Lords of an Empty Land (9 page)

Douglas stood dumbfounded, almost dizzy. Around him, the day was still. His comrades uttered not a sound. He looked up at the hanging body, lifeless, limp, dangling from a rope tethered to a tree on the side of the trail, its head cocked slightly sideways. He grabbed the thigh of the man and twisted him around to look at his face. Even before he got his first glimpse of the dead man's face, he knew who it was. A sick feeling engulfed his gut as he looked up at the now colorless face of Judge Butler.

“Damn it,” Douglas muttered, looking down the trail.

The army patrol had managed to discreetly depart Winnfield an hour and a half before daylight, the fresh smell of the fire's embers still in their noses. Out of town, they paused to rest and wait for daylight before traversing the gauntlet back to Natchitoches. They had now been on the trail five hours, about half the trip, when they came upon the gruesome scene.

Douglas turned to look at Francis Garrett, sitting on one of the horses, his hands and mouth gagged. The outlaw wore apathy on his face. “Let's cut him down. We'll bury him in Natchitoches, proper. I shouldn't have sent that telegraph. I'm sure they've got a source in the office. I won't make that mistake again.” Douglas paused and looked to Basil. “Where's Private O'Neal?”

“Don't know,” Basil said. “Gone, probably at the bottom of the Red River or some other bayou, wherever they dispose of the dead.”

The words rang true, Douglas knew it. The bandits, as brazen as they were, wouldn't leave a Federal soldier hanging by the road. That would rile up too much unease in their communities. He would just be someone who mysteriously disappeared, maybe he deserted—nobody would ever know the truth. But a Southerner, a full-fledged scalawag, who had gotten in bed with the Yanks, few would mourn his passing, no matter how unjust. The judge wasn't the first Republican official murdered openly in this area. And probably wouldn't be the last.

“Who
are
these people?” Douglas said, turning to Basil, lament and anguish in his voice. “I know these people are backwards, but there's plenty of good people here, too, educated types. I can't believe they would tolerate this. This is too much.”

Basil slowly climbed down from his saddle, looking up at the army captain. “This is white trash of the lowest form. A lot of people, including the well-to-do, overlook the deeds of the Knights as they're called because they approve of their goals, and because it appeases the lowly whites. These groups, their killing of the freed slaves, their general violent manner, allows them to stay a notch above the niggers. It makes them feel like they still have the power that your President Lincoln took. It reestablishes white supremacy. And that, in turn, allows the plantation class to do what they've always done—exploit the poor whites and slaves for their own riches.”

Douglas knew this, or at least he thought he understood it in some way, but nobody had ever said it so clearly, bluntly. He started to speak up, but Basil continued.

“But this is what I figured all along. This is a bunch of rogue white militia. It's likely the clans and gentry would like to get rid of them, quietly. The clans have strict rules, especially during nonpolitical times like now: they don't do anything that might warrant more Federal troops in the area, or arouse national attention, especially picking a fight with the army. This killing innocents is a tad too much for anybody. I'd say most of these outlaws used to be patty rollers or slave drivers, out of work now that there's no slaves to catch or drive. Most of the people in the community wouldn't mind if this bunch went away. That's the only reason I signed on to this job. Only a fool in my position would try to take on the entire political apparatus.”

Douglas looked at Huff, still on horseback but studying all the hoofprints in the road.

“Captain,” Huff said, “I believe these tracks in the road are real fresh, less than an hour old.”

Douglas reached out and put a firm hand on the judge's midsection. “This body's still warm.”

“They took off yonder way.” Huff pointed down the trail in the direction of Natchitoches.

Douglas wanted to catch the perpetrators of this crime, desperately, but he had a prisoner and now a body he needed to get off the road before it became a spectacle.

“No need to hurry,” Basil said. “I say we just follow their trail, see where it goes.” He paused, turned, and smiled at Francis Garrett. “They're probably figuring we'll pick up their trail. They don't want Garrett here to make it to trial, one way or the other. If they'll kill a judge and burn the courthouse, they're probably planning to keep him off the witness stand, even if they have to shoot him. They knew when we'd be passing here.” Basil looked down at the road and studied the tracks for thirty seconds. “Doesn't look like they made any attempt to cover their trail. I agree. These tracks are very fresh, maybe thirty minutes old. Looks like six horses. There's a small creek just up the road. If they don't use it to cover their trail, they're expecting us.” Basil then chuckled loudly and turned back to the captive. “Garrett, looks like you'll get your justice in a day or so, either way.”

Francis Garrett stared at Basil as he gritted his teeth.

“Okay,” Douglas said. He smelled trouble, but tried to maintain a calm façade, his insides at odds with his mind. He had feared this when he had met with the colonel a few weeks earlier, his little band against the odds and in the middle of nowhere. At any second, the peaceful land might erupt. When it came, it would be quick, and it wouldn't be a glorious death on a battlefield, a soldier's death. It was doubtful anyone would ever know how and where he died, or if he were even dead. Douglas feared this more than anything. As a professional soldier, this possible mysterious undoing haunted him. It would trample his reputation, even cast doubts about his service. What a terrible way to go after all he'd sacrificed.

He removed his pistol from its holster on his hip, spinning the cylinder and checking the hammer to ensure its readiness. “Let's cut down the body and bring it with us. Huff, I want you to ride out front, a hundred paces, nice and slow. Keep your eyes and ears peeled.”

 

 

Twenty minutes later, Huff paused on the trail, turning to look at Douglas as he crossed a small wooden bridge that spanned a little creek, all but dry this time of year. He then wheeled his horse around and quietly trotted back to Douglas.

“What's up?” Douglas whispered.

“The tracks play out around that bridge,” Huff replied. “On both sides of the road.”

Douglas studied the small hills and thick vegetation surrounding the small bottom. He turned and looked into the thick wall of timber and willows rising around them. Though the sun scorched down through a cloudless sky above, beneath the dense canopy of trees, the day resembled twilight. This was the night riders' element, not his. The outlaws had spent their lives traversing these hills and bottoms. If they attacked here, he faced slim odds. It would be at least six on three and the bandits had the high ground.

Douglas strained his eyes and ears, looking and listening for something, maybe movement or a twig cracking. Did he see something? He removed his pistol from his holster and held it up, barrel toward the sky. Then he saw the red flash fifty steps up the hill, even before he heard the gun's report. “Into that ditch!” he yelled.

As the roar of gunfire exploded, Douglas wheeled his horse around and raced thirty paces to the deep ditch's bank, the other horses behind him. He pulled back on his reins and jumped from his horse, landing on his stomach in the ditch. The air now full of deafening muzzle blasts, he lurched up the steep bank, peeking his head slightly out of the ditch as he raised his pistol and returned fire.

Basil and Huff did likewise. The gunfire came from both sides of the road, the bullets splashing into the turf and trees around them. Douglas tried to gather his senses. Visibility was terrible in all directions. Fretfully, he saw nothing to get a good aim at. The angry bullets landed everywhere, almost randomly. The bandits had as little to shoot at as they did. They'd be lucky to hit Douglas's party from where they were.

Huff and Basil both scattered along the ditch, twenty feet away. Basil fired two pistols, one in each hand. Unlike Douglas, the gunfighter didn't fire haphazardly into the trees, but waited until he saw a flicker before shooting, each pistol firing in sequence and carefully aimed. Douglas looked for the horses, now scattered off the road. “Where's Garrett?”

“Don't know,” Basil replied, firing two quick shots into the trees.

“What do you mean, you don't know?” Douglas yelled back as he slid down into the cover of the ditch to reload his pistol.

“I took just about as much notice of him as you did when the lead started flying.”

In the bottom of the ditch, Douglas hunched low and scurried to Basil. He shuffled up the ditch bank beside him to look around. Thirty yards away, Huff still recklessly fired his rifle into the woods. “When we unassed, Garrett must of made for the woods instead of the ditch.” Douglas fired three more shots up the hill, more in anger than anything else. “Hell, we've lost him, for good.”

“It's not all bad,” Basil said. “The firing is easing off. We might get out of here with our hides. Maybe we even got lucky and got one.”

Douglas squatted in the ditch. Around him, the zinging bullets died off. How could this be? Just yesterday, he thought he had a leg up on the bandits.

“No sense in scheming,” Basil said, still studying the trees. “Ain't nothing we can do about it now. They're hightailing. I hear their horses running.”

“We're going after them,” Douglas replied.

“No way, seven on three, at least,” Basil said. “Now's not the time.”

“I don't care.”

Basil squinted and frowned. “I'm sure they're headed back the way we came. If we hurry along, we can get to Lookout before they cross Gum Creek. We can get a shot at them there, but it'll be a long shot, a quarter mile. But we'll have the sun at our back.”

Douglas stood. “Huff, fetch the horses, fast. Dump the judge in the bushes. We'll pick him up when we pass back through here. Let's go.”

 

 

Fifteen minutes later, the three soldiers lay prone on their stomachs, staring down at a wide valley. His elbows resting on his saddle, removed from his horse, Douglas looked through his field glasses into the impregnable forest. At two places, three hundred feet below and almost a quarter-mile distant, the trail sliced through the trees, just an orange thread cutting through the jade background. From atop the prominent hill, he saw ten miles in all directions, a peaceful green blanket of rolling hills and ridges. The sun, still high, brightened the wonderful venue like a portrait, one of the few lovely, serene sights he had ever seen in this area. A small, intermittent breeze slid over the hill, poking up in the sky, cooling his sweaty body.

Beside him, Basil and Huff also scanned the valley. Douglas handed his glasses to Basil. “We'll probably only have a few seconds before they break for cover.” He moved his rifle up onto the saddle and aimed it at the trail. “From here, the bullets will land around them before they ever hear the shots.”

Basil handed the glasses to Huff, and now adjusted the sights on his rifle's long scope.

Douglas had never seen a rifle like it. It had foreign words, probably French, carved on the barrel, and loaded a single paper cartridge via a bolt. “We're going to see if you're worth all that gold we paid you.” He chuckled. “We'll scare the hell out of them if nothing else. Let them know that we're here to stay.”

“We may do more than scare them,” Basil replied, resting his cheek on the rifle's stock and adjusting his saddle to ensure he had a solid stand. He put his eye to the scope. “Wish that breeze would settle down. You boys need to aim at least a couple of horse lengths high.”

Douglas picked up his glasses, studying the area where the road came out from under the trees. With the sun over his shoulder, he might get a glimpse, a reflection off some shiny metal. A few minutes passed. Then Douglas's heart skipped a beat. Two horses emerged on the road, then five more. “Has to be them,” he mumbled, staring through his glasses. From this distance he saw only hats and horses, no details.

“When they move into that next opening,” Basil said softly, “I shoot first, then you two open up.”

Heart racing, Douglas looked down the barrel of his Henry. The horses reappeared—a second's pause before Basil's single shot cut through the pristine air on the hill. He thought he saw a horse fall as he opened fire, he and Huff sending three rounds each into the tiny opening in the trees, rapidly working their levers between shots.

Basil fired a second shot, but as Douglas turned back to the valley, he saw nothing, the only movement a horse lying in the road.

“Think we got anybody?” Douglas asked.

“Doubt it,” Basil replied. “Just scared the shit out of whoever was riding that horse I shot.”

Douglas shook his head. They had no one to bring in. Though they had killed the one Dallon boy two nights earlier, a family, one of his soldiers, and the judge had all been murdered. He had few leads or ideas, and the bandits had sent a stern message by burning the courthouse.

He didn't know what to do. He finally reckoned he needed to get back to the safety of town and regroup. Maybe he could come up with some new ideas, a plan that would work? He exhaled a long breath. What he really needed was more troops to have any real chance of subduing the clans. He pondered the letter he'd written Colonel James. Maybe he'd get a couple of squads in a few weeks. “We'll wait here a couple hours, then go down and take a look before we go. Then see if we got anybody back at the bridge. No sense getting in a hurry. I don't want to get back to Natchitoches before dark. I'm sure the papers published the news we killed one of the Dallons and brought Francis Garrett into Winnfield. Word's probably also gotten back about the courthouse burning. We don't want to ride into town without Francis Garrett and with a dead judge. We'll look incompetent, at best.”