Rough Justice

by Lyle Brandt

  Ryder did not aim to fight another civil war, or let some gang of yahoos start one, if he had the means to stop it. Heading off one lynch mob was a start, but more would be required to nip a new uprising in the bud.

  More work, more risk.

  And, he supposed, more blood.

  One way of gauging local sentiment was through the Crier. While its afternoon edition wasn’t ready yet, the editor was fond of posting bulletins outside his office—“extras,” as he called them—with selected snippets from the day’s top stories. Ryder could discover what officials had to say about the shooting and destruction of the Hubbards’ home, then he’d check back on Truscott and begin preparing for the KRS hoedown.

  He planned to show up early and prepared for anything.

  A smart man made his own luck, when he could.

  *

  The Crier’s office had a crowd of middling size outside it, reading the day’s posted extra and jabbering about its contents. Through the broad front window, Ryder saw the presses rolling, turning out that afternoon’s edition of the paper. Two men operated the machinery, while one—presumably the editor, based on the visor and the oversleeves he wore—was supervising. Ryder eased in through the crowd, trying to keep from jostling anyone, and read the extra from the second row.

  Its headline announced: “Mysterious Blaze; Couple Missing.” The rest of the short piece declared that Thomas Hubbard’s home had been razed by a “conflagration of unknown origin.” Hubbard was missing, along with his wife, and police professed to be baffled as to both the couple’s whereabouts and what had caused the fire. The story quoted a police lieutenant’s statement that no witnesses had seen “any unusual activity” around the house before it burned. A captain of the fire brigade declared the house was “too far gone” and “beyond saving” when his men arrived. Investigation was “ongoing,” with a plea for information that would help authorities locate the Hubbards.

  It was more or less what Ryder had expected. The authorities in question, he surmised, were sympathetic to the thugs who’d torched the house and would make no serious attempt to solve the crime. If Hubbard and his wife had been strung up, as planned, Ryder supposed the extra’s headline would have blamed their deaths on “persons unknown,” perhaps adding a blast at “carpetbaggers” who intruded where they were not wanted in the South. As for police seeking the Hubbards, Ryder would have bet his next month’s pay that they were not concerned about the couple’s welfare.

  Better off right where they are, he thought and banished any lasting thought of visiting them at Miss Emma’s house by daylight, when he might be followed.

  Not that he’d detected anybody trailing him since he had arrived in Corpus Christi. His cover, as a cattle buyer down from Kansas, checking out the local livestock, had been holding up as far as he could tell. Yankees were welcome, more or less, if they arrived with promises of cash and showed no interest in upsetting southern customs, where the races were concerned. Ryder had spent enough time prowling local stockyards to establish his identity, then left the sellers hanging while he checked on current prices with his people up in Wichita.

  Which people? No one asked. And since they were ephemeral, they couldn’t be contacted with demands to verify his story. Meanwhile, any other questions that he asked—about the war, the Knights, or local politics—were simply those of one more stranger being nosy. Two ranchers had asked him what he thought about the “darky situation,” but he’d shrugged it off, pled ignorance, and said it wasn’t his concern.

  From what he’d gathered, roughly half the slaves in prewar Texas had been held on farms along the Nueces River, which rose northwest of San Antonio, meandered through Texas hill country, and finally spilled into the Gulf of Mexico at Corpus Christi Bay. As elsewhere in the South, most bondsmen were employed to plant and harvest crops, though some worked sheep and cattle ranches, and a few were skilled at breaking horses. Ryder had heard stories of black cowboys—Charles Goodnight was sometimes mentioned—but he hadn’t seen one in the flesh, so far.

  He wondered why they stayed in Texas, or in any part of Dixie, after they had been enslaved and brutalized for generations. Now that they were free, why not move on to someplace where their color didn’t draw a stark dividing line between them and the rest of humankind? Did Texas feel like home, somehow, in spite of all they’d suffered there? Did poverty alone prevent them from escaping?

  Or was it ridiculous to think that anyplace on Earth existed where the population drew no color lines?

  Ryder had seen too much to think the best of people anymore, at least until they’d proved themselves deserving of respect and trust. He knew that race relations in the nation’s capital, in New York City, and in Baltimore were tense, at best. The New York draft riots of 1863 had claimed at least a hundred lives and injured some two thousand, mostly black, when Irish laborers rebelled against conscription in the name of ending slavery. They didn’t want to die on distant battlefields for someone else, of course—who does?—but it had turned into a race war that had threatened to destroy the largest city in the Union.

  Cheered along, no doubt, by scheming copperheads.

  His job, if he could handle it, was to prevent a similar eruption in the Lone Star State. Ryder believed an army regiment might be more suited to the task, but since no one had asked for his opinion, he would keep it to himself and forge ahead the best he could.

  Trying to stay alive.

  It crossed his mind to check up on the Knights who had been wounded in the past night’s skirmish, see if any of them felt like talking, maybe giving up a lost cause while they had a chance. Ryder dismissed the notion instantly, knowing it would involve too many questions, likely bring him into contact with physicians sympathetic to the Rebel cause or others who’d betray him without giving it a second thought.

  No, he would save it for the meeting and discover what the night might hold in store.

  *

  For supper, Ryder found a restaurant two hundred yards from La Retama Park that specialized in barbecuing beef and pork. He ordered ribs, baked beans, and coleslaw, with a mug of beer to cool his palate from the spicy sauce. The restaurant featured long, rough-hewn tables, forcing strangers into close proximity with one another, which encouraged eavesdropping.

  The main subject of conversation, as he’d hoped, was the impending KRS rally. The men surrounding Ryder—and the diners were all men, perhaps because the seating was unsuitable for ladies—seemed to favor any reasonable action that would keep the freedmen “in their place.” There might be arguments over what constituted reasonable action, but he came away with an impression that if violence was necessary, most of those he heard would be neither surprised nor saddened. They were rough men, many of them probably illiterate, and had been raised in an environment where each man looked out for himself, without expecting any aid from government officials.

  Ryder knew, from personal experience and briefings he’d received, that parts of Texas had been slipping into anarchy since Appomattox. Whether it had always been this way, he couldn’t guess, but between losing one war and bracing to fight another with hostile Indian tribes, while trying to replace the vast slave labor force that had supported their economy, most Texans were in no mood to be bound by rules dictated out of Washington.

  Secession hadn’t worked, but some of those he listened to that evening weren’t entirely clear on who had lost the war. Instead of bowing in defeat, they seemed to think that they were resting up before they fought another round.

  General Philip Sheridan, assigned to command the military district of the Southwest in May 1865, was on record as saying that if he owned both Hell and Texas, he would rent out Texas and live in Hell. Ryder thought that might be stretching it a little, but he couldn’t speak for former slaves or any local whites who thought the war had been a fool’s errand.

  When he had cleaned his plate and had a second beer in lieu of pie, Ryder paid up and left the restaurant. Outside, dusk had begun to settle
over Corpus Christi, and the lamplighters were out, beginning to illuminate the streets favored with lighting. Ryder checked his watch, saw that he still had half an hour left to go, and started ambling down toward La Retama Park.

  By day, the park served as a combination marketplace and haven for a class of men who either couldn’t find a job or didn’t want one. After sunset, when the market stalls shut down, the park played host to public meetings, sports events, and the occasional near-riot fueled by alcohol. Ryder guessed he would have to wait and see which category fit Chance Truscott’s gathering of Knights.

  Something about the outfit’s terminology struck Ryder as absurd. As far as he knew, from his readings into history, there were no Knights in the United States, and never had been. Royal titles were forbidden by the Constitution, but he guessed the label had been chosen to suggest a link with ancient days of chivalry, when bold men dressed in shining armor, jousted for a smile from a princess, or crossed swords in a king’s defense. That didn’t square in Ryder’s mind with putting on a floppy hood and going out at night to terrorize women and children. Something had been lost in the translation, he supposed.

  A crowd had gathered by the time he reached the park, and it was growing by the moment. Most of those who had turned out so far were men, but Ryder spotted several women of the crib-and-tavern type moving among the fellows, likely seeking customers. Ten minutes after Ryder arrived, Chance Truscott showed up with a clutch of bodyguards around him, moving toward a low stage someone had erected on the west side of the park. Ryder moved closer, reached the dais just as Truscott mounted it, watching from the third row back as Truscott launched into his speech.

  “My friends and neighbors,” he began, “I want to thank you all for turning out this evening. We stand at a momentous crossroads, with the fate of our fair city hanging in the balance. Will we fight for all that we hold dear, or see it swept away and turned into a charnel house?”

  The crowd was silent, nearly breathless, as he paced across the stage, commanding full attention. “Citizens! The radicals in Washington tell us we must accept the nigra as our brother, lift him up from the subservience ordained by God Almighty, and endow him with the full rights of a free white man!”

  Some muttering had started now, angry, but not at Truscott.

  “White men! Will you take it lying down, or will you stand and fight?”

  A voice cried out from somewhere in the crowd’s rear ranks, but not in answer to the question. “Soldiers!” it proclaimed.

  Another raised the shout, “Bluebellies!”

  Ryder turned and saw a squad of Union troops approaching, some of them black men, armed with Springfield rifles sporting bayonets.

  4

  The crowd convulsed, hundreds of throats raising a sound of mingled fear and anger as the troops advanced. Some individuals among the audience were shouting racial epithets and curses, others scouring the ground for stones to hurl against the marching men in blue. Ryder could see no happy outcome for the situation and had no desire to be there, but his focus was on Truscott and his corps of bodyguards.

  Atop the dais, Truscott pointed at the soldiers, shouting out above the growling of the mob. “Brothers! Behold the enemy! They’ve laid waste to our homes, and now send niggers to oppress us! Where’s their sacred Constitution and its freedoms when we try to use them?”

  More excited, angry babbling from the crowd, where several of the men Ryder could see were drawing knives and pistols. Most of Truscott’s bodyguards jumped down and joined the mob, forcing their way up toward the front ranks where the troops would make first contact. Two men remained on stage, flanking their boss with six-guns drawn, ready for trouble.

  Ryder eased in their direction, still not certain what he planned to do. His first instinct was to get out of there before the bullets started flying, knowing he could just as easily be killed by Union bullets as by Rebel fire. His mission, as he understood it, didn’t call for him to fight an army in the open, at a time and place of someone else’s choosing, but he needed something that would get him close to Truscott, and he might not get another chance like this.

  He reached the close end of the stage, ignored by Truscott’s two remaining bodyguards. That was a lapse in judgment on their part, apparently unable to conceive there might be enemies among the snarling crowd. If he’d been an assassin, Ryder could have dropped his man from fifteen feet away, an easy shot, and vanished in the mob before the guards could take him down.

  Something to think about, but since he wasn’t an assassin, it was useless.

  Rocks were flying now, along with curses, and the troops were taking hits. Their bayonets were lowered, aimed directly at the crowd, while their commanding officer bawled orders, brandishing a saber. If a shot was fired from either side, the scene could turn into a massacre. Ryder was measuring the space beneath the dais, wondering if he could fit in there and use the stage for cover, when it happened.

  At the far edge of the crowd, a pistol cracked. He thought it might be one of Truscott’s men but couldn’t tell for sure, with all the ducking, heaving bodies in his line of sight. He saw one of the bluecoats stumble, going down, and then the officer in charge of them was shouting, “Halt! Aim! Fire!”

  The first blue-suited rank dropped to one knee, clearly a movement they had practiced, so the second rank could aim over their heads. At the shout of “Fire!” a dozen rifles spoke as one, their .58-caliber Minié balls ripping into the crowd through a mist of black powder smoke. Men fell, some of them screaming, others deathly silent, as the third and fourth ranks slipped around their comrades and assumed firing position.

  “Ready!” their commander ordered. “Aim!”

  Truscott was leaving, leaping off the stage, trailed by his last two bodyguards. Ryder ran after them, was almost close enough to touch them when they met a second file of soldiers jogging toward the park along Mesquite Street, from the north. Truscott stopped short, pushing his men in front of him, as others from the fleeing crowd caught up and found their angle of retreat cut off.

  The bodyguards stepped forward without hesitation, obviously seasoned fighters from the war years, with their pistols raised. Before they had a chance to fire, though, someone in the blue ranks shouted, “Charge!” The troops came racing toward them, polished blades adding a good foot to the forty-inch barrels of their Springfield rifles. Ryder saw his opening, moved forward, Colt Army in hand, and clutched Chance Truscott’s arm.

  The startled rabble-rouser jerked around to face him, saw the pistol and recoiled, but Ryder’s grip restrained him. “Follow me,” Ryder demanded, “if you want to live the night.”

  After a heartbeat’s hesitation, Truscott did as he was told. Behind them, as they fled, the charging troops skewered a wall of frightened flesh, more gunshots ringing out, men shouting, cursing, wailing as they fell.

  Ryder led Truscott on a tangent from the park, leaving its battleground behind. He wished the soldiers well but had no sympathy for any of the Rebels or the painted doxies who had come to take advantage of their gathering. They must have known trouble was likely when they came together, and they’d gotten what they asked for.

  Ryder ran all-out for three blocks, then slowed down and turned to look back at the park. Gun smoke hung in a haze over the scene, but active fire had nearly petered out, resistance broken. Members of the crowd were running hell-bent from the troops in all directions, and that seemed to satisfy the soldiers as they finished mopping up, arresting those they could identify as having fired on them during the clash.

  “Who are you?” Truscott asked him, breathless.

  “Gary Rodgers,” said Ryder, plucking the name from thin air.

  “You’re a Yank!” Truscott pegged the accent.

  “Born and raised. Doesn’t mean I agree with the government.”

  “Oh?” Glancing at the Colt Ryder still held in his right hand.

  He put the gun away. Told Truscott, “Look, you needed help back there, to keep from being gutt
ed. Now we’re clear, you go your way and I’ll go mine.”

  He turned from Truscott, took two steps before the voice behind him said, “Hold up a minute.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m grateful for your help,” Truscott replied. “Least I can do is stand you to a drink.”

  *

  The saloon was called the Southern Cross. It wasn’t old, per se, but had seen better days before the war. The bartender was nearly bald and compensating for it with a thick black beard. He put two whiskies on the bar at Truscott’s order, backed by mugs of beer.

  Trustcott thanked Ryder one more time for helping him, then downed his whiskey in a single gulp. Ryder did likewise, liquid fire searing his throat, and wheezed, “No problem.”

  “But it would be,” Truscott said, “if I’d been killed back there, or taken into custody.”

  “Because you head up the resistance?” Truscott eyed him, didn’t answer. Ryder forged ahead, saying, “It stands to reason. You’re the spokesman. ’Less you’ve got a boss somewhere, afraid to show his mug.”

  “No, you were right the first time,” Truscott granted. “What brings you to Corpus Christi?”

  “Cattle. I’m a buyer out of Wichita.”

  “I know some people. Get ahold of me tomorrow or the next day, and I’ll make the introductions.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Least I can do, considering.”

  As Truscott spoke, a group of men entered the Southern Cross, disheveled, dusty, some of them with fresh scrapes on their faces, bruises darkening. For having been defeated, though, they seemed in rare good spirits as they crowded up against the bar and ordered drinks. Some spoke to Truscott, one clapping him on the back, while others cut suspicious eyes toward Ryder.

  “Wish you coulda stayed and seen the windup, Mr. Truscott,” said a man easily six or seven inches taller than the rest.

  “Were they defeated?” Truscott asked. “The bluebellies?”

  “Well … no,” the big man said. “They took some losses, though. I seen two a their nigras bite the dust.”