by Lyle Brandt
Hunting Coker.
Where to find him? On reflection, as he cleared the back door, trailing smoke, Ryder decided that his best bets were at home or at the Red Dog. Of the two, he figured the saloon would be his better choice. Coker would want a crowd around him when the killing happened, witnesses to prove he didn’t have a hand in it, Knights to help him if the play went wrong. He might have money at the Red Dog, too, in case it seemed advisable to run.
The Butlers were long gone and out of sight when Ryder reached the street. He wished them well, the taste of Anna’s kiss still lingering, and knew it was unlikely he’d see either one of them again. There’d been a moment, maybe more, when he’d connected with the woman, but it wasn’t meant to last. She didn’t fit his life, and Ryder knew he was a rotten fit for hers.
Too bad.
He put her sweet face and aroma out of mind and focused on the job at hand. The Red Dog, four blocks east and one block north, should have a decent early evening crowd of customers. He couldn’t guess how many of them would be Coker’s Knights, or simply innocents who didn’t know they’d come to do their drinking on a battlefield.
Was anybody innocent in Jefferson, tonight?
Ryder reloaded as he walked, until the Henry’s magazine was full once more, a cartridge in its chamber. With his pistol and the sheriff’s, still tucked through his belt in back, he was as ready as he’d ever be to face a private army.
For the hell of it, he hummed “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” as he passed on through the dusk.
*
Roy Coker tossed a second shot of whiskey down and felt it sear his gullet on its way to calm his nervous stomach. It was disconcerting to be in the midst of friends, admirers, and to wonder if his plan might be unraveling beyond repair.
He trusted Henley and the others well enough to leave them on their own, let them dispose of Ryder for him, but he thought one of them should have come to fetch him back by this time. If they’d finished with the Secret Service agent, what was the delay? They didn’t have to bury him straight off, just tuck him in a corner somewhere, then tell Coker it was safe for him to come back and interrogate the Yankee prisoners.
Simple.
Except they weren’t here yet, and he was getting antsy, his imagination painting pictures that disturbed him. One more drink, and then he’d walk back to the dry-goods shop. Find out what the delay was and correct it.
“Another,” Coker told the barkeep, smiling as three fingers of the amber fluid filled his glass. He lifted it, had almost pressed the rim against his lips, when someone barged in through the bat-wing doors and bellowed, “Fire!”
“Where at?” somebody asked the new arrival.
“Felcher’s dry goods,” came the answer. “Goin’ up like Hell!”
The barroom emptied in a rush, civilians and Knights alike racing to catch the show, and maybe see if they could lend a hand in putting out the fire. His watchdog for this evening, Jeremiah Campbell, stayed at Coker’s side and asked him, “Do you want to see it?”
“No. Those numbskulls couldn’t do a simple job, we’ll leave them to it. Flee or fry, I never want to see the four of them again.”
“No problem. What about the Yankees?”
“Two of them are likely cooked by now. The other … let’s just wait and see.”
“What if he ain’t, Boss?”
“Then we’ll run him down and finish it. He’s just one man, an outsider at that.”
Coker drained his whiskey glass, then let his hand drop to the butt of his LeMat revolver with its metal lanyard ring. He hadn’t shot a man since late November 1864 but felt the itch now, in his gun hand, agitated by a churning in his gut.
If Ryder had survived the trap, it meant he’d dealt with Henley’s crew and Travis. Maybe he’d be wounded, even dying. Coker wouldn’t know until he saw the Yank, and maybe had a chance to speak with him.
On second thought, forget that. There would be no talking, if and when they met again. Just gun smoke and a bloody end for one of them.
“You okay, Boss?” asked Campbell.
“Fine,” Coker said. Thinking, Come on. Let’s get it over with.
*
Ryder watched from an alley as the crowd of Red Dog customers went streaming past him, toward the fire. Their voices jumbled all together, nothing he could make sense of in passing, even if he’d cared to try. He scanned the faces, didn’t see Roy Coker’s, and proceeded on toward the saloon as soon as they were gone.
Another problem when he reached it: how should he go in?
A quick peek through the street-side window showed him Coker and another fellow at the bar, glasses in front of them, both armed with six-guns. Add the bartender, who likely had a shotgun stashed away somewhere, and that made three. He didn’t want to shoot an honest workingman, but that would be the barkeep’s choice, if he sided with Coker in the fight.
It never crossed his mind that Coker would surrender voluntarily. It wasn’t in him to admit that he was beaten, grant that he had failed. If Appomattox hadn’t taken the starch out of him, he wouldn’t back down now.
Given the atmosphere he’d found in Texas, and the odds against a jury of his Rebel peers convicting Coker, Ryder counted on a fight to settle things once and for all.
Whichever way it went.
He stood outside the Red Dog, breathing in the night, caught a tang of wood smoke on the breeze. More people shouting, back in the direction he had come from, and a bell was clamoring as someone tried to raise the fire brigade. He thought about the Butlers, wondered if they’d made it safely home or even tried, and knew their fate no longer rested in his hands. He’d done his bit and given them his best advice. Whatever choice they made, it would be their responsibility alone.
His job was here, a few yards distant, in the barroom.
Front or rear?
Without another thought, he shoved in through the swinging doors, rifle at his shoulder, with its barrel aimed midway between Roy Coker and his friend. They turned to face him, almost moving in slow motion, while the barkeep froze, a wiping rag in one hand and the other out of sight.
“I thought you might be joining us,” said Coker. “Where’s the sheriff?”
“One of your men killed him. Add it to your bill.”
“What bill is that, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Murder and attempted murder, kidnapping, inciting riots.”
“Quite a list. Even if true, however, those are state offenses. Where’s your jurisdiction?”
“I was just about to say rebellion against these United States.”
“Indeed? You make me sound ambitious.”
“That, or crazy.”
Coker’s face grew dark at that. “If you’re correct, it’s never wise to prod a crazy man.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Fair enough.”
Both of them drew at once, Coker’s companion being quicker, and the barkeep ducked to grab his twelve-gauge from a shelf behind the bar. Ryder triggered a shot and knew he’d missed all three, before he dived headlong below the nearest poker table, tipping it to cover him.
*
Which, as it turned out, didn’t offer much in way of cover after all. The first shots from his enemies punched through the table, drilling tidy holes, but they were several inches high and only stung Ryder with splinters as they passed.
Too close for comfort, still.
Instead of giving Coker and his friends time to correct their aim, he rolled clear of the table, Henry rifle angled toward the bar, and triggered two quick rounds without much hope of hitting anyone. As luck would have it, though, his second round cut through the thigh of Coker’s sidekick, spraying blood across the bar’s wood paneling in front, above the brass foot rail. The man went down, howling, but still managed another pistol shot before his backside hit the floor.
Another miss.
Coker fired again, and now the bartender had found his shotgun, swinging it around toward Ry
der with a pinched expression on his face, clearly unhappy to be there. His happiness went down another notch as Ryder shot him through the chest and slammed him back into the shelves of liquor bottles. Falling with a cry of pain, the barkeep fired both barrels of his weapon simultaneously, pointed toward the ceiling and the cribs upstairs. The buckshot blew a ragged hole some two feet square and loosed a rain of dust atop the dying shooter.
Coker’s pistol gave a hollow boom, like something in its mechanism had exploded, maybe ripping off his fingers, but the sting of birdshot at his side explained the noise to Ryder as he gasped and staggered. A LeMat, damn it, and he’d be lining up another shot—a solid slug this time—while Ryder tried to get his balance back. The only answer to it he could manage was a quick shot on the fly, wasting the fifth round from his Henry, but at least it spoiled his adversary’s aim as Ryder dropped into an awkward crouch.
Meanwhile, the leg-shot gunman had recovered well enough to try again. He had his Colt lined up on Ryder, more or less, when Ryder grazed him on the run, a headshot gone astray to clip the lobe from his left ear. More blood splashed on the bar, another cry of pain, and when the Colt fired, it was high and wide.
Pumping his rifle’s lever action, Ryder fired again at Coker, missed, then swung back toward the other shooter, slumped against the bar, down on one elbow now, his six-gun wavering in front of him. They fired together, Ryder’s .44 slug drilling home beneath the shooter’s chin, while Ryder felt another razor line of fire lancing across his wounded side.
Instead of running now, Coker was moving toward him, shouting angry words that didn’t register with Ryder’s ringing ears. His chunky-looking pistol blazed and missed again, despite the narrowed range, its aim betrayed by Coker’s rage.
One chance, thought Ryder, as he aimed his Henry through the gun smoke, squeezed the trigger, and saw Coker lurch backward, falling with arms outflung, a splash of scarlet on his white shirt, swiftly darkening. He hit the floor, heels drumming for a moment, then lay still.
Ryder rose slowly, painfully, and started for the exit, wanting to be gone before more Knights returned to tell their leader what was happening downtown. Outside, he left the smell of gun smoke and exchanged it for a pall of drifting wood smoke, wafted on the wind blowing in his direction from the dry-goods store.
*
The town was burning. Not a lot of it, so far, but he could see flames leaping over nearby rooftops, work enough to keep the fire brigade and any volunteers engaged for hours yet, he guessed. They’d likely save most of the downtown district, but with blackened scars to tell the tale.
Ryder considered what to do next. He was wounded, bleeding, though he sensed his injuries were not life threatening. He hadn’t met a doctor yet, in Jefferson, and didn’t fancy wandering the streets until he found one’s shingle hanging from a doorpost. Even then, he might pick out a sawbones who was friendly with the KRS, if not a member in his own right.
He was angling toward the Bachmann House when someone spoke up from a darkened alley to his left, saying, “You’re hurt.”
It was a woman’s voice, but Ryder swung his rifle that direction anyway. Tonight, unless he knew who he was dealing with, the rule was caution first, last, always.
“Who’s there?” he challenged.
From the darkness stepped the Butlers, Anna letting go of Abel’s arm to close on Ryder, while he let the Henry’s muzzle drop.
“We couldn’t just pack up,” her brother said. “Well, Anna couldn’t. We came looking for you. Heard the shooting.”
She was pulling back the left side of his jacket now, saying, “Is this … ? My God, you’re shot!”
“Birdshot,” Ryder replied. “It shouldn’t be too deep. The other is a pistol graze. It looks worse than it is.”
And felt worse, too.
“Come back to our house,” Anna said. “We’ll clean this up and bandage you.”
“It’s best,” Abel agreed. “In case the sheriff’s looking for you, or the Knights.”
“The sheriff’s dead,” Ryder informed them. “Back where Coker had you caged. You likely missed him in the body pile as you were leaving.”
“Still, the Knights—”
“Don’t know me, without Coker pointing them in my direction.” With a glance back toward the Red Dog, Ryder added, “And he’s long past pointing at anybody.”
“Still, your wounds need tending. You can’t go to the hotel looking like this. And you’re still bleeding! I can fix this, if you’ll just—”
She talked nonstop until they reached the house and ushered him inside. Abel was quick to lock the door and pull the blinds before he started lighting lamps. He had retrieved his old Colt Paterson, dropped in the living room when Coker’s men kidnapped the two of them, and kept it ready, close at hand.
It was a slow and touchy business, cleaning Ryder’s wounds, but Anna had skilled hands and minimized his grimacing. Abel stood guard, stepping outside from time to time and bringing back reports of progress with the fire. His final bulletin, as Anna finished taping Ryder’s ribs, suggested that the blaze, if not extinguished, was at least under control.
Dressing, Ryder remarked, “I hope it didn’t burn the Western Union office.”
“Shouldn’t have, from what I’ve seen,” Abel replied. “But with the hour and all that’s going on, I doubt you’ll find an operator there.”
Ryder assayed a shrug and instantly regretted it. “Won’t matter. Long as I can get inside the office, I can handle it myself.”
And would prefer it that way, if the truth be told.
“Wait!” Anna caught his sleeve as he was putting on his jacket. “Won’t you stay here overnight, in case they’re watching the hotel?”
“My guess would be the Knights have had enough excitement for one evening,” Ryder said. “No one to give them orders now. They’ll need time to recover.”
And before that happened, Ryder hoped, someone in Washington could spur Captain Legere to start making arrests of KRS members.
“Will I … will we be seeing you again?” asked Anna.
“I wouldn’t rule it out,” said Ryder, edging toward the exit. “Washington’s not too far from New York.”
A fantasy, already turning into mist.
“I only wish—” she said, then caught herself and forced a smile. “Be careful, Gideon.”
“I always am,” he lied.
*
Ryder had Mexican for breakfast, something called huevos in el purgatorio, translated by his waitress to mean “eggs in Purgatory.” What that meant, in practice, was two eggs simmered in spicy tomatillo sauce, with rice and hot chorizo on the side. He wolfed it down, relieved that no one interrupted him, then walked back to the Bachmann House, to finish packing up.
He’d gotten off a wire to Washington the night before, no problem getting into Western Union—which was locked up tight, as Abel had predicted. One of many things he’d learned while working for the U.S. Marshals Service had been picking locks, a skill Ryder believed that every lawman ought to have.
The clerk, same one who’d checked him in when he arrived, spied Ryder entering the lobby and called out to him. “Oh, sir! You have a telegram.”
Ryder retrieved the flimsy Western Union envelope, checking for any signs it had been tampered with and finding none. He thanked the clerk and went upstairs to read the message in his room.
It was from Washington, of course. Chief Wood was spare with praise, but Ryder was becoming used to it. The message read:
CONCLUSION SATISFACTORY STOP LEAVE REMAINDER TO UNITED STATES ATTORNEY AUSTIN STOP ATTENTION NOW REQUIRED IN BONHAM TEXAS STOP REGRET NO RAIL LINE ACCESS STOP DETAILS TO FOLLOW STOP WOOD ENDS
Bonham? He’d never heard of it, would have to find a map somewhere and find out where it was, how far from Jefferson. “Details to follow” could mean anything, but Ryder guessed it would be trouble. Why else was he going there at all?
The part about no rail access was worrisome, until he thought
about the local livery.
And wondered if that Appaloosa was for sale.