Lords of an Empty Land (12 page)

“We will carry this election, but we need to remember not to do anything to arouse Federal attention, draw press, or give the reckless adventurers a reason to request more soldiers. We have to be smart. We need to be diligent, making sure we attend all the Republican meetings, always armed, and eyeing the scalawags and lazy, bad niggers who are stirring mischief. Yes, in this country, it is still legal to arm ourselves for protection. This show of force will frighten the feeble Negro. We will not let the white man be excluded from the political process.”

A few yells came from the crowd.

The speaker continued. “We do not want violence, and it is not our purpose to harm or harass the radicals or Negroes; the latter can be our ally. Our goal is to obtain an electoral majority. If our most effective tactics are required, it is very, very important that they not be employed until a few days before the election, when it will be too late to call in Federal troops from New Orleans or Shreveport. When the time is right, we need to focus on the bad apples, those obstructing progress. Cut the head off the snake, and the majority of the uneducated niggers will become docile.”

“I can do that,” a voice yelled.

The speaker continued. “As much as we lament violence, it may be necessary. When the army leaves, we have won forever. This is very important. Remember it. Any force needs to have a pretense of self-defense, or a personal feud, never giving an inclination that we are an organized political entity. It's always best to avoid violence and intimidation in public or in daylight. There will be time for the just punishment of the radical.”

Tiring of the rhetoric, Douglas finally relieved his worrying heart, and carefully slid back into the bushes and down the hill. He crawled a hundred paces, before standing.

“Psst. Over here,” Basil whispered.

Douglas came to his feet, feeling his way through the underbrush until Basil's silhouette came into view. “You see anybody back here?”

“Not even a possum. Been real quiet. How about you? You learn anything?”

“No, I was hoping to get some details, a tip, or something, particulars about some planned nefarious deeds, but it's just the standard political stuff. Nothing that would stand up to a jury, even up North. I know it's not any worry of yours, but it sounds like they're planning to make a real push in this election. They've got all their old tricks and trades planned.”

Basil let out a muted chuckle. “Why shouldn't they? It's a free country.” He raised his hand to muffle a cough.

Douglas flashed his eyes at Basil, his figure finally forming out of the black haze. “Figured that'd be your point of view. I want you to go to the doctor, first thing in the morning. I mean it.”

“Well, I didn't sign on for politics. I made that clear to the colonel. I vote the Democratic ticket, when I vote. And I'm damn proud of it, too. . . .You ready to go?”

“Ain't hardly worth risking my hide like this just to hear the standard Democratic discourse I can read in the papers daily. There's some political bosses over there from New Orleans. These boys probably aren't too apt to discuss any details while they're here, but we're out of options. Let's just squat in the bush here. Maybe those bosses will get on back to town before long, and then I may ease back up there and do some more investigating. We might not get another chance like this for a while. At the very least, I may be able to catalog some faces when they break up. ”

Mid-afternoon the next day, Douglas sat at his desk trying to finish his monthly paperwork. The most tedious task was reconciling the garrison's bills. The army quartermaster in Shreveport, an annoying little man with thick glasses, was a stickler for details. Douglas needed to get all the corrected paperwork on the next day's steamer so the government paymaster would keep his little outfit supplied and the local merchants content. As he re-added a long list of numbers on a bill of lading from the town's largest general store, a knock on his door broke his concentration.

“Come in.”

Cyrus entered the office. “You called.... Find anything out at the Taxpayers' League meeting last night?”

Douglas motioned to one of the two chairs in front of his desk. He paused a second, putting a hand to his chin. “Yeah, those boys have got it in for you.”

“That's news.” Cyrus rolled his eyes.

“I'm serious.” Douglas's tone got flat and direct as he focused his eyes at Cyrus. “I've heard them talk about you.” He paused a few seconds. “Why don't you lay low for this election? Maybe go back up North. I'm sure you have some business that needs tending to. Go see your family.”

Cyrus's voice rose. “You mean just give the election to the Democrats?” He pointed his finger at Douglas, his face tightening. “Now's not the time to capitulate. What we need is more help from the Federal government. I've written the governor three letters to explain our situation in the last month alone. I don't know why he can't do more. Why he isn't more determined with President Grant. Doesn't the Constitution guarantee equal protection under the law to all Americans? Can nothing be done?” Cyrus's voice grew more urgent. “Is there no protection available for us? Are we to be butchered? This is open rebellion against a freely elected government. Daily, we Republicans are being killed or drummed out of the state. There is no rule of law. Is the government powerless to protect us? Killing Negroes and unionists is not even a crime here. There hasn't been a single conviction, and the general public doesn't have the slightest inkling of remorse. To the contrary, the press openly calls for our murder. I can not fathom why we are left to fend for ourselves.”

“I almost daily make requests for more troops.”

“That's not enough.” Cyrus stood. “This is not what you or I fought four years for. I know you probably don't care if these Negroes vote, but what is a country that doesn't protect its citizens? I don't understand you, Douglas. You seem too apathetic. Maybe you've just been in the army too long. Death and injustice are routine. The war is over. You seem to only want to catch these outlaws, these vermin, because they're your enemy, and you have orders to bring them to justice. Don't you care for the bigger picture, the cause we fought for? These people's only crime is their color. Admittedly, they are ignorant and uneducated, but they can vote as intelligently as the poor whites. Should they be returned to a condition of slavery? Where is your righteous indignation? They have nothing to fight with. Why can't they be full citizens? I beg you to do more. Only the nation and the army can protect these people.”

Douglas groaned, exhaling a long breath, the words and accusations ripping open the scars to his deep, internal differences and conflicting emotions. “It doesn't matter what I think. You know that. I can't make policy. I represent the collective will of the president and Congress. I'm doing all I can with the resources I have. You know the details. This all seems abstract to the Northern public. For every report of atrocities by the army, the Democrats flood Congress with reports that everything here is peaceful, that this is all overblown, sensationalism, only for the purpose of a Republican electoral majority for decades.”

“Bullshit,” Cyrus grunted.

“I'm a pragmatist. I have to be. This is a violent place.” Douglas narrowed his eyes on Cyrus. “And that's not going to change anytime soon. Whether you like it or not, at some point, you and the Negroes will have to stand on your own, wean yourselves off the Federal government's protection. The president has to suspend the writ of habeas corpus for the army to simply make arrests. The Congress, the army, and the democracy will not allow that to go on indefinitely. You better sit down and come to grips with that reality.”

Douglas stood and walked out from behind his desk. “Now I've got work to do, and plenty of problems myself.” He put a hand on Cyrus's shoulder. “I'm going to do something, soon, some things that will make a difference. And I'm going to catch these outlaws, but I need you with me. Now, I've got to go. I will come by in a few days to go over some of my plans.”

 

 

Thirty minutes later, Douglas looked down at Basil, lying in his bed at the Cotton Palace. In his underwear, he leaned back against the headboard. The room smelled of sweat, stale food, and tobacco. Beside the bed on the little nightstand sat two almost empty bottles of whiskey, a couple of newspapers, and one of Basil's pistols.

The doctor, an elderly fat man dressed in a gray suit, reached over and felt Basil's sweaty forehead with his palm. He then bent over and looked into the gunfighter's bloodshot eyes before putting his stethoscope on Basil's chest in several places, listening for a few seconds.

“Is he going to live?” Douglas inquired, turning to the doctor, his hands on his hips.

“Reckon,” the doctor replied.

“What's wrong with him?”

“I get these spells every now and then.” Basil coughed from the bed. “I'll be back on my feet in a few days.”

“Probably consumption.” The doctor turned to Douglas. “But he won't be back on his feet for a few days. 'Spec he's had it for years. These flare-ups occur periodically.” The doctor turned back to Basil and picked up his little black leather bag. “A few days' rest. Drink plenty of water. Take a bath twice a day. Keep taking two of those calomel pills everyday. I'll be back to check on you in the morning. If you're not better in a few days, we'll bleed you.”

Douglas walked the doctor to the door of the hotel room.

“On your way out, tell the barkeep to send me up another bottle of whiskey,” Basil yelled grumpily from the bed. “Have Nancy bring it up.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Douglas said, closing the door after the physician exited the room. Douglas put his ear to the door and eavesdropped to ensure the man had walked away. By now, he didn't trust anyone he didn't know. He turned to Basil with a slight smile. “You're lucky the Dallons and Garretts haven't stormed in here and shot you dead, laid up lame like this.” He handed Basil a cup of coffee.

Basil grabbed one of the bottles beside the bed and poured some liquor into the coffee.

Douglas retrieved the bottle from Basil and turned it up, taking a large gulp. The brown alcohol slid down his throat, and a relaxing sensation draped over his body.

“Didn't think you was a drinking man.”

“This place will turn anybody into a drinking man.” Douglas finished the bottle with another big swig. He looked out the window briefly to the Red River, rumbling along, wide and deep, and then into the mysterious hills beyond. Little activity bustled on the street, only two elderly black men pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with fruit toward town. “How do you know Nancy's not Sheriff Thaxton's whore, and he's sent her to you on his behalf?”

Basil scoffed. “That old worn-out sheriff? Women adore pistol men, one of the benefits of the trade. And gunslingers know how to please women, make them obedient. I'm the best at all aspects.”

Clearing his throat, Douglas turned back to Basil. “I've got seven hundred dollars in gold coming in two days, from Monroe. May use the money to put out some rewards, deputize a couple of US marshals. There's people around here, plenty of them, who want these highwaymen gone, even if they hate the army.”

“I'd be careful. You may be paying your enemies. . . . Just hang around. They'll come after you to settle the score, sooner or later.”

“Since you've got the undivided attention of the sheriff's whore, why don't you pass on this information? Have her let the good sheriff know there's seven hundred dollars in army gold headed here in two days. I'm sure somebody will want the loot, just to have it
and
to keep it out of my hands.”

Basil coughed violently a couple of times and then wiped his perspiring forehead. “You're signing the death warrant of the carrier.”

“I've ordered two men to bring the gold. I'm planning to meet up with them halfway here. I'll have Huff and Cyrus Carter with me. That'll give us five well-armed men. Maybe we can lure them into a gunfight. Of course, you shouldn't pass that latter information on.”

“A shoot-out . . . I thought you wanted to bring these outlaws in front of a jury?”

“I do, and I will. You can rest assured of it, one way or the other. But we've only seen three commit a crime. You shot two of those, and the third got away. We won't shoot them all. Might catch another live one.”

A soft knock on the door interrupted Douglas, and he turned to see Nancy entering with the bottle of whiskey. She walked to the bed, her heels clattering on the floor, then sat down and gave Basil a kiss on the forehead.

Basil grabbed the bottle before wrapping an arm around the girl and pulling her close, roughly, but playfully. He laughed loudly. “I was just telling the captain here how fond I am of you. He seems to think there may be others that you serve.” He reached over and patted her on her rear and then took an oversized swig from the bottle. “We'll have some fun in a few minutes.”

Nancy rolled over on her side, stretching out on the bed, exposing her long, shapely legs covered with black fishnet stockings. She put a hand on Basil's bare chest and began to massage it as her big eyes locked on him, her body completely subservient to him.

Basil was right, about the woman anyway. Douglas didn't understand it. Maybe she feared him, or the danger excited her. He didn't like the thought of heading out into the backcountry without Basil; the man was certainly an asset. Somehow, he now found himself needing, wanting the assistance of this man whose lifestyle he abhorred. A few weeks earlier he had been in complete opposition to his employment by the army. His current requirement for a gunslinger didn't seem right, totally against what he stood for, but it had now become practical, almost compulsory. “Okay, I'm going to do it.”

“Do what?” Nancy said.

Basil set the bottle down, kissed Nancy on the lips, and pulled her to him, rolling over on the bed. The two laughed. “I'll tell you after I've had my fill.”