The head somehow cleared its throat. “We, sir,” it began in its vacant, echoing voice, “are a chivalrous and knightly order dedicated to the protection of Southern values and virtue.”
Jacob snorted. “Can I shoot it yet?”
Christopher held up a hand. “Who made you?”
“The Lord, you cretin, same as he made everything.”
“Fine, I’ll concede that. But who raised you up from the dead and put you in this present form?”
“The Grand Wizard, of course.”
“Grand Wizard, huh? Who’s that?”
“None. Of. Your. Business. Nigger.”
Christopher didn’t flinch. “Who’s Cyclops?”
“He’s our lieutenant. I got a question now.”
“Fine.”
“How’d a monkey learn to talk?”
“We could always grind it down and use the bonemeal for Ruth’s garden,” Jacob said.
Christopher sighed and rubbed the ridge of his nose. He stood, put on his coat, and left the barn. Jacob followed after him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked as they stepped out into the rain.
“Plenty,” Christopher said, walking back to the house. “We need to get some rest. First light, we’re going into town to send a telegram to Col. Winnie.”
“Thought that was already the plan,” Jacob said, walking with him.
“It was. But now we need to tell him we might’ve found the Grand Wizard.”
“Who is that anyway?”
“Don’t know for sure. But we need to let Col. Winnie know we’ve got our first lead.”
Jacob and Christopher, tin cups of coffee in hand, stood together looking at the now inanimate head. The burlap sack they’d kept it in all night lay on the table beside it. Crisp morning light shone in through the open doors of the small barn.
“Little critter couldn’t stop talking last night to save his own hide.”
“Nope,” Christopher said, nodding. “Sure couldn’t.” He walked out into the small barnyard and watched Ruth feeding the chickens with her children. It was a fine family, if a little tired. He took another sip of coffee. Jacob joined him after putting the burlap sack over the head, walking out and looking up at the perfect blue sky.
“That head seem a little off to you?” Jacob asked, spying a band of ravens in a nearby tree.
“Other than the obvious?”
“Reckon I mean aside from that. Just seemed real particular in its agitation. Had plenty of rebel soldiers we captured during the war. None of ‘em seemed so full of venom.”
“War changes men.” Christopher took out his pocket watch and checked the time. “Speculation aside, we need to get the horses saddled and head into town soon. Simon said we can reach it by noon if we leave within the hour.”
“Get a bit of lunch packed?” Jacob asked, stretching backwards, hands at the small of his back.
Christopher nodded. No sense in fighting evil on an empty stomach.
They rode into Grace just before noon. As small as the town was, they could have ridden out the other side just a few minutes after. There was a saloon, blacksmith, and general store clustered together on the main street, in addition to a small sheriff’s office. The livery and a handful of clapboard houses were set back a little ways from the rest of the buildings. Few folks were around. The roads had been bad coming in, which meant farmers in the surrounding area would likely stay at their own places for the day. A few old-timers stood on the porch of the general store, which had a big hand-painted sign reading “KETCH GENERAL” hanging over the eaves. They were smoking hand rolls and jawing at each other.
Jacob and Christopher hitched their horses in front of the sheriff’s office. It was a plain, wooden building like the rest and looked to be in need of some new paint. Its front door was open.
“Ask around and see if there’s been anything funny going on,” Christopher said. “I’m going to send those telegrams.” Jacob nodded and Christopher walked away, headed for Ketch General.
Jacob hiked up his gunbelt and stepped out of the muddy street and onto the porch. He stomped his feet, knocking the mud from his boots. There was the blustery sound of a man coming awake and the creek of an old chair readjusting inside the office.
“Hullo?” called a voice from within. “Someone out and about?”
“That’d be me,” Jacob called back as he stepped through the door.
He glanced around the office, taking everything in. Holding cell towards the back of the office, a gun cabinet with a half-dozen rifles locked inside, a desk covered in piles of paperwork with an older, medium-built gentleman sitting behind it. From the skin hanging at his jowls, he looked to be a man that had gone to fat at one point and since lost the weight. His hair was wispy and grey, and a tin star was pinned to his chest.
“Name’s Jacob Smith,” he said, removing his hat. “You the sheriff round here?”
“Sure am. Sheriff Richard Coleson.” The sheriff heaved himself up from the chair and, smiling, offered his hand to Jacob. Jacob took it. “What can I do you for, sir?”
“Just passing through, Sheriff. Was bedding down last night and saw a band of men go racing through. Bunch of men in white robes and such, strange hoods with horns on ‘em. Just wondering about them is all.”
“Not heard much about them in these parts. Further north, near Jefferson City, they’re all over.” The sheriff turned and looked out the window. “I’d hoped Grace would stay free of ‘em, though.”
“Who are they?”
“Call themselves Kukluxers, ex-Confederates going after scalawags and carpetbaggers and,” he paused for a moment before continuing, “colored folk. Got a lot of ‘em round now, you know.”
“I heard.”
“Why the interest, Mr. Smith?” Sheriff Coleson asked, turning back around. “You don’t look like a lawman.”
“Curiosity. Why they going after ‘em?”
“Aside from their side losing, and them not getting to vote or hold office anymore on account of that new state constitution’s Ironclad Oath?” the sheriff asked with a shrug. “Don’t expect you to understand, sir, but this state was torn apart by the war. We never left the Union, but there was plenty who went and fought for the South, just like plenty went and fought for the North.” The sheriff went and sat back down in his chair.
“Men left their families behind to go to the war,” the sheriff said, leaning back, “and families got run off the land for the man’s trouble. Plenty of folks went to St. Louis or down to Texas. Some ain’t come back yet, but they will eventually. Where’d you say you were from?”
“Didn’t.” Jacob replied. “Chicago.”
“Yankee, huh? Where ya’ headed, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Arkansas, then maybe Texas. Reckon I don’t know yet.”
“I remember being that way when I was your age,” Coleson said, smiling. “Full of the wanderlust. Pretty soon, though, you’ll just wanna be done with it and have a family, making a life for ‘em. Be in a quiet place.”
“Oh, I’m sure I will. But back to them men in the robes,” Jacob said, looking around the office. “You aiming to do anything about ‘em?”
“Me?” the sheriff asked, chuckling. “Likely not.”
“Why?”
“There’s dozens of ‘em out there, Mr. Smith. ‘Sides, most are like to be just all full of piss and vinegar from the war still. Feel like they done wasted those years of their life over nothing. Once those boys settle back in and get back to their farming, it’ll all peter out. Mark my words.”
“Well, while you’re waiting for that to come to pass,” Jacob said, putting on his hat, “you still got folks at the mercy of these Kukluxers.” Jacob tipped his hat to the sheriff and walked over to the door. Before he walked out, he turned and said, “You know, seems to me that I remember people saying the same thing about Bleeding Kansas.”
“Thought you said you were from Chicago,” Sheriff Coleson said.
“I most recently am. Kansas by way of Chicago.”
“Then you know how bad this state was,” said the sheriff, eyes narrowing.
“I also know how people took matters into their own hands. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got some supplies to purchase,” Jacob replied, tipping his hat again. He turned and walked out the door.
Jacob walked about twenty feet before Sheriff Coleson came out onto the porch.
“Mr. Smith,” the sheriff called from the doorway. Jacob turned and looked at him. “You leave this be. I’d rather not bury another man over this war. One man ain’t gonna make a lick of difference against those Kukluxers.”
“That’s why I got a partner,” Jacob hollered back. He turned back before the sheriff could respond. Ahead, Christopher Freeman walked out of the general store. He saw Jacob coming and walked to meet him.
“What were you hollering about?”
“Men from last night been hitting Northerners and freedmen all over,” Jacob said as they headed back to the horses. “Sheriff Coleson’s concerned we’ll end up in the ground if we keep after ‘em. He reckons this’ll all just blow over before too long. You find out anything?”
“Nothing,” Christopher said, spitting to the side. He began unlooping his reins from the hitching rail.“Sent the telegrams ahead and behind and found out where some of the other freedmen families are living. I’ll ride out to them and have a talk, see if they know anything. Maybe give us a line on that lead Kukluxer.” He swung up into the saddle. “Ask around town, see if you can find anything. Surprised me that the general store owner was polite enough to talk to me, but he clammed up soon as another customer walked. Seems to me some of these folks got a mean streak to ‘em, so you be careful. No telling who’s for these Kukluxers and who’s against.”
“Alright, I’ll be careful,” Jacob said, looking up at Christopher. “Meet you back at Washington’s tonight?”
“Be there by nightfall. If not by then, then soon after. Remember, you be careful.” Christopher put heels to his horse and trotted off.
“You too.” Jacob watched till the other Templar disappeared from view. He walked to the saloon.
It had seen better days. Those better days had likely been sometime before the war. The front entrance, a set of double doors, were open like the sheriff’s office.
He climbed the short stairs out of the mud and clomped his boots clean on the porch. He stepped inside.
The outside almost looked better. Round tables with stacks of cards beneath the legs to balance the wobbles were scattered around the place. In one corner was a badly, and likely often, used craps table. A rickety looking set of stairs climbed to the second story walkway which ran along the far edge of the drinking hall like a balcony. The bar itself stretched across the far side from end to end, a scratched and smokey mirror behind the length of it. Dust lay on everything. Few liquor bottles were in evidence behind the bar, though a sallow middle-aged man was wiping down glasses as he eyed Jacob inquisitively. Seemed wiping down glasses was all bartenders ever did west of the Mississippi. Other than the bartender, the place was deserted.
“Howdy,” said the barkeep.
“Howdy,” Jacob replied, tipping his hat. “Y’all serve whiskey?”
“You in Missouri?”
Jacob walked across the uneven floor. His toe caught a protruding board and he stumbled forward a step.
“Careful there.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Jacob said as he leaned forward onto the bar with his elbows. “I’ll take that whiskey now.”
“Sure thing. Want the bottle or a shot?”
“Shot. Bottle would give me too much liberty with the libations.”
The bartender set a shot glass and poured it to the brim. Jacob put down a dollar coin.
“Ain’t seen too much of that around here,” the bartender said, raising an eyebrow. “You from up yonder?”
“North?” Jacob asked.
The man nodded.
“Chicago,” Jacob said and took the shot. He hissed through his teeth as the cheap liquor burned down his throat and into his chest. “Passing through on our way to Arkansas.”
“You and that nigger of yours? Saw you two in the street talking.”
“Understand you’re the proprietor,” Jacob said, teeth grit together, “but I don’t cotton to that language. I’d appreciate you not using it in my presence.”
“Look, mister,” the bartender said, his eyes wide as he raised his hands palm out, “no offense meant. Just what folks say in these parts. You’re right, I am the proprietor, but I don’t want no trouble neither if you’re a paying customer. Seems to me some folks don’t like me calling ‘em Negroes, others don’t like colored, and then there’s the folks such as yourself as can’t stand to hear nigger. Hell, can’t even call ‘em fucking freedmen sometimes. Never know who is which, so I beg your pardon.”
“My apologies for barking like that,” Jacob said, looking out the saloon’s windows, “but I just saw a mob of men try and burn some folks out of house and home last night. We fought a damn war over slavery, and we can’t even decide what to call freedmen now that it’s done.”
“Want another drink?” the bartender asked. Jacob shook his head and kept looking out the window. “Well, seems to me that the best trail to follow has always been the middle road. Came out west so I could find my fortune, you know, and I didn’t intend on running for office. I’m one they call non-partisan. Seems to me Jefferson was right about slavery being a wolf, and us not having much choice on the matter. We let its ear go, and now everything’s coming back round. Sure you don’t want another one?”
“Got any cider or beer?”
“Just cider. Beer’s been hard to come by, even in St. Louis. Would you believe it? Even them lop-eared Dutch been using their grain for eating. Sad day in a German house when the man’s gotta drink water rather than beer.”
“Gimme a cider then.”
The bartender pulled a mug of cider for Jacob from the giant cask behind the bar. He set it down beside Jacob, who took a drink. It was good cider.
“Now, other side of the eagle, like my pa said, is that we got that damned oath. Seems to me, the Republicans do away with that, we put this all back together and leave the problems on the battlefield,” said the bartender.
“Problems don’t get left on the battlefield, mister. People that have never fought like to think they do, but they don’t. And, problems or not, some men never come home from the battlefield even if their bodies do.”
“You was in the war then?”
“Don’t care to discuss it.”
“Suppose that’s fair.”
“Think there’s other men about who see it your way?”
“What way is that?”
“Rebuilding and moving on from the war.”
“Just letting bygones go bygones? Not likely. The blacksmith, Sam Fulton, came back from war to find a dead wife and children. He’s in a bottle most nights now. Eliana Reid that runs the livery stable, her husband died in the war on the losing side. She saw her own fair share of fighting round these parts. Kept partisans off their land throughout, defending the homestead.”
“What about the sheriff?”
“Coleson, that old pissant? He’s worthless,” the bartender said, putting down the glass he’d been polishing. “Eliana Reid did more to keep the border ruffians outta Grace than that yellow bastard, and she’s a woman. Why you asking anyway?”
“Heard of the Kukluxers?”
“Rebs settling up old scores? Who ain’t, leastwise in these parts?”
“They’ve come to Grace, I reckon. Probably gonna be bad for business.”
“You’re probably correct on that. Not much my problem, though. Folks can go at each other all they want for all I care. Like I said, I’m middle of the road.”
“What about when you ain’t got any choice?”
“Guess I’ll ford that river when I come to it, mister. Now, you’ll excuse me, I got so
me counting to do in back.”
“Guess we all will.” Jacob stood up from the barstool and walked out of the saloon. He tipped his hat to the bartender as he left.
Who was it? They’d heard a voice, a normal, human voice, the night before. Someone was at the head of these Kukluxers, keeping a hand on the reins and boots in the stirrups. Jacob paused on the front porch of the saloon, looked back at it for a moment, then back over the town of Grace. Who? Christopher had mentioned something about the general store owner seeming amenable to talk. Jacob walked down towards Ketch General.
The Templar pushed open the door to the general store. A bell over the entryway rang, jangling like a lost cow stirred to action. Merchandise was spaced out evenly on shelves behind the counter that ran the length of the back and sides. A small, miserly looking man stood behind the counter at the far end. He appeared to be examining the books, a ledger spread in front of him on the pine countertop.
“Hullo,” Jacob called as he walked in.
“Afternoon, sir,” the man replied. “What can we get for you today?”
“Needing cartridges for my pistol.” Jacob was lying. The order gave them plenty of ammunition for their revolvers, full well knowing that some things just didn’t want to die when they were told to.
“Ball and cap?”
“No. The new rimfire cartridges.”
“Had a man come in earlier who was asking for the same. Forty-fours?”
“You named ‘em.”
“You riding with that gentleman?”
“I am,” Jacob replied after a moment’s hesitation.
“You two in town to do some business,” the man asked, eyes peering down at Jacob’s gun-belt and sword, “or just passing through?”
“Was just passing through,” Jacob replied, walking up to the counter. “On our way to Fort Smith. Ran into a bit of trouble last night, though. Gonna stick around and see it through.”
“Trouble’s been growing like weeds in spring since the rebellion was put down. Name’s John Ketch. This is my shop.” Ketch offered his hand across the counter. Jacob took it and shook.
“Jacob Smith. Christopher said you seemed willing to talk.”
The New Orleans Zombie Riot of 1866: And Other Jacob Smith Stories Page 7