* * *
Judge Willem Tolliver was sixty-some years old and showing every minute of it on his long, lined face. He still had thick gray hair that seldom yielded to the ministrations of a comb, and anytime you met him he was carrying the smell of cheap cigars. This afternoon, sitting behind his desk, he peered across at Sheriff Jordan Kersey with a vague suspicion in his eyes.
"Bad news?" Tolliver asked, before the lawman had a chance to speak.
"It's not a social call," Kersey replied.
"Of course not. Damn few come to see me if they haven't got some kinda problem on their minds. Well, spit it out."
"The freedmen," Kersey said, and seemed about to leave it there, for Tolliver to work the details out by mind-reading.
"Well, what about them?" Tolliver demanded.
"Don't know if you heard about it, but somebody tried to lynch that one couple, the Hilliards, yesterday."
"I caught a whiff. Have you arrested anyone for that?"
"Not yet, nor likely to. The bounty guns who brought in Bad Eye Voightlander killed one of them and maybe winged another, but he hasn't come to town for patching up. The others got away."
"And you suspect they're holed up at the Circle F," Tolliver said, not asking.
"Well, where else?" Kersey replied. "You know how Fields is, when it comes to blacks or any other so-called squatters on the range."
"These folk are homesteaders," said Tolliver. "All signed and sealed, according to the U.S. government."
Kersey nodded acknowledgement, but didn't seem convinced. "The Homestead Act is federal, though. If anything, the army ought to be protecting them."
Tolliver snorted, leaned back in his chair. "Jordan," he said, "you oversee the law and order in this county, just like when you nabbed those fellas from Missouri selling guns and rotgut to the Indians a couple years ago. It isn't like you, trying to off-load responsibility when crime is right in front of you."
"First thing, I've got no evidence, except that Arnie Sallinger—the one those shooters killed—worked on the Circle F. That doesn't mean Fields is behind the nightriders. I know damn well you wouldn't let me have a warrant, based on that."
"You're right. I wouldn't. But there's nothing in your way as far as stopping by to have a word with Ellis, verify you know one of his men got shot breaking the law, and ask him what he knows about it."
"He'd just lie."
"And lies can put you on a trail, the same as facts. Sometimes it just takes longer getting to the nub of things."
"On top of that, I'm wondering about my deputy."
"Sandy?" The judge let out another snort. "He's not the sharpest razor in the barbershop, I'll give you that."
"I think he might be working with the vigilantes, Judge."
"That's something you should verify without delay," said Tolliver. "Before you toss his ass in jail."
Chapter 9
The food was piping hot and perfectly prepared. The company, packed in around the Hilliards' dining table, was congenial—except, perhaps, for Moses Dyer, who regarded Kate and J.D. Blaze with a suspicious eye.
Before dinner was served, there'd been handshaking all around with other members of the small ex-slave community in Yankton. J.D. thought he'd memorized most of their names, though he was shaky on the children, treating them to smiles and feeling thankful that they didn't say much in the company of strangers. Kate was in her element, of course, charming the lot of them, downplaying what they'd done to save the Hilliards as it if was all in a day's work.
Which he supposed it was, for them.
"I don't believe I've ever seen chicken fried better," she was saying, to Calliope's delight. "What do you think, J.D.?"
"I wouldn't argue with you, Hon," he dutifully replied.
There was a momentary lull in conversation, before Venus Jones inquired, "If you don't mind me askin', how did you-all come to lead your present trade?"
Kate, with her mouth full, nodded to J.D. "It was coincidence, I guess," he said. "I did some bounty work before we met, and I was bringing in a holdup artist when Kate caught my eye, or I caught hers. Next thing you know, we're hitched and traveling the county, anywhere there's work."
"Gun work," said Moses Dyer, his deep voice fairly rumbling.
Calliope glared at him, saying, "Moses, please!"
"No problem," J.D. said. "And no offense. It's true we help the law whenever possible, and shooting's sometimes part of it. Give me a choice of dying or assisting some rough hombre on his way, and it's no choice at all."
"The Bible says 'Thou shalt not kill'," Moses intoned.
J.D. met Dyer's gaze without a flinch. "It doesn't say 'stand by and let yourself be killed.' I never heard of any verse in scripture that forbade a man or woman from the right to self-defense," he said. "And if you check the original Hebrew, I believe the verse you're quoting actually translates as 'Thou shalt not murder.' There's a difference, at least as I interpret it."
Moses harumphed but didn't have an answer at the moment, turning full attention back to his half-empty dinner plate. Most of the others at the table smiled or nodded, watching Dyer as they signaled their approval for J.D.'s remark.
Kate tried to steer the conversation in a slightly more serene direction, asking Amos and Calliope, "Have there been any more disturbances since yesterday?"
"None yet," Amos replied. "We've talked some about what to do if it resumes, whether to leave or stay and fight."
Around the dining table, worried eyes focused on Kate and J.D. Blaze. J.D. had noticed that the other men had come with rifles, which were stacked together in a corner by the door, suggesting that they had the will to fight, even if they got shaky when they thought it through.
Before Kate had another chance to speak, J.D. told them, "It's risky, giving you advice on how to plan your lives. Some folks would call it downright reckless. For myself, I'd have to say it's up to all of you to say how much you want your land right now, and how much you would sacrifice to keep it. Kate and I can't make that kind of a decision for you, when we're moving on."
* * *
"Awright," said Brent Bodine, voice slightly muffled by the flour sack he wore over his head. "We got 'em all together in one place, and we can wrap this up tonight. Take care of this for Mr. Fields and get things back to normal hereabouts."
His troop was back at full strength now, eleven men around him, with two greenhorns standing in for Arnie Sallinger and wounded Gus McOwen. Neither one of them had ridden with the White Caps heretofore, but they were young and eager, both men new arrivals in the county from down Alabama way, where they'd been active Klansmen until federal warrants sent them fleeing northward. Bodine reckoned they could hold their own against a bunch of darkies eating supper, unaware that Death was breathing down their necks.
It ought to be a cakewalk, if they kept their wits about them and left no surviving witnesses.
"All of you double-check your guns," Bodine commanded, suiting words to action as he checked his pistol first, saw all six chambers loaded, then confirmed having a live round in his Henry rifle's chamber. Sixteen in the magazine gave Bodine twenty-three shots before he was forced to reload. And if he couldn't do the job with that...well, shit, he was in trouble anyway you sliced it.
All around him, weapons clicked and clacked as vigilantes made their final checkups. As far as Bodine could determine, every one of his companions was relaxed and comfortable in his saddle—though, of course, he couldn't see their faces underneath the homemade hoods, to tell if they were sweating, grimacing, or wishing they were safely back at home.
As long as they performed on cue—ten minutes, he decided, fifteen tops—they shouldn't have a problem mopping up the darkies and eliminating the main source of anguish in their boss's otherwise idyllic life.
Lord of the Range in Yankton County, that was Ellis Fields. He had the land and money to ensure that every politician in the capital made time to chat when he requested it, and that they came away persuaded that his point of view was
best for all concerned. Some of them might be troubled by the death of ten, twelve former slaves from Dixie, but it likely wouldn't cost them any sleep at night, once they'd received pay packets from the Circle F to shrug and look the other way.
Dakota Territory was a wild place still, from outlaws on the prod to Sioux braves camped out in the Black Hills, threatening a war if any white man trespassed on their land in violation of the 1868 Fort Laramie Treaty. Lately, gold prospectors had been risking life and limb to look for color in those hills, and if they ever found it—boy, look out.
But in the meantime, Bodine and his men had work to do right now.
"All set?" he asked them, waiting until the masked heads nodded or they muttered something back in the affirmative. "Awright," he said at last. "Let's go!"
* * *
Moses Dyer didn't like or trust the bounty hunters, made no secret of the fact that he regarded them as simply two more crackers in a white man's world, despite the fact that they had risked their lives to keep Calliope and Amos Hilliard from doing a rope dance for the lynching mob.
That knowledge went against the grain for Dyer, flying in the face of his experience, both as a slave in Arkansas and as a so-called free man after 1865. From birth he had known white men as his masters, grown up with the knowledge that the poorest cracker in the world could shoot him down with virtual impunity, maybe paying a fine to Dyer's owner if the planter felt like suing him. Moses had spent the best part of his life as property, regarded by white law as being on the same plane with a cow or hog, maybe a wagon or a kitchen table. His humanity had never been considered, rarely even mentioned on the old plantation, until men in blue arrived and told the captive workers they were free to go.
Go where? Away, in Dyer's case, though many others stayed, too rooted in the bloodstained soil to seek another home in unfamiliar territory. Moses, unmarried and childless as far as he knew, had stolen a mule and struck off with the North Star to guide him, eventually landing where he sat tonight, facing the same old threats from white men bent on ruling him, or killing him if he would not obey.
As for the bounty hunters, Kate and J.D. Blaze, Dyer had no honest idea what they were thinking, why they'd intervened when nine whites out of ten he knew in town would likely turn their backs on Amos and Calliope, letting them hang. It shook his faith—or was it lack of faith?—in humankind and made him wonder if he might be sitting in the presence of a whole new breed, immune to hatred of a black man simply for the color of his skin.
Moses was munching on another chicken leg, trying to work the problem out inside his head, when he heard ghostly whooping sounds outside, and gunshots coming close behind.
* * *
"It's them!" cried Venus Jones, dropping her knife and fork. "They're back!"
"Stay low," Kate warned, "and grab those guns."
J.D. and Kate had brought their Winchesters inside the house, an everyday precaution when they left their horses anywhere, and now they joined the rush of freedmen for the arms they'd carried on arrival at the Hilliards' home. Among the four black men, they had two Henry rifles, a Colt revolving model dating back to 1855, and Moses Dyer's double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun. Kate aside, the women huddled in a corner of the kitchen, armed with pieces of Calliope's home cutlery: two carving knives and an impressive looking cleaver. There was nothing for the children but to clutch their mothers' skirts and wail.
The farmhouse had three windows that J.D. could see from where he stood, and probably at least a couple more in the remaining rooms. Before the dinner guests could panic, he called out to them, "Cover the entry points. We need at least one gun per window, anyway. Is there a backdoor to the house?"
"I haven't put one in," Amos replied. "I thought I'd maybe do it later, if we had some kids, but—"
"One door's easier to cover than a pair of them," Kate said. "How many windows in the other rooms?"
"One each," Calliope replied. "Total of five."
"And we've got six long guns, together with our Colts," J.D. pitched in. "Spread out to cover them and keep your heads down, from incoming fire."
As if in answer to his spoken thought, a bullet drilled the left-front window of the combination dining room and parlor, spraying glass across the table where they'd all been seated moments earlier. Another struck the door but failed to penetrate it, even though it caused some ragged splinters to protrude on the inside. The children started squealing then, until their mothers hushed them, watching while the menfolk separated, moving out to cover all the farmhouse windows and prevent invaders from intruding.
Kate and J.D. crouched beside one window, close together, peering out into the early dark as horsemen masked in flour sacks began to ride in circles, round and round the home they had besieged. From time to time, one of them fired a shot that shattered glass or slapped against a stout log wall. The window shots rattled around inside the house, damaging crockery and furniture, but no one in the dwelling suffered any injury on that first pass.
"No torches," Kate commented. "Still..."
"How long before they try to burn us out?" J.D. whispered, completing her grim thought.
"I'd say it all depends how dumb they are, J.D."
"No geniuses among them, I suppose," he said. "But they still caught us with our guard down."
"Right. But we aren't beaten yet. Not by a long shot."
Even as she spoke, a rifle bullet smashed the window they'd been peering through, spraying the pair of them with slivered glass. Dumb luck kept it from getting in their eyes, though splinters nicked their faces, loosing tiny crimson rivulets of blood.
"All right, I'm sick of this," J.D. announced, and shouldered his Winchester. "Two can play this game."
"And only one can win," Kate said, before she opened fire.
Chapter 10
Moses Dyer, stationed at the window of the Hilliards' bedroom, heard the hooded riders coming, whooping like a bunch of drunkards at a rodeo. He braced himself, already had the window open to its full extent, the double barrels of his twelve-gauge shotgun angled toward the spot where the attackers should appear.
A few brawls in his youth aside, scuffling with other slaves his own age on the master's sprawling cotton farm, Dyer had never been much of a fighter. Early on, he'd learned to take the white man's lip and fake a smile, as if he were too dumb to understand that he had been insulted. His response to orders had been "Yassuh" until 1865, and even after some white man in Washington, D.C., declared him free, the habit proved nearly impossible to break.
But he was primed for fighting now, to help his newfound friends and, by extension, hold onto his own homestead in Yankton County. Not that he had any wife or kids to name as heirs, but it was his, by God, and even when he argued with the other freedmen against fighting for their land, his heart—what there was left of it—kept telling him that he was too damned old to run again.
His major worry, now, was whether he had brought enough spare ammunition in his pockets to prolong a battle with the hooded sons of bitches who were bent on killing him and everyone he knew around Yankton. Twelve cartridges, six reloads for the double-barrel, and he would be down to fighting with bare hands, unless they drilled him first.
So what? a little voice inside him asked?
Twelve shotgun blasts could likely finish off the lot of them, if he held steady and his aim was true. To that, add all the others shooting, with the bounty killers on their side, and Dyer reckoned he could make it through all right, unless a lucky bullet flying through the open bedroom window cut him down.
The first horsemen hove into view and Moses fired one barrel of his weapon, cursing as he missed his mark completely with the buckshot charge. He muttered to himself, "Goddamn it, lead 'em!" and recoiled as bullets struck the window frame around him.
Picking out a point in space ahead of one more hooded gunman, Moses led his target by a yard or so, allowing for the horse's speed, and squeezed his shotgun's second trigger, rolling with the gun's recoil. Before he duck
ed down to reload, he saw the masked man tumble from his saddle, spraying blood from holes punched through his chest and abdomen.
* * *
Brent Bodine saw one of his nightriders fall—was that Joe Chapman screaming as he tumbled from his brindle mare, leaving its saddle splashed with blood?—and cursed aloud before he aimed a pistol shot at the now-empty window where the deadly shot had come from. It was wasted, gouging splinters from the frame, and made him feel no better as he galloped on around the farmhouse, heading for a second pass in front.
Bodine wasn't accustomed to the darkies fighting back, much less with guns and taking white men down. He blamed it on the bounty hunters who had interrupted him while he was stringing up the Hilliards yesterday. That kind of thing put thoughts in woolly heads that shouldn't weigh on simple minds: ideas like self-assertion, standing up and talking back, and God knew what else flowed from that.
The only cure for uppity behavior was to crush it, and once white blood had been spilled, no punishment but death would do. However many freedmen were inside the farmhouse, wives and brats included, they all had to die, or no white man in Yankton County would be safe. Even forgetting the demands from Mr. Fields, it set a bad example for the territory's redskins, who were muttering already about war if prospectors went sniffing after gold in the Black Hills.
Where would it end?
With any luck, right here, tonight.
Bodine had almost reached the front side of the house by now, and he was hunched down in his saddle, angling for a clear shot with his six-gun at the nearest window, where he saw a rifle barrel poking out as bold as brass. His silver dapple gelding ran flat-out, making it hard to aim, but Bodine needed speed as much as accuracy at the moment. If he slowed too much, one of the bastards lurking in the house would pick him off and that would be the end of him.
All right, then.
Thirty feet or so from contact with the enemy, he held his breath and opened fire.
* * *
"Dammit!" Kate yelped, and J.D. spun in her direction instantly.
Blaze! Night Riders Page 6