Rough Justice

by Lyle Brandt

  “That’s progress,” Truscott said, raising a twenty-dollar bill to get the bartender’s attention. “One round for the house, on me.”

  Ryder saw the twenty was a U.S. gold certificate issued in 1862, showing an eagle vignette on the front. It disappeared into the barkeep’s hairy paw before he started setting glasses on the bar and filling them with whiskey. The talk was all of fighting, some raising comparisons to battles from the recent war that told him they had never witnessed any of the action they described.

  Funny, he thought, how liars always tell the best war stories.

  Ryder finished off his whiskey, sipped his beer, and watched Truscott working the room. He had the quality of leadership, there could be no disputing that, but he was using it to keep a wounded land divided, sowing hate and rage in place of healing. That was not a crime, as far as Ryder knew, unless he carried it too far and blood was shed—as it had been that night.

  There were two sides to every story, Ryder knew, as there had been during the dark years of the war. Truscott’s adherents would proclaim that Yanks had sparked the violence at La Retama Park, conveniently forgetting that the first shot came from their side. Why split hairs, when they were the aggrieved side, with their homeland occupied by hated enemies? Aggression could be cast as self-defense, if you kept one eye shut and squinted through the other.

  It was easy. People did it all the time.

  Ryder was wondering if he should slip away and meet Truscott tomorrow when a new arrival pushed up to the bar and leaned in close, half whispering in Truscott’s ear. Ryder was close enough to catch the words “Hubbard” and “nigger town,” but lost the rest.

  It was enough. Somehow, he realized, the KRS had found the Hubbards.

  “How many are going?” Truscott asked the man who’d spoken to him.

  “Twenty, twenty-five. Enough to get it done.”

  “That’s what you said last night,” Hubbard replied. “Make sure it gets done properly this time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The new arrival left, and Ryder was about to follow him, when Truscott turned and caught his arm. “Leaving so soon?”

  “I’ve got some early rounds to make,” Ryder replied.

  Truscott produced a business card and slipped it into Ryder’s hand. “My office address. Come to see me around noon, if you can make it.”

  “Do my best,” Ryder agreed and drained his beer for show before he left the Southern Star. It was a challenge, walking normally until he’d cleared the bat-wing doors and passed the windows facing on the street, before he broke into a run.

  *

  The Hubbards and Miss Emma were just sitting down to supper when a tall man burst into the house and blurted out, “Dey’s comin!”

  Thomas didn’t have to ask who “they” were. He could hear the guards outside Miss Emma’s house preparing for a fight and, with the windows open to a cool night, heard the tramp of many feet approaching from the north, along the unpaved street. A rising grumble-growl from voices of the mob reminded Hubbard of the recent battle and the home that he had lost.

  Josey reached out to clutch her husband’s hand. “Thomas, we have to get away from here, before—”

  “Too late for that,” Miss Emma interrupted. She had risen from the table and was moving toward the porch with stately grace. “Crackers’ll go ahead with what they come to do, whether they find you here or not.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hubbard said. “We never should have come here in the first place.”

  “Where else would you go?” Miss Emma asked. “You risk your life to help my people. How could we refuse you?”

  “But—”

  “These people need to learn they lost the war,” Miss Emma said. “And things is different now.”

  Hubbard left Josey at the supper table and retrieved his weapons from the small room they had shared the night before. He checked the shotgun and the pistol, making sure that both were fully loaded as the mob drew closer, torchlight visible by now, coming along the street that had no lamps.

  “Thomas, where are you going?” Josey asked.

  “To meet them,” he responded. “I’m done running.”

  “Then, I’ll have that pistol,” Josey told him, rising to approach him.

  “No,” Miss Emma answered, sternly. “When the shooting starts, you skin on out the back. A couple of my boys will see you someplace safe.”

  “I can’t leave Thomas!”

  “Fightin’ is a man’s job, more or less.” As Miss Emma spoke, she smiled and drew a Colt Model 1855 Sidehammer pocket revolver from somewhere beneath her long shawl. “O’ course, it’s my home, too.”

  “Thomas, I—”

  “Josey, go!” he ordered.

  Two young freedmen suddenly appeared beside them, having come in through the back door, and they listened to Miss Emma’s orders, spoken in a kind of patois Thomas barely understood. They nodded and stood waiting, muskets cradled in their arms, but Josey made no move to exit. Thomas finally dismissed her with a kiss and gentle shove in their direction, then turned back to join Miss Emma and the others on her porch.

  The mob had nearly reached the house by then. He guessed that there were seventy or eighty men in all, half of them bearing torches, faces hooded, all well armed. Their leaders hesitated for a moment, maybe startled by the sight of freedmen bearing weapons of their own, but then they spotted Hubbard on the porch, beside Miss Emma, and a howl went up among them.

  “There’s the nigger-lover!” someone shouted, followed by a storm of cursing.

  In the front rank, one of the mob’s leaders raised his free hand—no torch in the other, but he carried a revolver—and called out to Hubbard, “Come with us, and no one else needs suffer for the crimes that you’ve committed!”

  “Crimes?” Hubbard could barely keep from laughing at him, even in the face of mortal danger. “What crimes?”

  “Comin’ here, where you ain’t wanted, rilin’ up our nigras,” said the spokesman. “And woundin’ three of our brave Knights.”

  “Did you say brave?” Hubbard replied. “Coming around to lynch a woman in the middle of the night? And when did Knights start wearing flour sacks to hide their faces?”

  That provoked more snarls and curses from the mob. Their leader hollered back, “Your time is over, carpetbagger! If you want to spare these darkies, lay your weapons down and come along with us.”

  Miss Emma spoke before Hubbard could answer. “Darkies gonna send you straight to hell, if you don’t mind your manners!”

  Hubbard saw the muzzle flash and heard the bullet whisper past him, almost felt the slap of lead on flesh before Miss Emma gasped. Then she was falling, two strong freedmen rushing up to catch her, and her Colt spoke once, sending a shot into the crowd. A masked man fell, and then all hell broke loose.

  Gunfire rattled along the skirmish lines, black facing hooded white, unleashing clouds of gun smoke in the street. Hubbard squeezed off one barrel of his shotgun, aiming for the masked man who had called him out, and saw the faceless stranger lurch back, free hand clutching at his side, the first shot from his pistol going high and wide.

  Die, damn you! Hubbard thought and marveled at the fury that possessed him, facing down these cowards who had come to murder him, his wife, his friends. The thought of Josey weakened him, but only for a heartbeat, sending up a silent prayer that she’d be safe with Emma’s trusted men.

  He dropped behind a hedge of shrubbery, no decent cover there, but it was better than the porch. He fired the second barrel of his twelve-gauge blindly at the lynchers, trusting buckshot to find someone as they scattered, then he drew his Colt and cocked it, seeking targets on the street. As in their first engagement, most of the assembled “Knights” had dropped their torches, fearful of attracting gunfire with their light. Some ran toward nearby houses, then discovered that the neighborhood was turning out against them in a rage.

  Encouraged, Hubbard rose to join the charge against the mob. He’d taken two l
ong strides when something struck his chest with a sledgehammer’s force and drove the breath out of his lungs.

  You never hear the shot that kills you, Hubbard thought as he collapsed.

  *

  Ryder heard distant gunfire as he ran through Corpus Christi’s streets, but it had stopped before he reached his destination, following the smell of gun smoke in the air. Dozens of torches scattered in the street were burning out, but still gave light enough for him to see by, coupled with the glow of lanterns held by neighbors as they moved among the bodies sprawled around Miss Emma’s place.

  White men and black together, dead or dying where they’d been cut down.

  Three freedmen intercepted Ryder half a block from Emma’s home. One aimed a six-gun at his chest; the others held a pitchfork and an ax, respectively. Ryder saw a dark trace of something on the ax blade, hoping it was rust.

  “Where you think you’s goin’, buckra?” the man with the pistol demanded.

  Ryder tried to keep his tone respectful, anything but agitated. “I was here last night, to see Miss Emma, with the Hubbards,” he replied. “I heard there was some trouble here, and—”

  “Come along to pitch in, didja?” asked the ax man.

  “Hoping I could help,” said Ryder.

  “White trash he’ped enough for one night,” said the short man with the pitchfork.

  “If you’d only ask Miss Emma—”

  “Cain’t ask her,” the gunman spat back, nearly sobbing. “She be daid.”

  Ryder was groping for a comment, when another voice rang out behind the trio that had stopped him. “Matthew! Cyrus! Jethro! Let ’im pass!”

  Reluctantly, the three obeyed. Ryder eased by them, saw one of the men he recognized from last night moving toward him, grim-faced, with a musket cradled in his arms.

  “You come too late, lawman.”

  Ryder nodded. Said, “I see that. Is it true about Miss Emma?”

  “She’s crossed over,” said the freedman. “Ain’t about to be forgotten.”

  Hesitant to trespass on his grief, Ryder still had to ask the question. “What about the Hubbards?”

  “He gone with her, or wherever white folks go. His missus got away in time, I think. Still need to check on that.”

  “If you could tell me where she went—”

  “Don’t know, right off. An’ you’ll appreciate a certain lack o’ trust right now, for white men that I only met last night.”

  Ryder could sense where that was going, and he moved to head it off. “You don’t think I had anything to do with this?” he asked, and nodded toward the nearest of the corpses sprawled around them.

  “If I did, you’d be amongst ’em, Mister. One more dead’un, more or less, don’t make no difference now.”

  “I mean to see the men responsible for this are punished,” Ryder told him.

  “And I wish you luck. You gonna need it.”

  From behind him, Ryder heard more angry voices. Turning, he saw freedmen moving out from both sides of the street, to meet a line of uniformed policemen trooping toward the scene. Late as they were, he saw the cops were armed with rifles, shotguns, all with sidearms strapped around their waists. The leading officer wore captain’s bars and signaled his authority by scowling, barking orders like an army drill sergeant.

  “Squad, halt! Form into firing lines! Three ranks!”

  “This don’t look good,” Ryder’s companion said.

  “I’ll talk to them,” said Ryder, reaching for his badge.

  “Think that’ll help?” the freedman asked. “More likely get you shot down for a nigger-lover. They see white men dead, we bound to have a scuffle.”

  “There’s been too much killing, as it is,” said Ryder.

  “Maybe not enough. You best clear out, now, ’less you dumber than I think you is.”

  Ryder considered saying more, or staying on to face whatever happened, then thought better of it. Showing his credentials to the coppers likely wouldn’t help—in fact, it might have just the opposite effect, making him a marked man in his own right. His advantages, so far, were anonymity and a connection, frail as it might be, to Chance Truscott. There might be nothing he could do for Josey Hubbard, but he could press on to see her husband’s killers and the men behind them brought to book.

  He could do that.

  And if a few of them were damaged in the process, well, that was the price you paid for dressing up at night and going out to terrorize your neighbors.

  Ryder did not feel like waiting till tomorrow for his chat with Truscott, or the time it would require to worm his way into the Rebel’s confidence. He guessed that the survivors of the raid against Miss Emma would be celebrating, likely at the Southern Cross, to make it feel like a resounding victory. Why not drop in and visit them, while they were swilling booze and patting one another on the back?

  Why not, indeed?

  But he would stop off at the boardinghouse, first thing, to fetch the Henry rifle from his room.

  It was a lesson he had learned the hard way: always be prepared.

  5

  Ryder heard the celebration when he was a block out from the Southern Cross. Men laughing louder than they had to, fueled by alcohol, congratulating one another on a job well done. It didn’t sound like any wake he’d ever been to, making Ryder think they’d managed to forget about the comrades left behind them, lying in the street outside Miss Emma’s house.

  At half a block, he slowed his pace, keeping to shadows in the long stretch between streetlamps. There was no sign of the police, so far, and Ryder had an inkling that they wouldn’t bother dropping by to question Truscott or his men about the shooting across town. Why bother, when the so-called lawmen were in sympathy with Truscott’s aims? More likely, they’d arrest some freedmen on a charge of killing helpless white men who had been out for a stroll.

  There was no point debating with himself about the local “justice” system. Ryder saw the writing on the wall and knew that any justice carried out this night would have to be a one-man job.

  A shout went up from the saloon, as if in answer to a toast. It was a big night for the KRS, between their riot with the bluecoat soldiers and eliminating Thomas Hubbard. Losses on their own side would be irritating, maybe sadden some of them to a degree, but they were getting over it in record time. Between the combat veterans and those who’d stayed at home during the war, guarding their human livestock, these were men inured to death and cruelty. For some, he guessed, it was precisely what they lived for.

  He’d checked his Henry at the rooming house and knew that it was fully loaded, with a cartridge in the chamber. Likewise with the Colt, six chambers loaded and three extra cylinders weighting his pockets, just in case he had to reload in a hurry. Some men kept an empty chamber underneath their pistol’s hammer, to prevent a nasty accident, but Ryder wasn’t careless with his sidearm, didn’t go for all that foolishness of twirling it and whatnot. It was a destructive tool, and always treated with respect.

  As he approached the saloon, the revelers inside began to sing. It was a song he’d heard before, though never sung with quite as much enthusiasm as tonight.

  Oh, I’m a good ol’ Rebel, and that’s just what I am.

  For this fair land of freedom, I do not give a damn.

  I’m glad we fought against it, I only wish we’d won.

  And I don’t ask no pardon for anything I done.

  By the time he reached an alley west of the saloon and slipped into its deeper darkness, they were on the second verse.

  I hates the Yankee nation and ever’thing they do.

  I hates the Declaration of Independence too.

  I hates the glorious union, ’tis drippin’ with our blood.

  I hates the striped banner, and fit it all I could.

  “Keep singing,” Ryder muttered. “You’ll have more to hate in just a minute.”

  At the rear of the saloon, no lights at all back there, he heard a scuffling sound of boots on sand and
gravel. Slowing down, he edged up to the northwest corner of the building, risked a peek around, and saw a drunken man, unsteady on his feet, preparing to relieve himself against the wall. Distracted as he was, trying to sing along with friends he’d left inside the Southern Cross, mind blurred by whiskey fumes, the pisser didn’t notice Ryder creeping up behind him in the dark.

  “Three hunerd thousand Yankees lie still in southern dust,” he crooned, then lost the words. “Dah, dah-dah, dah dah dah dah—”

  Ryder stepped in and slammed the Henry’s butt into the drunkard’s skull, just where it met the spine. The impact drove his target’s head against the wall, a second solid thunk, then he rebounded and collapsed, his privates on display.

  Unconscious? Dead? Ryder considered it, then heard the traitor’s lyrics in his head. I do not give a damn.

  The back door wasn’t locked. In fact, it stood ajar, left open by the man he’d just knocked out. Inside the Southern Cross, the noise was louder than it had been in the alley, but at least the song was winding down.

  I can’t take up my musket and fight ’em down no more.

  But I ain’t gonna love ’em, and that is sartin sho’.

  And I don’t want no pardon for what I was and am.

  I won’t be reconstructed, and I do not give a damn.

  Ryder had almost reached the barroom entrance when the singing died, replaced by Rebel yells. He cocked his rifle, set his teeth, and stepped into the crowded room.

  *

  The first whiskey too many had a sour taste. Chance Truscott grimaced, knew if he kept drinking he would have a rotten, sickly head tomorrow morning, but his men were in a mood to celebrate and clearly didn’t want him letting down the side.

  The bartender noted his empty glass and grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind him, moving in to top it off. Truscott blocked him, placing a hand over the glass and saying, “Think I’ll switch to beer.”

  “Okay, then.”

  When it came, the beer was warm, but that was normal. Few saloons in Texas—none in Corpus Christi that he knew of—bothered keeping ice on hand. A cold drink would have helped to cut the smoky, sweaty atmosphere inside the Southern Cross, but Truscott knew he’d have to do without that luxury.