Southern Rapture

by Jennifer Blake

  "Of course he will hear, why didn't I think of that? And I can't imagine that he will want Ranny to suffer for the things he is supposed to have done. We will be hearing in a day or two of some new stunt he has pulled."

  Lettie turned her head on the chair back to look at the older woman. "You sound as if you think he lives among you."

  "Well, it stands to reason, doesn't it? He must be someone who knows something about the community in order to know what to do to help. He has to live somewhere within a score or so of miles on either side of Natchitoches for him to know so much about it that he can lead the soldiers around in circles. He must have someplace to go, some hiding place somewhere in that same area; otherwise, how could he disappear the way he does? Or if he doesn't have a hiding place, he must be known to two or three people who permit him to conceal himself until the chase is over."

  The observations were all too familiar to Lettie. "Knowing that, is there no one you think it might be?"

  There was a tight silence. It became distressingly obvious that if there was someone, neither Aunt Em nor Sally Anne felt inclined to speak his name in Lettie's presence.

  "Forget, please, that I asked that," Lettie said.

  "Oh, goodness, these are such trying times. When I think of how simple and pleasant life used to be, I could cry."

  "Such awful things are happening now," Sally Anne agreed.

  Lettie caught a glimmer of an opening for the subject she wanted to broach. "Awful indeed. Does it strike you that there is something … crazed about these killings?"

  "Crazed?"

  "Such as the way that poor man's neck was broken and the callous manner in which Johnny's body was hidden."

  "It sounds rather like the doings of a pack of animals to me," Aunt Em declared. "Animals who think no more of taking a human life than they would of swatting a fly. Now I've wrung the neck of many a chicken. The reason it's done is because it's quick, it's bloodless, and it's not so noisy as other methods. I expect it was the same with the man who was killed. Maybe someone was coming, or maybe there was a house close enough for people to hear and investigate the sound of a gunshot. As for Johnny, the carcasses of dead animals and other garbage are often thrown into abandoned wells, and there are a lot of those around since people are packing up and moving. I would imagine it was just convenient. The wonder is that anybody ever found him."

  "You are saying, then, that you think the outlaws are to blame."

  "Outlaws, jayhawkers, whatever name you want to give them."

  "And you still think the Thorn's emblem was put on the bodies to place the blame on him?"

  "There's no other explanation."

  "Doesn't that strike you as too convenient?"

  "Anything else strikes me as too unlikely. Why should a man who risks his life to save others suddenly turn and kill?"

  "To save himself when he is recognized."

  "You don't want to accept it because it would mean that you have been wrong, that your brother was wrong." The older woman's voice was stern.

  "All right, then," Lettie said, her voice tight, "let's say that there is no connection between the Thorn and the outlaws Johnny knew. Let's say that someone wants to throw suspicion on the Thorn for the outlaws' activities. Why?"

  "I think the reason in the beginning was to delay as long as possible the knowledge that there was outlaw activity in the area. I think the first incident when it was used may have been your brother. With the hue and cry directed toward the Thorn, there was that much more time for the outlaws, and the man who is feeding them information, to get rid of the payroll gold. It worked once, so it was used again and again."

  Lettie watched the older woman with her eyes narrowed in thought. It made sense. "And this man, this messenger?"

  "I've been thinking about that, too. It stands to reason that it's somebody who may have an idea who the Thorn is, somebody who can guess when he comes and goes so that nothing is done in his name when there are witnesses to say he was somewhere else entirely."

  "Such as?"

  Aunt Em threw up her hands. "I have no idea."

  "Someone who disguises himself like the Thorn, do you think?" It was Sally Anne who asked the question.

  "Probably," Aunt Em answered.

  That particular possibility raised specters Lettie would just as soon not face. Suppose the man with whom she had made love was not the Thorn but the messenger?

  No. Her mind slammed some deep internal door on the thought.

  Was it possible that Ranny could be the messenger?

  He was in a position to hear a great deal with the Union army practically encamped on his doorstep these past few weeks. In addition, he was in and out of town all the time driving Aunt Em or Sally Anne or herself. People had a tendency to speak in front of him as if he wasn't there, though she had often thought that he heard and understood much more than they expected.

  Or suppose the Thorn himself was the messenger? Suppose the good deeds he had done were merely a cover for other, more lucrative crimes?

  There were too many possibilities. Lettie wished that she could have Aunt Em's simple faith, wished that she could believe in the explanation she gave. There was a simplicity to it that was seductive. Good and evil were clearly and evenly balanced. The Thorn was a force for right, the outlaws were the devil's henchmen, and Ranny was an innocent victim. Few things, Lettie had discovered, were that easy.

  Good and evil. Angel and devil.

  She was haunted by those words, as if they had some meaning she should be able to decipher. It eluded her now as it had from the beginning.

  At a gesture from Aunt Em, Sally Anne picked up the coffeepot that had been neglected until now and began to pour out cups of the hot, strong brew for them. "I suppose we will have to wait. I questioned Thomas, but he is determined to hold Ranny. I think the fact that there is another payroll due tomorrow may have something to do with it. When it comes in and is sent on to Monroe, Thomas may be more reasonable."

  "He told you about the shipment?" Lettie could not suppress her surprise.

  "I'm afraid I was rather persistent, and he knows he can trust me. He even told me when it will go out again: on Tuesday at four-thirty A.M., with an escort of two men."

  "If someone tries to take the payroll—" Aunt Em began.

  "Then Ranny will be safe."

  Peter had been playing in the backyard with Lionel. Lionel had not come around the veranda but had stayed well away from Lettie. Now and then she saw the older boy looking at her from the corners of his eyes and frowning in furious concentration. She was, illogically, more hurt by his defection than anything else. She had expected him to understand, even if no one else did, how little she wanted to hurt Ranny, how much she regretted that he had been caught in her trap. More than that, she had thought that he had some small affection for her, too.

  Now the younger boy came running around the end of the house and leaped up the stairs. "Look!" he cried. "Look what I found."

  "Slow down before you break your neck," Sally Anne scolded, her attention on the level of the coffee cup she was filling. As Peter slowed to a quick walk and came to lean against her chair with his fist outstretched in front of her, she reached with her free hand to brush back his fine blond hair, which was falling into his face. "Your hair needs combing."

  "Yes, ma'am, but look, Mama."

  He opened his hand.

  The coffeepot Sally Anne held crashed to the table as she cried out. Aunt Em sat forward with a sharp exclamation. Lettie froze into immobility.

  Peter was so startled by their reaction that he jumped. The locust shell fell off his palm, whispered down the side of Sally Anne's skirts, and landed on the floor where it tumbled like a falling leaf. It came to a stop in the bright sunlight that edged the floor in front of them and lay there in the hot glow, gleaming like gold.

  Aunt Em recovered first. "Where did you get that?"

  Peter's face was pale as he looked around in bewilderment. "On the side of
the magnolia tree. I didn't kill it. It was already empty. Ranny says the bugs inside leave them hanging on the trees when they are through with them."

  "So they do, every year about this time," Aunt Em said. "I remember telling him the same thing when he was your age."

  "Can I have it?"

  "By all means, and as many more of the pesky things as you can find."

  Peter picked up the locust shell and put it on his nose, then went skipping away. Sally Anne sat back in her chair with her hand on her bosom. "I thought it was a—a calling card."

  "So did I," Aunt Em said. "Too bad it wasn't."

  The sun slowly crept near the house wall, forcing a move to the front veranda, before the Tylers, Sally Anne's mother and father, arrived. Mrs. Tyler brought with her a layer cake iced with blackberry jelly that she had made. They had it with more coffee and sat speaking in soft, subdued voices of Ranny's escapades as a boy and young man. They did not ignore Lettie, they were not that obvious; still, they had little to say to her. She was trying to think of some graceful way to take her leave and go to her room when Martin Eden drove up.

  "Aunt Em," he said as he came up the steps with his hat in his hand, "I can't tell you how sorry I am to hear about Ranny."

  Aunt Em opened her arms and he came forward to give her a hug. "It was good of you to come," she said.

  "I've already been to see him. I did my best to convince Colonel Ward that he's making a mistake, but he's so determined to have a scapegoat, however unlikely a specimen, that he wouldn't listen."

  "I hardly think that's a proper way to refer to Ranny!" Sally Anne told him.

  "I beg your pardon, Aunt Em. I only meant that—"

  "Never mind, Martin," the older woman said, "I know what you meant."

  "Is there anything I can do for you, anything I can take to Ranny?"

  "I appreciate the offer, but I don't think so, not today."

  "I wondered if he had his harmonica? That might give him some entertainment."

  "Now that you put me in mind of it, I don't think he does. I'll look for it, and you can take that."

  "Good. I'll feel better doing something for him, no matter how small, since I'll be going out of town for a day or two."

  "Business, Martin?" Sally Anne asked.

  "Yes, unfortunately."

  "Union business, but then I suppose you have to jump when your masters snap the whip?"

  "That's the way it is," he agreed, his voice dry.

  "Too bad."

  "Why? Was there something you wanted of me?" He tilted his dark head, his manner at its most charming.

  "I rather thought you might do something to free Ranny instead of just delivering his harmonica." Sally Anne's tone was petulant.

  Martin smiled. "Don't tell me you don't trust your Yankee colonel to see justice done?"

  "You may leave Thomas out of this. He's only obeying orders."

  "Is he now?"

  "What do you mean by that?" The woman sat forward in her chair.

  "Nothing, nothing." Martin held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  "Besides, he isn't my colonel!" She threw herself against her chair back.

  "I'm glad to hear it. But just what miracle was it you had in mind for me to perform to get Ranny released?"

  "I don't know. Something. Anything. Use your connections."

  "I doubt it will help. This is a military matter now and the sheriff won't interfere. The governor is hardly likely to step in unless it's to his benefit." He gave her a sly look. "Of course, I suppose I could always try to bribe the colonel."

  "That isn't funny!"

  "And in any case, he's richer than I am, isn't he? So what's left?"

  "The Knights?"

  It seemed to Lettie that Ranny's cousin slanted a quick look at her father as she made the suggestion. The older man stared out over the railing as if his thoughts were elsewhere.

  "Breaking men out of jail isn't their specialty."

  "Maybe not," Sally Anne agreed, her gaze on Martin steady, "but the Thorn could do it."

  There was a silence on the veranda. Every glance, in that brief instant, was on Martin. He looked taken aback. "My dear girl, I'm not your man!"

  "I would hardly expect you to admit it, but if you have any feeling for Ranny—"

  "No," Lettie said.

  Martin was no longer the center of attention.

  "What do you mean, no?" Sally Anne demanded.

  Lettie gave her a level look. "It won't work. Anyone who tries to free him will just get him killed, along with themselves."

  "Not necessarily." The other woman's tone was defensive.

  "And even if it worked, what would become of him? He couldn't come back to Splendora. He might be able to take care of himself in Texas or farther west, but he wouldn't be happy away from everyone."

  Martin Eden stared down at her. "I have no intention of doing anything foolhardy, Miss Mason, but I think it highly impertinent of you to be deciding Ranny's fate."

  "That may be, but it seems to me his chances are better if he depends on the colonel to discover the truth."

  "Even after he and his men search Splendora for evidence, as they will?"

  "Are you implying there is something to be found?"

  "Are you certain there's not? Or that the colonel won't manufacture what he doesn't find?"

  What did he really believe behind that smiling, handsome façade of his face? It was impossible to tell. "I'm amazed you would suggest such a thing, amazed you can't see that Ranny is better as he is."

  "There are many things about us that amaze you, aren't there, a lot of things you don't understand. Like Ranny and the Thorn. You interfered there, and look what happened. Now you want to tell us what's best for him? It may be, Miss Mason, that you would be better off if you went back North where you belong."

  No one spoke. No one chided Martin for his breach of manners or protested that he was wrong. It was as if he had merely put into words what they all felt. They had silently closed ranks against her, the interloper, the traitor.

  Lettie rose to her feet. "You may be right, Mr. Eden. You may be exactly right."

  She walked into the house. The close, stifling stillness of her bedchamber had no appeal, and she continued along the hallway and out the back doors. She crossed the back veranda and went down the steps with her skirts trailing over the treads, then moved along the brick walk past the herb garden and the kitchen building. The tempo of her footsteps increased the farther she went from the big house. Faster she walked, faster, until by the time she reached the schoolroom she was almost running. She hurried into the small cabin and shut the door behind her. With her hand still on the knob, she leaned against the door panel and closed her eyes.

  Martin was right; she should go. To stay when everyone wished her gone was like inflicting a penance upon herself. She felt it and longed to have the whole thing over and behind her, but she could not seem to bring herself to think seriously of packing and arranging for the journey. Not while Ranny's fate was undecided.

  Splendora seemed so empty without him. As quiet and unassuming as he was, it was extraordinary how he had made his presence felt. Everyone and everything, to one degree or another, depended on him. He was the sun around which the household revolved. Without him, it was bleak and purposeless.

  Even this schoolroom. She opened her eyes and looked around. It appeared the same, had the same dry smells of books and chalk and glue and old leather bindings. The sunlight falling through the window in a wide beam had the same brilliance and the same slowly turning dust motes caught in its shafts. Still, the room felt dull and deserted.

  Lettie let her breath out in a tremulous sigh. She pushed away from the door and walked to her desk where she trailed her fingers along its surface. She put her hand on the back of her chair, then dragged it toward the window and sat down. It was here that Ranny had asked her to marry him. He had been so persuasive, so serious, so intent. She could almost hear his voice as, in h
is simple sentences, he had offered his love, his home, himself. If she had agreed …

  What had she done to him? What had she done?

  Aunt Em and Sally Anne and all the others seemed so certain that he was innocent. She wanted desperately for it to be so. There was a part of her that could not conceive of it any other way. But there was also the part of her that remembered and weighed and added up and stood puzzled over the sum of the man who was Ranny, Ransom Tyler.

  Sometime soon, in a day or two days or a week, the Thorn would ride out on some deed of good or ill, and the questions would be answered. When that time came, she would be glad, incredibly glad. In the meantime, she prayed that Thomas Ward would see to it that no harm came to Ranny, that any interrogation was conducted along official lines without recourse to barracks tactics or brutality.

  A shiver ran through her as she remembered Ranny in the hands of the soldiers, disheveled, his hair in his eyes and blood at the corner of his mouth. There were means that could be used, she had heard, to make a man confess to anything. Pain, she thought, would not daunt Ranny for a long time, but there were limits to the endurance of any human. The worst that could be used against him might be mental persuasion. He would have few defenses against it, few wiles or mental acrobatics with which to protect himself. He might be tricked into saying what he did not mean or led to believe that admitting to the crimes of the Thorn would protect someone else. It was useless to think that Thomas Ward would not do such a thing; he might do it without the least intention of entrapping an innocent man.

  As she had done.

  All that would not matter if the Thorn were to make another move. What would happen, however, if he did not? What would become of Ranny if the man who played the part of the righter of wrongs decided that this was a fine time to fade from sight? What would happen if Ranny was indeed the Thorn and there was no possibility of an incident occurring to gain his release?

  The charges laid at Ranny's door included assault, theft, interfering with the official duties of the United States Army, and murder. The penalty for the least of these would be several years in a Federal stockade; for the worst, it would be hanging.