.
“Yeah?”
“We gotta find somewhere to bed down for the night. Horses are dead tired, and we might as well be riding through a pig sty.”
Lightning ripped overhead like it was Lucifer’s own ax splitting the sky. Thunder cracked like that same bastard’s whip. Jacob and Christopher both held tight to their horses and tried to calm them.
“One of us is like to get thrown, too.”
“Well,” Christopher said, patting his horse’s neck, “it was your damned idea to keep going. You see any place to bivouac for the night?”
Jacob sat a little straighter in the saddle and peered through the torrent. “Not as such.”
“What about that over yonder?” Christopher pointed westward, through the trees.
“What do you see?”
“Looks like light. Maybe a cabin. Must be a cutoff up ahead.”
They rode on till Jacob spotted a trail that led through the trees. The two men urged their mounts down the winding, wagon-rutted path. The light ahead was clearer from the trail. It looked to be coming from a fire outside the house, not from a light within. Christopher stopped and Jacob rode up next to him.
“What do you reckon it is?”
“Maybe the house is afire. Lightning is hell tonight.”
Jacob shook his head. “Looks like it’s in front of the house. Take a closer look?”
“If it gets us a dry bed.”
They both kicked their horses gently and continued down the trail. As they neared the house, the trail went around a bend, blocking their view of the yard. There was a loud crack nearby. Jacob and Christopher looked at each other. Lightning split the sky again.
“Thunder?”
“Came before the lightning.” Christopher put heels to his horse. Jacob followed.
“Y’all niggers stole this land from our people,” a man’s voice called out from somewhere beyond the trees. “We’ve come to take it back.”
The Templars turned the bend and came out into the yard of the house, reining in their horses not more than fifteen paces behind a mounted group of men wearing peculiar white robes. They’d covered their heads with hoods cut from the same cloth. Some of the men had bull horns or deer antlers protruding from their temples. There were seven of them, with three bearing torches against the darkness. Three rested revolvers across their saddle horns. Six rode coal black horses that drank in the flickering light. The one up front, the one doing the shouting, rode a plain bay and appeared unarmed.
Beyond the crowd, Jacob and Christopher could see a typical one-roomed, frontier cabin with a covered porch spanning the front. A young, black man stood on the porch guarding the front door, wearing an undershirt and suspendered trousers with a Navel Colt stuffed into the waistband. He aimed a shotgun at the lead figure.
“Over my dead body, mister,” said the black man. He cocked back one of the hammers on the shotgun.
“Well there’s seven of us and one of you, Washington, and you already fired a shot in the air.”
Thunder rumbled again.
“Not quite,” Christopher said.
The crowd’s heads moved as one, their horses wheeling around to face the Templars. Christopher flipped open his greatcoat to expose the two revolvers that hung below his arms. Jacob drew his 10-gauge double-barreled shotgun from its saddle scabbard and laid it across his lap.
“There’s two of us,” Christopher said, “and only seven of you boys.”
“Ain’t none of your concern, nigger,” one of the robed men said to Christopher in a voice hollow as the grave.
“Unfortunately,” Christopher said above the roar of the rain, “it is my concern.” He sat up in the saddle. “Now, y’all boys can ride on out of here safe as you please, or Jacob and I can find a nice elm to put you ‘neath. Your choice.”
The white-robed man who was the first to raise his pistol was also the first to be shot from his horse. Jacob didn’t even see Christopher draw, he was so fast. Jacob took the cue just fine.
He raised the shotgun to his shoulder and shot down the nearest man. The gun kicked against Jacob’s shoulder like a mighty pissed bronco. At this range, the load of buckshot ripped through the robed man’s left shoulder, severing the arm and sending a cloud of dust and cloth into the air. Jacob’s victim lurched to his right, losing his footing in the left stirrup, and tumbled to the trampled yard.
Jacob trained his gun on the next nearest man and fired, hitting him square in the chest. The man rocketed free of his stirrups and flew backwards into the rider behind him. Jacob sheathed his shotgun as Christopher spurred his horse forward, firing into the crowd of men with discrimination, shooting down first the ones with pistols drawn.
White-robed men fell from stamping, snorting coal-black horses, their bodies riddled with bullets. Christopher holstered his empty revolver and drew the other, switching hands on the reins. Jacob drew his own pistol as the black man on the porch, Washington, fired his shotgun into the crowd of night-riders.
Jacob cut his horse to the left and tried to flank the crowd so he could push them back towards Christopher. He looked down at the man he’d shot first, the one whose shoulder had come clean off. Mud encrusted the back of his white robe. The man had picked up his left arm and began awkwardly climbing back onto his horse.
Jacob shot him again, this time in the head. The man stumbled forward into his horse’s flank, but still groped for the saddle with his right hand. Jacob roared and drew his sword, riding further into the crowd.
On Jacob’s left, one of the men drew a revolver. Jacob cut off his white-gloved hand. The man looked down, almost curiously, at his hand still clutching the revolver on the ground. He looked back at Jacob. The Templar struck him again with his sword, slicing through his upper body.
There was no blood.
Jacob wheeled his horse around and went after another rider, a torch-bearer with an eight point set of buck antlers sticking out from his hood. He struck the man’s head, antlers and all, from his shoulders. Jacob watched the man’s headless body kick legs into his horse’s side and tighten his grip on the reins.
The decapitated rider galloped out of the yard and into the night. Jacob turned his horse to find another assailant, but they’d all begun following after their beheaded comrade. Jacob wheeled his horse around as he sheathed his sword. He put heels to his horse as he began to reload his pistol.
“Hold up, Jacob,” Christopher called out. “Woah, there.”
Jacob reined in his horse and circled back around to where Christopher, still mounted, was reloading his pistols.
“Dammit,” Jacob said, holstering his pistol. “They’re getting away, and we ain’t gonna be able to track ‘em in this weather.”
“Yep. You’re right. But we got a spooked family to deal with,” Christopher said, holstering his guns. They rode back the short distance to the house where the owner and his wife stood on the porch.
“G’night sir,” Christopher said to the family.
“G’night, mister,” said Washington. “God bless y’all for the help, even if it ain’t gonna do much good.”
“They’ll be back,” said his wife with a shake of her head.
“Maybe that’s the case, ma’am, but they ain’t here now,” Christopher said. “My friend and I originally came by to see if we could get out of this downpour for the night. We’ve had a long ride and we’re soaked through.”
Washington looked at his wife. She sighed.
“I’ll warm some blankets,” she said, turning to go inside, “and see to the children.”
“There’s a barn round back for your horses. Fresh hay, too,” said Washington.
“We’re obliged, sir,” Christopher said. The Templars turned their horses and went around to the back. They dismounted in the muck and led the horses into the small barn. Christoper began forking fresh hay into a manger as Jacob began wiping down his horse with a handful of hay.
“Did you notice anything funny about those men?” Christopher asked.
“Aside from the robes and horns?”
“Yep.”
“Now that you mention it, fellas didn’t seem to wanna die.”
“Well that ain’t funny or surprising.” Christopher stopped his forking and wiped an arm across his brow. “Ain’t many out there that wanna die.”
“You know what I meant. I shot one in the head and he just climbed right back up his horse and rode off. Cut another one’s head off, and he did the same.”
“Without his head?”
“Yep.”
“Did you notice them not bleeding?”
“It was like shooting one of them sand dummies in the practice yard.”
“I wonder,” Christopher said, setting the pitchfork against the barn wall, “if it’s still out there.”
“His head you mean?” Jacob asked as he moved onto the next horse and began wiping it down.
“Yep. Might help us figure out what’s going on here.”
“Thought we were headed for Arkansas. Col. Winnie ain’t gonna appreciate us tarrying.”
“We’ll send a telegram ahead and one back to Chicago. The relic in Fort Smith can wait a few more days.”
“Who do you reckon those men were?” Jacob asked, throwing down the soaked hay.
“Not who. What. Come on, let’s talk to Mr. Washington.”
“First time they was here, but this sure as hell weren’t the first place to get a nighttime visit,” Simon Washington said. He’d leaned back in his chair. He kept one eye on the cabin door.
The four of them sat at the small table near the fire. Ruth had taken the Templar’s soaked greatcoats and hung them by the fire to dry. She offered Jacob a bowl of stew. He took it with a nod of thanks.
“Not the first place?” Christopher asked. “Where were the others?”
“Other freedmen in the area. When Mr. Lincoln emancipated us, we just left the fields. Ruth and I grabbed the children and headed north.”
“One in the lead said you were squatting,” Christopher said, taking his own bowl of stew from Ruth.
“If you mean the one that was doing most of the talking,” Ruth said, “you mean Cyclops Justicar. He’s their leader. Well, whatever that nasty man thinks, this place was just sitting with the fields fallow and coons living in the loft.” Ruth turned back around to the fire. “We made this place respectable, Mr. Christopher. Cleaned the place out and planted last month. Y’all want some cornbread?”
“Yes ma’am, thank you. This homestead was just abandoned?” Christopher asked.
“Missouri never seceded,” Jacob said. “A lot of guerilla fighting, partisans, Bushwhackers, and Jayhawkers going after each other and their families.” Jacob took a piece of cornbread from Ruth.
“Like the men you rode with?” Christopher asked, turning to Jacob.
“Never ran any men off their land, if that’s your point, but other groups sure did. Rebs all over the state ran loyalist families off if their men had joined up with the Union, and the same went for the other side. Plenty of the groups were never official, or they were disowned for outlaws by their own sides, like Quantrill. Good stew, ma’am. What’s in it?”
“Squirrel.” Ruth wiped her hands clean on her apron. She pulled out the chair next to her husband and sat.
“Ain’t had squirrel since the war, ma’am. Much obliged.”
“Been telling my Simon here that we should go to Kansas. Plenty others are leaving for there.”
“Kansas is a right fine place,” Jacob said, “but Missouri is good, too.”
“What happens when the owners come back? Maybe with the law?” Christopher asked.
“Been a year since Appomatox,” Jacob said, sopping up the last of the broth with his cornbread. “If they ain’t back yet, they might never be.”
“Perhaps that’s the case, but that still don’t explain these men,” Christopher replied. He turned back to the Washingtons. “They sounded white, like maybe ex-Confederates. What have you heard from the other freedmen?”
“Depends on who you ask,” Simon said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the roughly hewed table. “Some folks are saying they’re just men, ex-Rebels like you just said. Others are saying they’re ghosts. About a fortnight back, a group of those riders rode up to another house. They called up to the house and asked for water. Sarah, Frederick’s wife, went out and gave them water. She said the thirsty one, the one calling for it, drank a whole bucket, just upended it and pretty as you please asked for more.”
“Did he now?” Christopher asked. “Sure Sarah wasn’t letting herself get away?”
“Frederick swore by her word, said he was there,” said Ruth, clearing Christopher’s bowl from the table. “Frederick ain’t book read, but he’s as bright and honest a man as I’ve ever met.”
“Well,” Jacob said as he pushed his empty stew bowl forward, “I think I’ve heard enough. You, Christopher?”
“I have. Let’s go look over the yard. Y’all folks stay inside for the rest of the evening. Jacob and I will take turns on watch tonight, too, and sleep on the porch. If they come back, we’ll be ready.”
Simon and Ruth thanked the Templars as they pulled on their coats from where they hung near the fireplace. Jacob and Christopher went out to the porch. They put on their hats and looked at each other.
“What do you think?” Jacob asked.
“I don’t know yet. Let’s take a gander at this head.”
The white peaked-hood stood out in the middle of the yard like a lonesome cone of surrender. It must have rolled to an upright position after the tumble from the owner’s shoulders.
The Templars stepped down off the porch and into the yard. They walked through rain which was still coming down like a waterfall. Mud sucked at their boots with each step as they made their way to the head.
They stopped a few feet away from it and looked at each other. “Hear that?” Jacob asked over the driving rain.
“Like some kinda rattling.” Christopher drew his sword and extended the tip to the hooded head, poking at it.
Nothing happened.
“Pick it up,” Christopher ordered.
“What? Why do I have to? You pick it up.”
“I got seniority,” Christopher said, narrowing his eyes. “Pick up that damn head.”
Jacob circled around to the front of the hooded head, eying it like it was a moccasin ready to strike. He stopped in front and looked at Christopher. “Go on,” said the other Templar. “Pick it up.” Jacob looked back down at the hood. Two eye holes had been cut in front, and the whole of it was splattered in mud.
Jacob sighed and crouched down, hand outstretched to the peaked hood. He pulled it off, revealing a desiccated head beneath. The Templar leaned forward, hood still in his hand, and eyed the shriveled husk and its long strands of dry, twine-like hair. He looked back up at Christopher. “Ain’t a way this is the head,” said Jacob.
“Why not?”
“Look at this thing.” Jacob looked back down at the decapitated head. “Looks almost a skeleton already.”
Jacob reached forward with both hands and picked it up. He stood and walked over to Christopher.
“That’s because I have been in the ground for years, race-traitor.”
Jacob yelped and dropped the head. He drew his pistol and had it cocked before the dessicated thing landed with a squelch.
“No,” Christopher barked, stepping forward, hands raised in front of him, “don’t shoot.”
Jacob’s eyes flicked back and forth between Christopher and the disembodied talking head on the ground.
“Put your gun away, I want to talk to it.”
Jacob licked his lips uncertainly and eyed the head again. Its eyes glowed the same red as those coal black horses’ had. Hesitantly, he uncocked the revolver and holstered it.
“Did you know it was going to do that?” Jacob asked as Christopher bent down to pick up the head.
“Reckoned it might. Ain’t never seen one of them talk, though.”
“Run across something like this before?”
“Yeah,” asked the head, “run across a Kukluxer before?”
“No, I’ve run across a zombie before. But, you, you’re something completely different. A Kukluxer, you say? Whatever that is, must be bad juju too. Come on, Jacob, let’s get this back to the barn.”
The head looked even more awful in the lantern’s light. Glowing red eyes, set deep in skeletal sockets, glared out at the Templars from the middle of the small work table. Christopher poked the head with the tip of his hunting knife.
“Feel that?” he asked.
“Dammit, yes!”
“How about this?” Christopher cut into the exposed forehead bone.
The head wailed.
“Interesting.” Christopher set the knife on the table. “How can you talk?”
“How can you, nigger?”
“Learn some manners,” Jacob said. “What’s your name?”
“Cpl. Aloysius Tate,” the head said, then, almost as an afterthought added, “race-traitor.”
“Alright, Corporal. What’s a Kukluxer?”
The New Orleans Zombie Riot of 1866: And Other Jacob Smith Stories Page 6