Rough Justice

by Lyle Brandt

  “I would advise against—”

  “To hell with your advice. I’m doing this, and if I light that spark you’re so afraid of, you can either put it out or watch it burn.”

  “Hold up!” Legere called, catching up to him with long, swift strides. Reached out to pluck his sleeve, then yanked his hand away when he saw Ryder’s face.

  “Don’t waste my time, Legere.”

  “A word on strategy, since you appear to be a novice in the realm of martial law. I am required, under my orders, to provide assistance if the town is seriously threatened. If its normal daily operations are endangered by a lawless element, as in the case of an uprising or rebellion, I would have no choice.”

  “You missed one yesterday.”

  “A racial skirmish, nothing more. I need something … impressive. Something that would justify my intervention to restore the lawful order.”

  Ryder thought about that, frowned, and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  *

  You’ve caused us all a world of trouble,” Coker told his prisoners.

  “What trouble?” Abel Butler asked.

  “Meddling where you’re not needed, much less wanted. Stirring up the coloreds, filling their woolly heads with impossible dreams.”

  “I still don’t follow you.”

  Vague sadness settled over Coker. How could anyone be so demented without blatant evidence of injury? “You come down here from … where was it? New England?”

  “New York,” Butler corrected.

  “All the same to me. You come to Texas, thinking you can make a herd of animals our equals. That we’ll stand by idly while you hand them ballots, let them wreck the land and government our fathers fought and died to wrest away from heathen Mexicans and red men? Worse, that we’ll allow them to commingle with our daughters? To pollute our bloodlines and destroy the race?”

  “We came to build a school, that’s all,” the woman answered back. “What harm is there in that?”

  “What harm?” Coker could only shake his head in wonder. “They were banned from reading under servitude because it stirs them up. They do not have the intellect or the discretion to reject ideas that may be harmful to themselves, or to the civilized society they serve. You’ve seen them, spoken to them. Do they not strike you as childlike?”

  “Not at all,” Abel replied. “You and your Knights strike me as brutes and cowards.”

  “I suppose we do. Up north, you push your coloreds into slums and let them starve or kill each other as they please. We in the South have walked another path, controlling their energy, guiding it into productive channels.”

  “Productive for you,” said the woman.

  “And what’s wrong with that, if it serves them as well? We brought them here from Africa—a haven for disease, devil worship, and cannibalism—to house them here and civilize them at our own expense. You don’t think we’re owed something in return?”

  “What are you owed?” Abel replied. “The bondage of their offspring spanning endless generations?”

  Coker tried another angle. “You’re an educated man, I gather. Have you studied history?”

  “I have.”

  “Then tell me, what great empires have the colored people founded? What thing have they built, in all of history, that’s worth a walk across the street to see? Who are their famous kings, outside of stinking jungle villages? White men are the explorers, settlers, builders, and inventors. How can you not see that?”

  “The Chinese—”

  “Celestials!” Coker cut him off. “We can’t even be sure they’re human. Slaves to opium, their nation overrun by Europeans with a mere handful of troops against their tens of thousands.”

  Abel Butler drew a deep breath, then replied, “I see a race in subjugation, through no doing of its own. The so-called benefits you cite—transportation in chains, infliction of an alien religion—are like brands on livestock, nothing that a human should endure. With help and care, I see them lifted up and educated to a point where they can join society as useful members or, if nothing else, create their own.”

  “I see that you’re beyond redemption,” Coker told him, almost sadly. Turning to the woman, he asked, “And do you share these misguided visions?”

  “Not misguided,” she informed him. “But the answer’s yes.”

  “In that case, I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done for you. Before your trial and sentencing, however, you may spare yourself unnecessary suffering by answering some questions that I have in mind.”

  “Questions?” Fear mixed with anger in the frown on Abel’s face.

  “I need more information on the group that sent you here, its aims and tactics, what it hopes to gain by agitating southern blacks to rise against their betters.”

  “We’ve been over that,” Abel replied. “There’s no conspiracy. Just Christian love.”

  “You choose the hard way, then. I’ll make the preparations,” Coker told them. “If you truly recognize a god of any kind, this is your time to pray.”

  *

  Back in town, Ryder returned the Appaloosa to the livery and asked its owner what provisions were in place to save the horses, in the case of an emergency.

  “Emergency?” The hostler didn’t seem to follow.

  “Like a fire, flood, or tornado,” he elaborated.

  “Well, if time allows, I’d get ’em out, o’ course. Got a corral out back to stop ’em scatterin’ if somethin’ happens to the barn, like fire. A flood or storm, now, that’s another story. Bein’ penned up wouldn’t help ’em none, I guess.”

  Ryder stroked the Appaloosa’s withers, saying, “But you wouldn’t just run off and leave them here?”

  The hostler wore a shocked expression on his face, maybe insulted. “Hell, no! They’re my business, Mister. Some of ’em are more like friends, you know.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Ryder left him frowning, wondering, and took the Henry rifle with him as he left. He had no one to back whatever play he made, and time was running out on any hope of rescuing the Butlers. Ryder told himself there had to be a reason they were snatched alive, or else he would have found their bodies at the house. He didn’t know the reason, couldn’t work it out, and had decided it was best to give up trying.

  He would focus on retrieving them, and let the why of it come afterward.

  Coker’s people might be looking for him after his intrusion at the Red Dog. Ryder didn’t know the gunman who’d surprised him in the office, hadn’t left his name, but once the shooter came around he could describe the man who’d slugged him. Coker wouldn’t have a lot of trouble putting it together, and he’d have his people mobilized as soon as he worked out that he was being hunted.

  So, how many men?

  He didn’t want to think about that, at the moment. Finding Coker was his first priority, on two accounts: to stop him doing any further damage to the Butlers, if it wasn’t already too late for them, and to take Coker out of action as the brains and guiding hand behind the KRS. Removing one man likely wouldn’t end the group, but Coker would be looking at a prison term for kidnapping—maybe a rope for murder, if he’d killed his hostages and Ryder got the evidence to prove it. Either way, he might prefer to bargain for a lighter sentence, giving up the men who’d killed or committed other crimes on his behalf.

  A long shot? Probably. And Ryder had to be alive to make it work.

  He passed by Coker’s house, a waste of time, but making sure he’d covered all his options, just in case. Two kids were playing in the yard, a handsome woman hanging laundry on the line, a nice domestic scene. No common passerby would guess the master of the house was off somewhere, devising plans for murder and rebellion in the name of white supremacy.

  He could have turned in at the gate, asked Mrs. Coker if she knew where he could find her husband, but the prospect set his teeth on edge. The lady must have known her husband’s business, since he practiced most of it in public, and she likely sympa
thized with his ideas about the races. On the other hand, he questioned whether Coker would have filled her in on plans for a specific crime in progress.

  No. He’d have to find his man some other way. Which meant grabbing another member of the KRS and squeezing him, hoping he knew where Coker and the Butlers were … or causing a distraction that would bring the “grand commander” out in search of him.

  Tricky, but Ryder had a couple of ideas.

  *

  Coker was getting down to business—tools laid out, his workmen at the ready, looking forward to it—when the sheriff interrupted him. One of his Knights came knocking first and told him Travis was outside, needing to speak with Coker in a rush. Already in a sour mood, he scowled and went to find out what the lawman wanted.

  Travis had a nervous look about him, edgy, pacing like a caged coyote. Coker took his cue from that, turned off the scowl, and tried to keep his tone flat as he spoke.

  “Sheriff, some kind of an emergency? I’m rather busy at the moment an—”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  Coker couldn’t recall the last time Travis interrupted him. In fact, he never had, before.

  “Explain.”

  “Them carpetbaggers.”

  “What about them?”

  “Ryder’s lookin’ for ’em.”

  “Is he, now?”

  “Came by my office, talkin’ about my duty to the law, some kinda bull. Was askin’ me to help him look for ’em.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “Put ’im off. Told ’im I wasn’t buyin’ into it.”

  “And then?”

  “The sumbitch threatened me. Can you believe it? Said that if he couldn’t make it stick in court, he’d do the job hisself. Came out and said it just like that.”

  “He is audacious,” Coker said. And smiled.

  “Did I say something funny?”

  “No. But you present me with an opportunity.”

  “How’s that?” The sheriff looked confused now, piling that on top of worried.

  “Think about it, Harlan. What if you should change your mind?”

  “On what?”

  “Cooperating with our nemesis.”

  “I don’t get that.”

  “The Yankee agent.”

  “What about him?”

  Christ all Friday, he was thick. Sometimes Coker despaired of working with the meager tools he had been given.

  “Think about it,” he suggested. “Ryder comes to you for help. You turn him down.”

  “Tha’s right. I did.”

  “Talking’s not thinking, Harlan.”

  “Right. Okay, then.”

  “So, you turned him down, but now you’ve had a chance to think about it and you’ve seen the light.”

  “What light is that?”

  “Your duty, as you mentioned. You’ve decided you should help him, after all. It’s preying on your conscience.”

  “Is it?”

  “You’re still talking.”

  “Sorry.”

  “So, you find him and explain that you’ve decided to cooperate. In fact, you know exactly where the carpetbaggers are, and you can show him.”

  This time, Travis raised his hand instead of speaking, like an oaf held back in school so long he’s older than the teacher.

  “What?”

  “He’s gonna figger that’s a trick, ain’t he?”

  “Unless he’s dumber than a cactus.”

  “Well, then—”

  “But I think he’ll go along with you, regardless.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he needs a pointer to the carpetbaggers.”

  “Yeah, but if he knows I’m lyin’ to him—”

  “You are still his best hope.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Think, Harlan. If he believes you’re helping him, he’ll go along with you. If he suspects you’re tricking him, he’ll still think you know where to find the Butlers.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “There’s a certain risk involved, I grant you. Ryder may not be inclined to ask you gently. If he starts in acting rough—”

  “I take him?”

  Coker had to smile at that, asking the sheriff, “Does that seem a likely outcome?”

  “Well …”

  “Let’s try it my way, shall we?”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  “If you come under pressure, make a show of stalling him, then let him see he’s broken you. Tell him you know where he can find the carpetbaggers. Beg him not to make you go along.”

  “You think he’ll fall for that?”

  “Of course not. He’ll insist you lead the way, which you, reluctantly, will do.”

  “I will?”

  “And bring him to the spot where I have men awaiting him.”

  “The trap.”

  “You see? It’s not so hard to figure out.”

  “Uh-huh. So what stops him from figgerin’ it out?”

  “Nothing. He’ll come expecting trouble, but he’ll find a good deal more than he can handle.”

  “Right. With me smack in the middle of it.”

  “Where, I’m sure, you’ll give your all to help the cause.”

  “My all?”

  “It means to do your level best.”

  “Oh. Right.” If he was reassured, it didn’t show. “So, where’m I leading him again?”

  “Now that’s the beauty of it,” Coker said, smiling again. “Right here.”

  19

  Ryder saw the sheriff coming from two blocks away, hurrying north along Camp Street. Travis had a flustered look about him, redder in the face than usual, as if he’d lost something and was afraid he wouldn’t find it. When he spotted Ryder, headed south, he hesitated for a second, then veered off to cross the street.

  “Looks like you’re hunting,” Travis said, and nodded at the Henry Ryder carried in his left hand.

  “You want something, Travis?”

  “Yeah, I do. Been thinkin’ ’bout our talk, a while back.”

  “And?”

  The sheriff looked both ways along the sidewalk, heaved a sigh, and said, “It sunk in you were makin’ sense. This thing with Coker’s gotten outta hand. You still want help, I’m with you.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  Travis dropped his voice an octave, even though there wasn’t anyone within a block who could have eavesdropped on them. “Think I got an idea where he’s put them carpetbaggers you been lookin’ for.”

  Alarm bells started going off in Ryder’s head. He kept his face deadpan and answered, “Oh?”

  The sheriff nodded, just a bit too eagerly. “He’s got a place downtown, on Walcott Street. Keeps some of his supplies there, for the Red Dog, if they won’t fit into the saloon.”

  “So, something like a warehouse?”

  “Not that big. There’s a shop in front, dry goods. He owns that, too, and stores the other stuff in back, or else upstairs.”

  “Why would he take the Butlers there?”

  “It’s got a basement. Nice and private, if you get my drift.”

  “I get it,” Ryder told him. And he wasn’t buying any of it. “Will you show me where it is?”

  “Be happy to. Can’t promise they’ll be there, but if they are, I’ll help you get ’em out.”

  “No worries about disappointing Coker?”

  “Comes a time, man has to do what’s right or just give up.”

  “All right. Welcome aboard. You lead the way.”

  The hike from Camp Street north and west to Walcott was a winding journey, fourteen blocks by Ryder’s count, watching for ambushes along the way. He didn’t know if Travis had described an actual establishment or not, but he was reasonably certain that the sheriff’s offer was a trick. He felt insulted in a way, that anyone would think him dumb enough to fall for it.

  Ten minutes after starting out, the sheriff stopped and said, “We’re almost there. Cut down this alley, here, and
then another half block west’ll take us to the back door.”

  “Anything you want to tell me now?” Ryder inquired. “Before we’re in the middle of it?”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “That’s right. You’ve had me follow you. Knowing the way you hate me, hate all Yankees, I’m not buying your repentant act.”

  “Reckon I’d try’n scoop you into trouble?”

  “That’s exactly what I think.”

  “Well, I can’t help that. If you wanna help them others—”

  Ryder raised his Henry, shoved its muzzle deep into the sheriff’s gut, making him wince. “First thing, I’ll have your pistol. Any fancy moves, I’ll let the daylight through you.”

  Travis pulled his iron, a Colt Model 1861 Navy revolver, and handed it over. Ryder took it with his left hand, reached around, and tucked it underneath his belt in back. “That satisfy you?” he inquired.

  “Not yet. You have a pocket pistol stashed away somewhere? Maybe a derringer? Some kind of knife?”

  “The Colt is all I carry. Never used it on a man.”

  “Just kids and women?”

  Travis clenched his teeth. Said, “I know what you think a me an’ every other southern man. The hell do you know about how we live or feel?”

  “I know enough to tell you I don’t give a damn. Next thing you want to do is tell me straight whether this place you’re taking me is real or not.”

  “It’s real, all right.”

  He didn’t bother asking whether there would be a trap in place. That part was obvious. “Okay, then. Let’s get to it. Anything goes wrong, you’ll be the first to drop.”

  *

  Does everybody understand the plan?”

  Sly faces nodded at him.

  “All right, repeat it for me,” Coker said. He picked out one of them and pointed at him. “You.”

  Wayne Henley answered back, “The sheriff brings ’im in. We’re waitin’ for ’em, but we don’t do nothin’ till you give the signal.”

  “Which is?” Coker prodded him.

  “A whistle.” Henley frowned. “I ’member it. Can’t imitate it, though.”

  “You won’t have to. Go on.”

  “We hear the whistle, ever’body draws down on the Yank.”

  “Remembering that … ?”