by Donis Casey
Charlie gritted his teeth, sorry now that he had asked Henry to come along, but he said nothing. He could see a globe of light in the distance, a guard walking the perimeter. He was coming in their direction.
“Come on,” he whispered, and slunk off toward one of the tall brick piles without checking to see if Henry was behind him. They hunkered down behind the stacks until the guard had ambled by. The boys sat in silence for ten minutes to make sure he was gone before dashing across an open space to skirt along the long covered kiln and head toward the rail siding.
They were approaching the tracks when Charlie noticed something hanging from the steel scaffolding at the end of the kiln. A man. No, a body, hanging by its heels.
Charlie gasped and turned toward Henry, but Henry was no longer standing behind him. He was splayed out in the dirt at Charlie’s feet, out cold. A dark figure in a bowler hat was standing over him with a wooden baton in one bloody hand and a knife in the other.
The voice that spoke out of the dark sounded downright cheerful. “Why, what have we here?”
Charlie intended to scream for help, but the shadow man swung the baton at his head before he could make a sound.
***
Alafair saw the roving guard’s lantern and halted the roan behind a stack of bricks, waiting for him to pass. She sat on the horse’s back for a couple of minutes, unable to see much of anything in the dark, listening for movement. The brick stack she was hiding behind was situated close to the entrance of one of the two thirty-foot-long continuous kilns, where carloads of green bricks rolled slowly through the heated tunnels and emerged dry and ready to stack at the other end. She was not familiar with the layout of the brick plant, but she could see the hulking shapes of boxcars in the distance, at the end of the kilns, and a raised shape nearby that she assumed was a loading dock.
She could see something else, too, hanging from the iron scaffolding near the rail spur. Her first thought was that someone had hoisted up a side of beef. But then a side of beef didn’t have arms dangling toward the ground.
Had her heart not leaped into her throat at the thought that the dangling body might be Charlie, she would have ridden off to find the guard. As it was, she unholstered her rifle and dug her heels into the roan’s sides.
Alafair saw the movement on the ground under the hanging man before she quite got close enough to make out what was happening. She reined hard when she realized that the figure on his knees, trying to get to his feet, was her son. She recognized the man in the bowler standing over him, as well. The devil.
“You!” she cried.
Nick barely had time to turn toward her before she raised the rifle and fired. She winged him and he staggered, but he recovered quickly and drew his sidearm. The roan was dancing around, raising dust, making it hard for Alafair to aim again. Before she could draw a bead, Nick pulled Charlie to his feet and pressed the pistol against the boy’s temple.
“Ma?” Charlie mumbled.
Lights were coming toward them now, and men shouting in the dark. Three or four guards, alerted by the gunfire.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Alafair’s voice halted the men in their tracks. All were armed, and the rifle barrels waved back and forth as the guards tried to decide who to aim at.
“Is that Miz Tucker?” One of the guards had recognized her, though she didn’t have time to call his name to mind.
“Yes, don’t shoot! He’s got my boy. Look yonder, he’s killed someone.”
The gun barrels swiveled as one in Nick’s direction. “Everybody stand back, now,” Nick said. He sounded calm. “Lady, drop that rifle and get down off that horse. I’m going to ride out of here easy as you please and take this boy with me. If nobody follows me, I’ll drop him off down the road. Otherwise I’ll blast a hole in his skull.”
For an instant, nobody moved. Charlie was woozy, unsteady on his feet. In the yellow light of the guards’ lanterns, Nick’s hostage looked even younger than he was, for which Alafair was grateful. None of the watchmen was willing to take a chance on shooting a child.
Alafair dropped her rifle. “Don’t hurt him,” she said, as she dismounted. Keeping the boy in front of him, Nick sidled around so that the roan was between them and the guards. The graze on his shoulder hurt, but he could move his arm without difficulty. His plan was to hoist the boy up front of the saddle horn and mount behind him, keeping the pistol pressed against Charlie’s head.
But that was easier said than done.
As Alafair backed off, Nick grabbed at the reins, but the white-maned roan tossed his head and shied. Charlie was reeling. If he passed out before Nick could get him tossed over the horse’s withers, he figured he’d be shot full of holes before the boy hit the ground. He growled and reached again. He managed to get hold of a handful of leather and gave the reins a vicious jerk.
The horse went crazy. He shrieked and leaped straight up in the air, all four hooves off the ground, and began to buck like the ground was on fire. Nick let go of Charlie and fired at the roan. The shot went wild and Nick didn’t get a chance to fire another. The roan came down right on top of him, rearing and kicking.
Alafair dashed in and hauled Charlie out of the way, dragging him through the dirt by both arms. The guards were hollering and trying to get a clear shot, but the light was too dim to see who was whom and what was happening. A demon was loose, it looked like, or the jaws of hell had opened.
It was all over in a couple of minutes. The roan hopped several times and ran off a few yards. He calmed down on his own, then trotted back as though nothing unusual had occurred. Charlie was lying on the ground half-conscious, his head cradled in his mother’s lap, when the horse walked up and nosed him.
One of the guards was bending over Henry, who was still alive but out cold.
Nick did not move. There wasn’t much left of him.
Chapter Sixty-six
“Once lead [the American] people into war and they will forget there ever was such a thing as tolerance.”
—Woodrow Wilson, April 1917
Since Scott and Trent were both gone, Scott’s eldest son and sometime-deputy, Slim Tucker, responded to the call from the brick plant. Slim hadn’t been able to make sense of the tale the excited watchman had told him, so he was unprepared for the chaotic scene in the yard when he arrived.
Slim couldn’t identify the trampled corpse on the ground near the rail spur, but the body still hanging from the scaffolding with a surprised expression on its face and its throat cut was definitely the earthly remains of Dutch Leonard.
Slim examined the scene as best he could in the dim lantern light, made some drawings and took some notes, then gave permission to cut down Leonard and send for the undertaker. The boss watchman offered a desk and chair in the machine shop so Slim could interview everyone who had been involved—the three roving guards, a woman, and two young fellows with head wounds.
Slim blinked in the bright electric light when he first entered the machine shop and caught sight of his first cousin by marriage, once removed, tending to a couple of wounded young men seated in chairs in the corner. He didn’t know the blond youth with the damp rag pressed to the side of his head, but the boy getting his scalp bandaged was Charlie.
“Alafair?” His tone indicated that he didn’t quite believe his own eyes.
She straightened when Slim called her name, a bandage roll in her hand. Her eyes were sunken with fatigue and worry. She also looked exasperated beyond endurance. “Where’s your daddy, Slim?”
Slim wasn’t about to tell her that his daddy was on a mission to stop her brother from committing treason. He sat down behind the desk. “He’ll be back directly. Now, you’d better tell me what the sam hill is going on.”
***
The horizon had lightened and the town was stirring by the time Scott and his deputy finally arrived in Boynton with their prisoner in t
ow on the mule they had commandeered in the confusion. Scott was looking forward to heading for home and a hot meal as soon as he got Rob Gunn locked in a cell.
He could tell by the expression on Slim’s face that it was not to be.
He left Trent at the jailhouse and followed Slim to the brick plant. By the time he found himself standing with Slim, Mr. Ober, and couple of night watchmen, gazing down at the deceased, the sun was well up and the first shift had begun to arrive.
The bodies had been decently laid out on a tarp on the ground near where they had died. Mr. Lee, the undertaker, was standing off to one side, next to his hearse, patiently awaiting the go-ahead to remove the dead. Scott sighed. “Well, I recognize Dutch Leonard, all right, but I don’t know this other one. You say he worked for you, Mr. Ober?
Ober looked grim. “He did, I’m sorry to say. He said he could root out whoever was causing the troubles here at the plant. I told him I didn’t cotton to violence, but I reckon he had his own agenda.”
Scott gave Ober a mild glance. “Were you so afraid that your hands might get organized that you felt you had to hire a union buster?”
Ober had the good grace to look chagrined. “You don’t know what kind of pressure I’m under to get this shipment out, Scott. I can’t afford these slowdowns. Mr. Vitric is bound and determined that we don’t lose the Army contract.”
Mr. Francis Vitric was Frank Ober’s father-in-law, so Scott could well imagine what kind of pressure he was under. Scott picked up the crushed bowler hat that someone had placed next to the remains and studied it thoughtfully. “What was his name?”
“He told me it was Nick Smith. Didn’t say where he was from, just that he came in from New Mexico. I don’t know if he had any family who need to be notified.”
The men pondered this piece of information in silence for a moment before Scott said, “Well, I doubt if that was his real name. He sure killed Dutch Leonard, though. But was it Dutch who killed Avey and Walker? Or was it this old boy here? I didn’t much cotton to Dutch, but I never thought of him as a murderer.”
Ober’s brows drew together. “Why would a union buster kill a couple of Council of Defense men? Surely it was Dutch, or one of his I.W.W. cronies. I’ll bet money he was the one sabotaging my equipment, anyway.”
Scott was thinking of the man he had locked up in his jailhouse, the I.W.W. agitator who owned a buck knife. “It was a stranger in a bowler hat by the name of Nick Smith who told Trent about an uprising over by Little River and sent us high-tailing out of town tonight.” He made the observation without drawing a conclusion. He turned to his son. “Slim, did you tell Alafair and the two youngsters that they could go home?”
“I took all three of them over to Doc Addison’s house, Dad. I expect they’re still there. Both the boys had pretty bad conks on the head.”
***
Alafair was sitting in Dr. Jasper Addison’s parlor with a coffee mug in her hands when Emmanuel Clover came in. Alafair looked up at him with tired eyes, but didn’t rise. He was dressed in his usual black suit and white shirt, but Alafair had never before seen him without a tie. “What are you doing here, Mr. Clover?”
“I saw the wagon carrying you and the lads from the hotel window when it came down Main Street.”
“At this hour?”
“I don’t sleep well lately, Mrs. Tucker. How are the boys?” His voice was full of concern.
“You heard what happened?”
“Just now. Mr. Tyler, the watchman who drove y’all over here, told me that Dutch Leonard and an accomplice were killed while attempting to perpetrate an act of sabotage at the brick plant. He said that your son and another young man caught them in the act and were badly injured.”
“Doc says they’ll both be all right.” She smiled, relieved to be able to say it. “The man who killed Dutch swung a club at Charlie, but just grazed him. He has a pretty ugly cut on his scalp. Henry Blackwood got knocked cold, though, and has a big old dent in his skull. He’s awake, but he wasn’t making much sense last I heard. His uncle Mr. Bent is in there with him. Doc told me I can take Charlie home directly, but he wants to keep an eye on Henry for a day or so.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Tucker. I knew Dutch Leonard was a dangerous agitator, but I had no idea that he would be so low as to attack a boy as young as Charlie.”
Alafair blinked at him. “He didn’t. Mr. Tyler didn’t tell you everything, did he? Dutch was murdered by the man he was with, the same man who tried to kill Charlie and his friend.” She related the whole story to Clover, and when she was finished, he sat back in his chair, astounded.
“But who is this despicable murderer? Someone bent on revenge for the deaths of my fellow CD officers?”
Alafair was silent for a moment while she considered what to say. She glanced at Mrs. Doc Addison, who was standing in the hall door, listening eagerly. “I don’t know who he was or why he killed Dutch, Mr. Clover. But just last evening I was talking to… Someone told me a thing that makes me believe the man I saw trampled to death tonight is the same man who killed Win and Billy Claude, too.”
“Was he someone you knew?”
“No, sir. I never saw him before. He was a plain fellow with no memorable qualities except for a white scar beside his eye and a bowler hat.”
The expression of horror that passed over Clover’s face caused Mrs. Doc to rush to his side. “You look like you’re fixing to faint, Mr. Clover.”
Clover bent his head over his knees. “May I have a glass of water, Mrs. Addison?”
Alafair leaned toward him when Mrs. Doc was out of earshot. “Mr. Clover, when did you talk to the man in the bowler hat?”
He looked up at her from under his eyebrows, but said nothing.
“Did you tell him that you wished Dutch Leonard was dead?”
Clover gasped and paled, but didn’t deny it. “He came to me after the riot at the Liberty Sing. What Dutch did was treason. I feared that if no one stopped him, Dutch would bring chaos down on us. I was walking home when someone in just such a hat came up behind me. It was like a dream, Mrs. Tucker. He said all I had to do was nod and he would take care of it. I didn’t like to think what he meant. But I nodded.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Dutch had just incited a riot. I was afraid, Mrs. Tucker. I am afraid.”
Alafair put a comforting hand on Clover’s arm. “Fear will sure make you do things you’re sorry for later. I surely know it.”
Mrs. Doc passed through and handed Clover a glass of water before answering a knock at the door. Scott followed her back into the parlor.
Scott Tucker was closer to sixty than to fifty, balding, with a comfortable belly and crinkly blue eyes. He was normally an unthreatening presence, but his manner when he came to a stop in front of Alafair’s chair indicated that he was not in the mood for pleasantries. “Alafair, bodies are piling up like cordwood around here. The story that Slim told me about the goings-on tonight is pretty hard to believe. I think I’d better hear it from you.” He noticed the man in the chair beside her. “Emmanuel? I hope you have a good reason for being here.”
***
Mr. Ober was sorry that so many lives had been lost, but he couldn’t help but be relieved that the saboteur was no more, and the Francis Vitric Brick Company could get back to business as usual. The two boxcar loads of building brick had been saved and were on the siding ready to go on the appointed morning. Fort Bliss would receive its shipment on time and Mr. Ober’s father-in-law would have no cause for complaint.
He was standing on the loading dock bright and early, dressed in his serge suit, checking his pocket watch, when the messenger walked up the path beside the tracks and asked for him by name.
“I’m Frank Ober. We’re expecting an engine any minute now, so I don’t have much time. What can I do for you?”
The man was muscular, sweat-stained
, and covered with coal dust. He removed the bandana from his neck and wiped his face. “My engineer sent me up here to tell you that he can’t get up the spur. The trestle over that little creek yonder has collapsed. I had a gander at it and it sure weren’t no accident. Somebody spent a goodly time digging and sawing those bridge supports. The track went down with it. Looks like the St. Louis-San Francisco line won’t be hauling any bricks for you for a long spell.”
Chapter Sixty-seven
“Backbone of Draft Rebellion Believed Broken”
—Tulsa Daily World, August 5, 1917
Scott looked up from the papers on his desk when Alafair and Shaw came into the office late the next morning. “Well, hey. Y’all here to visit Robin before I haul him off to Muskogee?”
Alafair heaved a great sigh in lieu of an answer.
“How’s Charlie?”
“In trouble,” Shaw answered. “But I reckon he’ll live to tell the tale.”
Scott lifted a wanted poster off the desk and handed it to Alafair. “Does this old cuss look familiar?”
Alafair peered at the poster. “Well, he isn’t wearing a bowler hat, but I reckon that’s the same fellow that tried to kill my boy. He’s got them creepy eyes and that little scar.”
Shaw took the paper from her and began to read. “Nicholas Zrska. That’s an odd moniker. Says here he’s wanted in California and in Colorado for murder.”
Scott nodded. “Yesterday I wired the U.S. Marshal’s office in Oklahoma City for more information on him. Zrska was involved in the killing of those five Wobblies who tried to organize the loggers up in Washington State last year. But that’s not what got him in trouble. Seems he knifed the man who hired him to police the dockworkers in San Pedro, and is suspected of killing a supervisor at the steel mill in Pueblo, Colorado. He didn’t play favorites when it came to murder.”
“So he wasn’t the devil after all,” Alafair said, half to herself.
Shaw glanced over the list of Nick’s crimes. “I don’t know if I’d say that, honey.”