Rough Justice (5 page)

“There's the nigger-lover!” someone shouted, followed by a storm of cursing.

In the front rank, one of the mob's leaders raised his free hand—no torch in the other, but he carried a revolver—and called out to Hubbard, “Come with us, and no one else needs suffer for the crimes that you've committed!”

“Crimes?” Hubbard could barely keep from laughing at him, even in the face of mortal danger. “What crimes?”

“Comin' here, where you ain't wanted, rilin' up our nigras,” said the spokesman. “And woundin' three of our brave Knights.”

“Did you say
brave
?” Hubbard replied. “Coming around to lynch a woman in the middle of the night? And when did Knights start wearing flour sacks to hide their faces?”

That provoked more snarls and curses from the mob. Their leader hollered back, “Your time is over, carpetbagger! If you want to spare these darkies, lay your weapons down and come along with us.”

Miss Emma spoke before Hubbard could answer. “Darkies gonna send you straight to hell, if you don't mind your manners!”

Hubbard saw the muzzle flash and heard the bullet whisper past him, almost felt the slap of lead on flesh before Miss Emma gasped. Then she was falling, two strong freedmen rushing up
to catch her, and her Colt spoke once, sending a shot into the crowd. A masked man fell, and then all hell broke loose.

Gunfire rattled along the skirmish lines, black facing hooded white, unleashing clouds of gun smoke in the street. Hubbard squeezed off one barrel of his shotgun, aiming for the masked man who had called him out, and saw the faceless stranger lurch back, free hand clutching at his side, the first shot from his pistol going high and wide.

Die, damn you!
Hubbard thought and marveled at the fury that possessed him, facing down these cowards who had come to murder him, his wife, his friends. The thought of Josey weakened him, but only for a heartbeat, sending up a silent prayer that she'd be safe with Emma's trusted men.

He dropped behind a hedge of shrubbery, no decent cover there, but it was better than the porch. He fired the second barrel of his twelve-gauge blindly at the lynchers, trusting buckshot to find someone as they scattered, then he drew his Colt and cocked it, seeking targets on the street. As in their first engagement, most of the assembled “Knights” had dropped their torches, fearful of attracting gunfire with their light. Some ran toward nearby houses, then discovered that the neighborhood was turning out against them in a rage.

Encouraged, Hubbard rose to join the charge against the mob. He'd taken two long strides when something struck his chest with a sledgehammer's force and drove the breath out of his lungs.

You never hear the shot that kills you,
Hubbard thought as he collapsed.

*   *   *

R
yder heard distant gunfire as he ran through Corpus Christi's streets, but it had stopped before he reached his destination, following the smell of gun smoke in the air.
Dozens of torches scattered in the street were burning out, but still gave light enough for him to see by, coupled with the glow of lanterns held by neighbors as they moved among the bodies sprawled around Miss Emma's place.

White men and black together, dead or dying where they'd been cut down.

Three freedmen intercepted Ryder half a block from Emma's home. One aimed a six-gun at his chest; the others held a pitchfork and an ax, respectively. Ryder saw a dark trace of something on the ax blade, hoping it was rust.

“Where you think you's goin', buckra?” the man with the pistol demanded.

Ryder tried to keep his tone respectful, anything but agitated. “I was here last night, to see Miss Emma, with the Hubbards,” he replied. “I heard there was some trouble here, and—”

“Come along to pitch in, didja?” asked the ax man.

“Hoping I could help,” said Ryder.

“White trash he'ped enough for one night,” said the short man with the pitchfork.

“If you'd only ask Miss Emma—”

“Cain't ask her,” the gunman spat back, nearly sobbing. “She be daid.”

Ryder was groping for a comment, when another voice rang out behind the trio that had stopped him. “Matthew! Cyrus! Jethro! Let 'im pass!”

Reluctantly, the three obeyed. Ryder eased by them, saw one of the men he recognized from last night moving toward him, grim-faced, with a musket cradled in his arms.

“You come too late, lawman.”

Ryder nodded. Said, “I see that. Is it true about Miss Emma?”

“She's crossed over,” said the freedman. “Ain't about to be forgotten.”

Hesitant to trespass on his grief, Ryder still had to ask the question. “What about the Hubbards?”

“He gone with her, or wherever white folks go. His missus got away in time, I think. Still need to check on that.”

“If you could tell me where she went—”

“Don't know, right off. An' you'll appreciate a certain lack o' trust right now, for white men that I only met last night.”

Ryder could sense where that was going, and he moved to head it off. “You don't think I had anything to do with this?” he asked, and nodded toward the nearest of the corpses sprawled around them.

“If I did, you'd be amongst 'em, Mister. One more dead'un, more or less, don't make no difference now.”

“I mean to see the men responsible for this are punished,” Ryder told him.

“And I wish you luck. You gonna need it.”

From behind him, Ryder heard more angry voices. Turning, he saw freedmen moving out from both sides of the street, to meet a line of uniformed policemen trooping toward the scene. Late as they were, he saw the cops were armed with rifles, shotguns, all with sidearms strapped around their waists. The leading officer wore captain's bars and signaled his authority by scowling, barking orders like an army drill sergeant.

“Squad, halt! Form into firing lines! Three ranks!”

“This don't look good,” Ryder's companion said.

“I'll talk to them,” said Ryder, reaching for his badge.

“Think that'll help?” the freedman asked. “More likely get you shot down for a nigger-lover. They see white men dead, we bound to have a scuffle.”

“There's been too much killing, as it is,” said Ryder.

“Maybe not enough. You best clear out, now, 'less you dumber than I think you is.”

Ryder considered saying more, or staying on to face whatever happened, then thought better of it. Showing his credentials to the coppers likely wouldn't help—in fact, it might have just the opposite effect, making him a marked man in his own right. His advantages, so far, were anonymity and a connection, frail as it might be, to Chance Truscott. There might be nothing he could do for Josey Hubbard, but he could press on to see her husband's killers and the men behind them brought to book.

He
could
do that.

And if a few of them were damaged in the process, well, that was the price you paid for dressing up at night and going out to terrorize your neighbors.

Ryder did not feel like waiting till tomorrow for his chat with Truscott, or the time it would require to worm his way into the Rebel's confidence. He guessed that the survivors of the raid against Miss Emma would be celebrating, likely at the Southern Cross, to make it feel like a resounding victory. Why not drop in and visit them, while they were swilling booze and patting one another on the back?

Why not, indeed?

But he would stop off at the boardinghouse, first thing, to fetch the Henry rifle from his room.

It was a lesson he had learned the hard way: always be prepared.

R
yder heard the celebration when he was a block out from the Southern Cross. Men laughing louder than they had to, fueled by alcohol, congratulating one another on a job well done. It didn't sound like any wake he'd ever been to, making Ryder think they'd managed to forget about the comrades left behind them, lying in the street outside Miss Emma's house.

At half a block, he slowed his pace, keeping to shadows in the long stretch between streetlamps. There was no sign of the police, so far, and Ryder had an inkling that they wouldn't bother dropping by to question Truscott or his men about the shooting across town. Why bother, when the so-called lawmen were in sympathy with Truscott's aims? More likely, they'd arrest some freedmen on a charge of killing helpless white men who had been out for a stroll.

There was no point debating with himself about the local
“justice” system. Ryder saw the writing on the wall and knew that any justice carried out this night would have to be a one-man job.

A shout went up from the saloon, as if in answer to a toast. It was a big night for the KRS, between their riot with the bluecoat soldiers and eliminating Thomas Hubbard. Losses on their own side would be irritating, maybe sadden some of them to a degree, but they were getting over it in record time. Between the combat veterans and those who'd stayed at home during the war, guarding their human livestock, these were men inured to death and cruelty. For some, he guessed, it was precisely what they lived for.

He'd checked his Henry at the rooming house and knew that it was fully loaded, with a cartridge in the chamber. Likewise with the Colt, six chambers loaded and three extra cylinders weighting his pockets, just in case he had to reload in a hurry. Some men kept an empty chamber underneath their pistol's hammer, to prevent a nasty accident, but Ryder wasn't careless with his sidearm, didn't go for all that foolishness of twirling it and whatnot. It was a destructive tool, and always treated with respect.

As he approached the saloon, the revelers inside began to sing. It was a song he'd heard before, though never sung with quite as much enthusiasm as tonight.

Oh, I'm a good ol' Rebel, and that's just what I am.

For this fair land of freedom, I do not give a damn.

I'm glad we fought against it, I only wish we'd won.

And I don't ask no pardon for anything I done.

By the time he reached an alley west of the saloon and slipped into its deeper darkness, they were on the second verse.

I hates the Yankee nation and ever'thing they do.

I hates the Declaration of Independence too.

I hates the glorious union, 'tis drippin' with our blood.

I hates the striped banner, and fit it all I could.

“Keep singing,” Ryder muttered. “You'll have more to hate in just a minute.”

At the rear of the saloon, no lights at all back there, he heard a scuffling sound of boots on sand and gravel. Slowing down, he edged up to the northwest corner of the building, risked a peek around, and saw a drunken man, unsteady on his feet, preparing to relieve himself against the wall. Distracted as he was, trying to sing along with friends he'd left inside the Southern Cross, mind blurred by whiskey fumes, the pisser didn't notice Ryder creeping up behind him in the dark.

“Three hunerd thousand Yankees lie still in southern dust,” he crooned, then lost the words. “Dah, dah-dah, dah dah
dah
dah—”

Ryder stepped in and slammed the Henry's butt into the drunkard's skull, just where it met the spine. The impact drove his target's head against the wall, a second solid
thunk,
then he rebounded and collapsed, his privates on display.

Unconscious? Dead? Ryder considered it, then heard the traitor's lyrics in his head.
I do not give a damn
.

The back door wasn't locked. In fact, it stood ajar, left open by the man he'd just knocked out. Inside the Southern Cross, the noise was louder than it had been in the alley, but at least the song was winding down.

I can't take up my musket and fight 'em down no more.

But I ain't gonna love 'em, and that is sartin sho'.

And I don't want no pardon for what I was and am.

I won't be reconstructed, and I do not give a damn.

Ryder had almost reached the barroom entrance when the singing died, replaced by Rebel yells. He cocked his rifle, set his teeth, and stepped into the crowded room.

*   *   *

T
he first whiskey too many had a sour taste. Chance Truscott grimaced, knew if he kept drinking he would have a rotten, sickly head tomorrow morning, but his men were in a mood to celebrate and clearly didn't want him letting down the side.

The bartender noted his empty glass and grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind him, moving in to top it off. Truscott blocked him, placing a hand over the glass and saying, “Think I'll switch to beer.”

“Okay, then.”

When it came, the beer was warm, but that was normal. Few saloons in Texas—none in Corpus Christi that he knew of—bothered keeping ice on hand. A cold drink would have helped to cut the smoky, sweaty atmosphere inside the Southern Cross, but Truscott knew he'd have to do without that luxury.

It was a night to celebrate, regardless. Sure, they'd lost some men taking the carpetbagger down, but it was worth the cost and had his men fired up, pretending that they'd fought a battle on the scale of Gettysburg. The ones who'd been in combat knew better but wouldn't spoil it for the stay-at-homes. Tonight, they felt like winners, and he meant to keep them feeling that way, since they had a long fight still ahead of them.

Since Lincoln's death in April, the Republicans in
Congress had been clamoring for stiff reprisals. Booth was dead, and his accomplices had stretched rope in July, but killing off five southern patriots had failed to satisfy the Yankee craving for revenge. President Johnson seemed to think that he could hold the radicals in check, but Truscott didn't think so. There were hard times coming for the late Confederacy, and she would need hard men to preserve the treasured southern way of life, even in part.

One of his men nudged Truscott's elbow, nearly spilled his lukewarm beer, but Truscott bit his tongue in lieu of cursing. “Cap'n, we done good tonight,” his soldier slurred, already three sheets to the wind.

“You did, indeed,” Truscott replied—although, in truth, he wasn't happy to have lost the men who'd fallen, and to have the coppers picking over their remains. It was unlikely that there'd be any investigation worthy of the name, but clumsy tactics made for sloppy outcomes.

They would have to do much better in the future.

Someone at the far end of the bar was calling for another song. “Dixie” this time, and the piano player started hammering his keyboard without hesitation, singing in a loud, slightly discordant voice, as others joined in with him.

“Ooohhh, I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten—”

“Look away!” the rowdy chorus echoed. “Look away!”

“Look away, Dixie Land!”

Somebody tugged on Truscott's sleeve, the left. He turned in that direction, lowering his eyes to meet those of a shorter man whose whiskey breath was nearly overpowering. Truscott wondered if he had grabbed the nearest solid object to support himself, but then the short man gave another tug and asked, “Cap'n, who's that?”

“Who's
who?
” Truscott replied, raising his voice to make it audible over the singing.

“There,” the shorty answered, pointing toward a doorway that gave access to the Southern Cross's storeroom, owner's office, and a back door exit from the place. Squinting against tobacco smoke, Truscott picked out a figure that he recognized and came up with the name of Gary Rodgers.

Pushing past the man who had alerted him to Gary's presence, Truscott moved in that direction, smiling. “You came back,” he said. “I'm glad to see you. Let me—” Glancing down, he froze, then asked the man who'd saved him earlier that evening, “What's the rifle for?”

Unsmiling, Rodgers kept the Henry's muzzle pointed at the floor, as he replied, “Truscott, it's time for you to come with me.”

*   *   *

R
yder hadn't considered what charge he could file against Truscott. Nothing came instantly to mind, except a vague count of conspiracy he knew was likely to be tossed from any court in Texas. Right now, he wasn't thinking past the moment. All he wanted was a chance to question Truscott privately, away from all his men, their raucous singing, and cloying fog of smoke inside the Southern Cross.

“What do you think you're doing, Gary?”

“Putting you under arrest,” Ryder replied.

“On what authority?”

“The U.S. Secret Service.”

“Never heard of it,” said Truscott, with a mocking smile, his fingers gliding toward the outer right-hand pocket of his suit coat.

Ryder jabbed his belly with the Henry's muzzle. “Move that hand another inch, you'll hear this plain enough.”

“You'd shoot me here, in front of all my men?” Truscott was trying to be cocky, but he wasn't managing too well.

“You're coming with me, one way or another,” Ryder said. “It's your call, either way.”

“How are you planning to survive this?”

“Not your problem. Somebody starts shooting, you're the first to drop.”

Truscott stared hard at him, apparently deciding that he meant it. “All right, then. Be quick about it, will you, for the sake of all concerned.”

Ryder was backing toward the hallway he'd just passed through, calculated he was halfway there or better, when a drunken voice behind Truscott called out, “Cap'n? Wha's goin' on?”

That drew a few more from their off-key singing, to observe Ryder and Truscott. Even soused, they couldn't miss the rifle Ryder held pressed into Truscott's belly. Voices growled profanity. Hands flew to holstered pistols, and to knives.

“Stand easy!” Ryder cautioned, as the jangly piano music died. “You pull on me, I'm letting daylight through your boss.”

“Bullshit!” one of them snarled, and whipped his pistol clear.

Ryder started to move, keeping Truscott before him to use as a shield, but the drunk fired a shot anyway, missing both of them by several feet. It was the break that Truscott needed, slapping at the Henry's muzzle, reaching back to snatch a bottle from the bar and lob it overhand toward Ryder. When Truscott struck the rifle, Ryder fired a shot by accident and heard a yelp of pain from someone in the crowd behind Truscott, then he was reeling as the whiskey bottle struck his shoulder, staggered him, and bounced away.

Truscott was off and running like a man who's seen his house on fire, the other members of the KRS ducking for cover from the unexpected gunfire. Ryder had their boss man in his sights, when someone fired another pistol shot and cut a jagged piece out of the bar immediately to his left, stinging his cheek with splinters as he dropped into a crouch and focused on the job of trying to survive.

How many men against him in the Southern Cross? He guessed it must be thirty-five or forty, anyway, and likely more. Most of them now had weapons drawn but didn't seem exactly clear on what they should be doing with them. Some reached out to Truscott as he passed them, sprinting for the nearest exit, but he struck their hands away and shouldered through their ranks, not taking time to rally a defense.

The man Ryder had wounded lay beside a table that was overturned, a couple of his friends hunkered behind it in the vain belief that it would stop a bullet. Ryder couldn't tell how badly the man was hit, and frankly didn't care. He was in danger from the men still on their feet, not one rolling around the floor, clutching his gut and bellowing in pain.

He ducked behind the near end of the bar, the only decent shelter in the room, as half a dozen pistols started firing, bullets gouging strips out of the floorboards, peppering the wall behind him, wild shots breaking bottles shelved behind the bar. He figured Truscott must be out and gone by now, but if he cleared the barroom fast enough, Ryder still had a chance to overtake him on his way back home.

One rule he'd learned about gunfighting: those who fired in haste—particularly in their cups—normally missed if they were any farther out than point-blank range. Of course, a stray shot was as deadly as an aimed one, if it clipped an artery or drilled a vital organ, so he couldn't calculate the odds of getting out alive.

What Ryder needed was chaos, and plenty of it.

Glancing toward the barroom's ceiling, he saw two suspended wagon wheels, fixed on pulleys to be raised and lowered, each with half a dozen oil lamps mounted equidistant from each other on its rim. If he could clip the ropes they dangled from and bring them crashing down, the lamps would likely shatter, spill their fuel across the wooden floor, and set the place on fire.