Lords of an Empty Land (23 page)

“I'm looking for the Dallons and Moses Garrett,” Douglas uttered, putting his hands on his hips. He looked at the sheriff's glassy alcoholic gaze. “And a certain piece of merchandise of mine they have.”

“Wouldn't know anything about any of that,” the sheriff answered in a phony voice as he looked over at the two soldiers near the door.

“I've got a message for them, and I want you to pass it on. I've got something they might want. I'm going to bring it to the municipal building in Atkins tomorrow night at ten. If they're interested in trading, I'll bring their merchandise, but they've got to bring mine.”

The room remained deadly silent.

The sheriff cracked a big smirk. “Well, I can't make any promises, but if I run into them, I'll surely pass your message on.”

Douglas turned, using his unadulterated military bearing. As he approached the door, the piano erupted into a loud rendition of “Dixie.” The bar crowd followed suit and began belching the words of the song at the top of their lungs: “Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten . . .”

For almost twenty hours, Douglas had thought about his plans for his rendezvous with the night riders in Atkins. Certainly, the bandits would be waiting on him there later tonight. He had spent the previous night and all day considering the various options. At the very least, he was prepared to trade Amos Dallon for Hannah. Getting her back safely trumped everything, but he doubted it would be that easy. How many desperadoes would they face? How would it play out? Would the outlaws ambush him? Trick him? Or would they simply trade for Hannah? Did something like his nightmare await?

An endless array of scenarios raced through his mind, and he had tried to analyze each in hopes of already having a plan to deal with every one of them. Whatever happened, he stood at the precipice and had come to grips with that. He would get Hannah back tonight, or die trying. His seething, vengeful, and anger-filled body and mind would settle for nothing less.

As he chewed on some salt pork, Douglas blew into a cup of coffee, trying to cool the steaming brew. He looked over to his men on the parade ground behind his office, making ready for their trip into the bush. He would take his full contingent to Atkins, the seven remaining soldiers, Basil, and Huff. Together they would be a formidable force, nine well-armed and well-trained men. The troops were currently loading supplies, ammunition, and spare weapons into either the wagon or their saddlebags. Several sheets had been stitched together and draped over the wagon's cage to hide Amos on the journey out of town. Douglas didn't want anybody to know what was transpiring.

Despite his sullen mood, Douglas almost smiled as he watched Basil step off the boardwalk onto the parade ground to inspect the preparatory activities. Basil doubtless didn't enjoy the company of his newfound colored brethren, but he had gotten to know them, learned to work with them, if only out of necessity. Though Douglas had given the gunfighter a stringent warning that no condescending remarks would be tolerated, he could do nothing about the gunslinger's strange, spiteful facial expressions. The soldiers all looked at Basil like he was some sort of demon, something like a witch doctor or voodoo doll endowed with mysterious, magical, and evil talents. They all stayed clear of him, the silver-headed phantom, if possible.

Though the soldiers seemed convinced of Basil's skills, Douglas and his paid gun hand still wondered about the troops. They looked competent on the parade ground, but were they reliable under fire? He had gotten to know all of the men, but long ago learned that no matter how hard he analyzed and thought he understood his soldiers, regardless of race or background, nothing gave him a real hint of how a man would react when the shooting started. Only the duress of the ultimate sacrifice brought a man's inner qualities, his mettle, to the surface.

Basil approached Douglas, carrying a small crate. He reached into the wooden box and pulled out five sticks of dynamite, already armed with short fuses. “Put these in your saddlebags.”

“What the hell for?”

“Don't know. We've got 'em. Might as well take them with us. Could come in handy.”

“How do you think it will play out?”

“Don't know,” Basil replied, lighting a cigar. “I doubt the outlaws even know. All I do know is we have to put ourselves in their minds, try to think like they do. They'll all be cloaked, and they have only one goal: to make sure there are no witnesses.”

Douglas removed his hat and scratched his head. “I do agree with your earlier assessment. It's likely that Hannah doesn't even know who her captors are.”

“Let's hope so, because then they might be open to simply making a trade. From their perspective, if they've got any sense, they probably don't want to harm her. But if she has seen them, their only objective will be to kill her and get Amos back, or kill him. If Clinton or old man Dallon are there, this may work to our advantage. They'll likely try to save him.” Basil looked off to the hills. “What's your plan?”

“Don't know yet.”

“Well, you damn sure better be making up your mind. There'll be no time for indecision.”

“I'll know when we get there. This may sound optimistic, but I'm not going to rule out bringing in more of their gang if we have a chance, especially Clinton. I've got sworn testimony on the Dallons. I guess we'll have some evidence against anybody else we're lucky enough to apprehend, but that evidence will only be us. It won't carry much weight with a jury, especially if they don't kill any of us. We'll see.”

Douglas sighed. Basil's comments only added more uncertainty. He'd only be able to decide their course after he sized up the situation in person, but he would then have to make a quick decision. His stomach turned uncomfortably.

“We'll have to ride right by Moses Garrett's place on the way. He's about two hours short of Atkins,” Basil added. “Maybe we should pay him a visit. Might catch him at home. Sidney told us he's the boss. I wouldn't normally suggest that, but you cut the head off a snake and the rest of the slimy bastard becomes confused, useless. Any unknowns are sure to work in our favor.”

Basil's proposal caused a hundred more situations to rush into his head.

“Don't take this personal, sir,” Basil said in his most ingratiating voice. “But strictly from a military sense, have you considered the chance that she might be in with the guerrillas? Leading us into a trap. She's the daughter of a Confederate colonel, and her sister's a fiery Southern belle. You have to consider that at the very least she's scared silly and worried about her own hide.”

Dumbfounded by the remark, Douglas mumbled, “No chance.” Had he been so blinded by love to not see this? Visions of Hannah, their wonderful time together, filled his mind. He reasoned this unlikely, only giving it credence because of Basil, who was a man governed only by a totally objective view of the world, almost a man without feelings.

His men got quiet. Behind his office, two soldiers led Amos Dallon out of the barracks. His hands were tied behind his back and his mouth was gagged. The young bandit jerked on the rope, and lunged from his captors as one of the troopers placed a cotton sack over the outlaw's head. Two more soldiers secured a rope around his ankles before they lifted Amos's limp body up onto the wagon and into the cage.

“Get everybody ready to go. We leave in ten minutes. Let's take the back roads out of town. That way we won't stir up any fuss before we reach the ferry.”

 

 

Much to Douglas's satisfaction, the little army patrol reached the ferry at Grand Ecore without arousing any undue attention. In fact, they had arrived to find the ferry on the near bank and only two strangers milling around the Cotton Palace. Josiah Banks manned the ferry.

Douglas led his mare onto the ferry, the wheels of the wagon squeaking behind him. Once on board, the men chatted as they secured four wood blocks around the wagon's wheels. He looked at his watch. An hour after noon. From here, it was a twenty-mile trip to Atkins. With the wagon in tow, they'd be lucky to go three miles an hour over the primitive trails. Easier routes existed, most notably crossing the river at Montgomery, but this route afforded more cover. He had thought about the timing carefully. It needed to be perfect. They had two hours to spare. They didn't need to arrive early. The two hours gave him a cushion in case they found obstacles on the trail. If required, he could ditch the wagon and put Amos on one of the three spare horses in his column. They would rest and ready themselves somewhere just outside Atkins under the cover of darkness. And they'd stop at the Garrett place. Maybe he would get lucky and find Moses there.

As the craft eased out into the river, Douglas felt his footing waver as he walked his mount to the front of the ferry. A few minutes passed, but when the ferry built up some momentum, Douglas motioned for Josiah, who abandoned the ferry's controls and walked over.

“They killed Sidney, if you haven't heard,” Douglas said with a straight face. “Two of my soldiers also, and they've taken Colonel Butler's daughter.” He paused and nodded at the wagon. “Got Amos Dallon in that wagon. I'm going to meet them in Atkins at ten, hopefully trade him for Hannah Butler and maybe bring in a few of Garrett's posse at the same time.”

Josiah looked at the wagon. His face contorted with an unpleasant frown. “When did all that happen?”

“Night before last. I'm going to get Miss Butler back tonight, one way or the other.” Douglas paused. “You want to help, or know anybody who might?”

Josiah continued to study the cage.

Douglas then assumed an austere, serious tone. “I'm either going to get them tonight or they're going to get me. You'll either be rid of them tomorrow or on your own. The time is now.”

“Where?”

“Municipal building in Atkins, ten o'clock tonight.”

Josiah looked to the west, to the sun. He pulled out a pocket watch and studied it. “I'll turn the ferry over to Bubba, see what I can do. See if I can round up some men.”

“How many?”

“Eight, maybe ten.”

“That's enough.”

“You say they've got Colonel Butler's daughter. There won't be many there, no more than ten. That's all that would participate in that.” Josiah looked back at Douglas's soldiers, assessing their strength. “Looks like an even fight.” He then turned and walked back to the ferry's pulley wheel.

“How will I know you'll be there?”

Josiah turned back to Douglas. “You won't. No way to know. Be prepared to go it alone if I can't get any help. I ain't coming alone, Captain.”

 

 

Douglas and four of his soldiers now sat horseback in a small stand of pines about four miles north of Atkins. The day was late, less than an hour before dusk, around 7:30 in the evening. They had made good time, better than Douglas had planned. They had seen only two parties on the trail, neither of whom appeared interested in their presence. All day, the troops had kept a vigilant eye, but the next two hours were the most critical. The cunning desperadoes preferred the darkness and their home turf. The small village of Atkins sat at the confluence of two small streams, in some of the most isolated land in Louisiana, surrounded by the thickest forest and least-populated hills in the area.

Douglas had spent much of his time worrying about Hannah. Sidney and his soldiers' ordeal came second. The night riders killed indiscriminately, without principle, their only goal profit. The Knights propagated different tactics, most geared to instill fear or rid the state of their political enemies. They had a code, albeit a reprehensible one. Both groups held two goals sacred: they tolerated no witnesses or evidence of their crimes, and they remained anonymous. The party they currently pursued appeared to be a mix of both groups.

Douglas held little hope for anybody but Hannah. Over the years, he had heard rumors about the work of both the night riders and the Knights. Little information existed about the night riders' techniques, but many stories circulated about the Knights. They administered whippings, and usually left warning notes or burning poles as their signs of accomplishment. Sometimes they lynched and other times they simply shot their victims. One of their favorite pastimes when they assaulted larger groups was to allow one of their victims to watch the murders. After they finished their work, they would permit this wretched soul to flee, which would then provide the euphoria and excitement of a chase. If the condemned somehow escaped, he passed on the tale of his torment to the populace, thus adding to the group's diabolical lore and sending a dour, horrid warning to all.

“We may be in luck,” Basil commented after looking through his glasses at a house perched on a hill above. “He may be home.”

Douglas inspected the house. A lone saddled horse stood out front, tied to a post. “Looks like he's getting ready to depart for his night's chores.”

“Let me shoot him when he comes out,” Basil said. “I can get him from here. It's only about a hundred and fifty yards.” The gunslinger looked around, then back to Douglas. “This is perfect, the sun's at our back. He'll never know what hit him. We're headed into a one-way fight. Get this bastard now and it doubles our odds.”

Douglas had never lowered himself to giving an order to kill someone in cold blood. Moses had surely committed heinous crimes before, but that was only conjecture. He looked at the long shadows, growing by the minute. Overhead, the sky was a strange red umbrella, like a crimson roof transitioning to gray as it collided with the green hills. He now felt a void inside, nothing. He looked down at his shaking left hand and nodded to Basil. “Kill the bastard.”

As the gun hand pulled his long, scoped rifle from its holster, the troops looked on in amazement, mumbling a few hushed whispers.

“We'll move around and take cover,” Douglas said. “Basil . . . make it quick. One shot. If something goes awry . . . make sure somebody gets Amos to Atkins, and we get Hannah back.” Movement from the house caught his eye.

Moses Garrett stepped down on the ground. Instead of saddling up, he walked across the yard toward an outhouse.

“He's gonna take a shit,” Basil said softly. “Soon as he gets in there, let's get him.”

The five troopers remained perfectly still until Moses disappeared into the outhouse. Douglas then led three of the soldiers off to the side, into some brush where they had a good view of the outhouse but still had the setting sun at their backs. There, they dismounted, and lay prone on the ground.

Douglas looked back at their previous location. He saw nothing. “Be ready,” he whispered to his men.