Rough Justice (8 page)

His first shot missed, struck sparks, and ricocheted into infinity. The second tore into his target's hip, stunning the rifleman and throwing him off balance, while the third drilled through his shoulder, made him drop his Henry as he tumbled off the metal steps descending from the cab. The bandit landed on his face, the wind knocked out of him, and Ryder hurried over to him and slammed his rifle's butt into the outlaw's skull with every ounce of force that he could manage.

Dead or just unconscious? Ryder frankly didn't give a damn.

He saw the engineer above him, peering down, and tossed the bandit's rifle to him. “Check the other side,” he ordered. “There's a lookout holding horses.”

“Yessir!”

Ryder turned back toward the mail car, wishing that he'd taken time to count the waiting horses more precisely. Would he find one gunman in the open car, or two? In either case, how would he root them out?

Ryder eased closer to the mail car, ready with the captured Henry if the bandits tried to make a break for it. They'd likely come out shooting, in that case, and he would have to take his chances. On the other hand, if they stayed put . . .

A gunshot sounded from the driver's cab and echoed from the forest on the far side of the train. He hoped the engineer had plugged the gang's outrider, or at least had driven him away, then Ryder put it out of mind and focused on the task at hand.

The open door yawned at him, Ryder's angle wrong for spotting anyone inside the car. He stopped ten feet away and
called up to the shadowed opening, “You're running short of friends out here, in case you hadn't noticed. Toss your weapons out, and you can live to see another day.”

“And hang, you mean?” a mocking voice came back at him.

“I doubt it,” Ryder said. “So far, your side's killed nobody.”

“And we're supposed to swallow that?” the same voice challenged. “Who in hell are you?”

“Just on my way to Houston,” Ryder said.

“That ain't no answer!”

“All right, then,” said Ryder. “I'm the one who's got you covered. In another minute, I'll be locking up that door, and you can wait until the next town's sheriff smokes you out.”

“Big talk!” a second voice replied. “We'd like to see you try it!”

Crunching footsteps at his back made Ryder look around. The engineer was coming toward him, looking rueful.

“Sorry, mister, but I missed the other one. He's gone, at least.”

“That's good enough,” Ryder replied. And to the bandits in the mail car, “Seems your lookout ran away and took your horses with him. Don't be counting on his help.”

Silence, for half a minute, then the first voice said, “I guess that's it, then. Hold your fire. We're comin' out.”

*   *   *

T
hey came out shooting, one man leaping down behind the other, with a six-gun in each hand. The second bandit stumbled as he landed, jostled his companion, and the impact spoiled his aim. A bullet hummed past Ryder's face, and then all three of them were firing, laying down a screen of gun smoke.

Ryder guessed that he had five seconds, give or take, before one of the pistoleers got lucky with a wild shot, gutting him. He focused on the taller of them, hoping that the Henry he had captured had a full load in its magazine. If not . . .

His first round missed, in the excitement, but his second took the forward shooter underneath his chin, snapping his head back, floppy hat airborne with something wet and red inside it. Ryder didn't watch him fall, swung toward the second man, and saw that he was younger, likely in his teens.

So what?

The smoking pistols in his hands made him as old and dangerous as any other felon Ryder had confronted since he first pinned on a badge. A bullet neither knew nor cared who'd sent it on its way, or whose flesh it was mutilating when it found a target. Pistols didn't make men equal, necessarily. The act of killing did.

His third shot struck the young man just below his breastbone, in the spot Ryder had heard a surgeon call the solar plexus. Land a punch there, and you'd take the fight out of a man. A bullet did the same, but worse, drilling the liver, stomach, maybe angling down into a kidney, through the bowels, or burrowing straight through to the aorta. It was death, regardless, and he saw that on the final shooter's face as he stood over him, kicking his guns aside.

“You kilt me,” wheezed the dying youth.

“A chance you took,” Ryder replied.

“I never thought . . . You haven't seen my mama anywhere around here, have you?”

“No.”

“I hope she gets here soon.” The boy was crying now, whether from pain or grief it was impossible to say. “I need to tell her somethin'.”

Ryder knelt beside him. “You can tell me.”

“Shoulda listened to her. All the times she tried to tell me. Do you think he'll let me in?”

“Who's that?”

“The Lord. Oh, Christ, that hurts!”

“It won't, much longer,” Ryder told him, seeing black blood from a liver wound. He gave the youngster ten or fifteen minutes, tops.

“Where's Amos?”

“Never met him,” Ryder said.

“You didn't? He was with me in the car, just now.”

Ryder glanced toward the mail car's open door and saw a grizzled old conductor, twice his own age, staring down at them. He figured Amos had to be the first man he had shot, out of the car.

“He's gone ahead of you,” he told the dying man-child.

“Never shoulda let him get me into this.”

“What's done is done.”

“Like me. You see my mama . . . tell her . . .”

With a final wheeze, the kid slumped back and died, his message lost. Ryder shoved to his feet and found the engineer beside him, eyes bright with excitement, now that he'd decided he would probably survive.

“Mister, I don't know who you are, but—”

“Just a passenger,” said Ryder. “How long till we're under way?”

“Huh? Oh. I guess . . . what should we do about the bodies?”

“Your call. There's two aboard the train, and four out here.”

“Less trouble taking off the two, I guess,” the engineer decided. “Anyhow, who wants to ride with stiffs?”

“There's still the mail car.”

“Nope. Our contract with the gubment says nobody rides in there but Eastern Texas personnel.”

“Well, there you go, then,” Ryder said.

“You wouldn't want to help me get the others off?”

“I shot them for you,” Ryder said. “That's where I draw the line.”

“No problem. Nossir! You just go on back and settle in. We should be under way in five, ten minutes.”

Ryder turned away, the engineer calling after him, “Hey! You forgot your Henry!”

“Isn't mine,” said Ryder. “Keep it.”

“Well, okay then! If you say so.”

There'd be questions in the next town, a delay, but nothing that should carry over all the way to Jefferson. With luck, he could arrive as no one special, go unnoticed with the other disembarking passengers, and get back to his job. Forget the men he'd killed today, as if the incident had never happened.

As if none of them were ever born at all.

A
nother day was breaking as they rattled into Jefferson, the locomotive's whistle giving off one mournful note before it died away. A few minutes past six o'clock, and there were several passengers already waiting on the depot's platform, anxious to be out of there and headed somewhere else. They stood and waited for the passengers on board to disembark, but no one seemed to notice Ryder in particular.

There had been less trouble with the law in Lufkin than he had expected. Outlaws seemed to be in good supply throughout the district, and the local sheriff wasn't interested in retrieving any carcasses, once sun and scavengers had gone to work on them. He told anyone who'd listen that the Eastern Texas Railroad was responsible for cleaning up its own mess, and the engineer could tell that to the rangers, if he had a mind to.

As for Ryder, he was happy just to see the last of Lufkin and move on.

Not that the scenery improved in Jefferson.

It was a county seat, but still not much to look at, with a waterfront of sorts abutting the Red River, and a stockyard whose aroma fouled the air for blocks around. Ryder understood the river thereabouts was prone to logjams, but they didn't seem to stop the cargo barges getting through and dropping off the loads they'd carried from the Gulf of Mexico, along the Mississippi River to its major Texas tributary.

Jefferson was obviously growing, skeletons of shops and houses rising skyward, everywhere along the river, but they had a temporary look and feel to them. One careless match, and it could all go up in smoke—or Jefferson could fade away more slowly, like a hundred other boomtowns in the West.

First thing, Ryder went off in search of a hotel. He had a choice of four, downtown, and picked the cheapest of the lot after deciding that they all looked roughly equal in accommodations. It was called the Bachmann House and stood four stories tall on the west side of South Polk Street, five blocks north of the river.

Checking in, he paid for three nights in advance and signed “George Reynolds” in the register. The clerk was fairly young, late twenties, but his hair had started thinning out on top, combed over from the left in an attempt to camouflage the scalp beneath it. He was working on a mustache, but it wasn't going well so far. Ryder imagined that his earnest mood would dissipate with time.

His room was on the third floor, facing shops across the street. Ryder was tired, although he'd slept most of the way from Lufkin into Jefferson, a restless kind of sleep. He wasn't going back to bed in daylight, though, and hunger
soon won out over fatigue. Heading downstairs, he walked two blocks before he found a restaurant and ordered breakfast from a menu written on a chalkboard: ham and eggs, with fried potatoes, biscuits, and black coffee.

His fellow diners didn't look much different from those he'd seen in Corpus Christi or at other stops along the railroad line. Some of the men were better dressed, in three-piece suits with coats of varied length, their shoes and cuffs powdered with dust from unpaved streets. Others were rustic in appearance, flannel shirts and denim trousers over heavy boots, most of them sporting knives and pistols in their belts. The women, a minority, wore dresses buttoned to the throat and caged in crinoline below, a challenge when they sat, to keep the hoops from rising indiscreetly.

Ryder took his time with breakfast, drawing out the meal and letting coffee refills bring him back to life. He'd put the shooting on the railroad line behind him, pushed it out of mind, and saw no reason he should mention it the next time he reported back to Washington. As far as that went, he would have to couch whatever messages he sent in cryptic terms, trusting the chief to work out what he meant, since Ryder couldn't tell who might be reading cables sent from Jefferson.

He was in Rebel territory now, where some men still denied the outcome of the war, and few were pleased with its results. His cover as a cattle buyer ought to serve him well enough, in the short term, but he had yet to think of any means for getting close to Royson Coker's Knights. The other side of that coin was a more direct approach, but with the local law presumed to be in Coker's camp, that posed its own decided risks.

See how it goes,
he thought and left his money on the table, with a tip he thought would please the waitress,
without making her remember him. The city was awake now, bustling, and he went to find out what it held in store.

*   *   *

I
need a beer,” Wade Stevens said.

Ardis Jackson frowned at him. “It's barely nine o'clock.”

“Don't care what time it is. I'm thirsty.”

“You're hungover,” Caleb Burke said, not quite grinning.

“Makes you thirsty, don't it?” Jackson challenged.

“Jesus H., you drunk enough last night to pickle half a dozen men,” Burke said.

“And I suppose you're a teetotaler?”

“I never said—”

“You two are givin' me a headache,” Jackson growled.

“Looks like I ain't the only one hungover,” Stevens answered, smiling.

“Wanna get some breakfast?” Burke inquired.

“God's sake, don't mention food right now,” Stevens complained.

“Nice slab o' greasy bacon, with some redeye gravy on the side. Maybe some grits along with that.”

“Goddamn you!”

“I'm just sayin'—”

Jackson pushed up from the bench they shared, outside the barber's shop. “You children stay and play your games,” he said. “I'm gonna stretch my legs a bit.”

“Hey, Ardis,” Burke said, “we're just funnin'.”

“You're high-larious,” Jackson replied. “Just leave me out of it.”

“Awright, come back, for Christ's—Hey, lookee there!” Caleb was pointing to the far side of the street, a shapely woman browsing past shop windows. “Know who that is?”

“Sure do,” Jackson said. “That carpetbagger's sister.”

“Not bad-lookin', for a Yankee,” Stevens said, his comment punctuated with a belch.

“No doubt she'll love your manners,” Jackson goaded him.

“She might, at that. Just needs a chance to get acquainted.”

“I never seen red hair like that before,” Burke said. “Reckon it's natch'ral?”

“You could ask her,” Jackson said.

“Might do that very thing.”

“Go on, then.”

“By my lonesome?”

“Think you need protection?” Stevens prodded.

“Caleb thinks that nigger-lovin' bitch might run him off,” Jackson suggested.

“Aw, to hell with both o' you,” Burke snarled. He left his seat and crossed the narrow sidewalk, stepped into the street.

“Go get 'er, boy!” cheered Stevens.

“Think I'll see how this plays out,” Jackson decided.

Stevens got up from the bench. “Hold on. I'm comin', too.”

They waited for a passing wagon, Burke well ahead of them before the way was clear. A painful pulse behind his eyes made Jackson grimace as he hurried to catch up.

“Man gets a move on when he's motivated.”

“You mean randy,” Jackson said.

“That, too.”

“Hungover like he is, I bet his head splits open when she slaps him.”

“
If
she slaps him.”

“Think she won't?”

“Who knows with Yankee bitches?”

Burke had reached the sidewalk by the time Jackson and Stevens got halfway across the street. He moved to intercept
the woman, standing in her way, thumbs hooked behind the buckle of his gunbelt. She ignored him for a moment, or perhaps was unaware of his proximity, as she looked startled when she turned to go along her way and found him standing there.

“Smooth, ain't he?” Stevens asked.

“Like sandpaper,” said Jackson.

In another moment, they were on the sidewalk, flanking Burke. The redhead, Jackson saw, was even better-looking close up than she had been from across the street. She stood there, fidgeting and giving him ideas, while Burke turned on his charm.

“Ma'am, you look good enough to eat,” he said, flashing a yellow smile, verging on brown.

“Excuse me, please,” she said, keeping her eyes downcast.

“Leavin' so soon? We ain't even acquainted yet.”

“Please, let me pass.”

“She's real polite,” Burke said, to no one in particular. “I like the way she keeps on sayin'
please.
”

“Bet she says that a lot,” said Stevens, getting in the spirit of the thing.

“I don't want any trouble,” she declared.

“Trouble? What trouble? No one said—”

“You've had your fun,” a strange voice said, behind them. “Now step off and let the lady pass.”

*   *   *

T
he three men turned as one, regarding Ryder with expressions ranging from surprise to vague amusement. One he took to be the leader of the trio asked him, “Who'n hell are you?”

“A man whose daddy taught him to show women some respect,” Ryder replied.

“A Yankee!” said the grubby-looking fellow in the middle, picking up on Ryder's accent.

“That's right,” he granted. “Fairly new to Texas, but it keeps surprising me.”

“How's that?” the first one who had spoken asked.

“Before I left, somebody told me all you southern boys were gentlemen. Looks like they got it wrong.”

“You oughta go about your business, Yank,” the third man growled.

Ryder allowed himself a smile. “You don't know what my business is. Could be a teacher, for example.”

“Yeah? What do you teach?” the spokesman asked.

“Today, it's manners.”

“Meanin' what, exactly?” asked the fellow in the middle.

“That's a joke, I take it.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Then you're dumber than I thought,” said Ryder.

“I don't take that kinda talk from any man, much less a bluebelly!”

Ryder considered that, nodding. Spoke past them, to the woman, saying, “Ma'am, you need to step inside that shop behind you.”

“Why's she need to move at all?” their mouthpiece asked.

“Because I'd hate to shoot a woman accidentally,” Ryder replied.

They seemed to see his Colt and cross-draw holster for the first time now, the short one in the middle blinking at him, while the others frowned.

“A teacher like yourself should learn to count,” the one on Ryder's right proclaimed. “There's three of us, and only one of you.”

“I noticed that.” And to the redhead, once again, “Go on now, ma'am.”

The middle man reached back to clutch one of her arms, a stupid move that took his gun hand out of play. “She wants to stay and see me make a Yankee dance,” he said.

Instead of arguing the point, Ryder whipped out his Colt Army and struck the little man a slashing blow across his face. He felt the nose break, saw his adversary suddenly release the redhead's arm and sit down on the sidewalk, hard, forcing her to retreat a step. Blood spurted from his flattened nostrils, leaving purple splotches on an unwashed denim shirt.

The other two were reaching for their guns when Ryder cocked his pistol, letting one, and then the other, stare into its business end. When neither one pulled on him, Ryder said, “Maybe you're smarter than I gave you credit for. You want to finish this, or take your monkey here to get patched up?”

“You bought yourself a load of trouble, mister,” said the leader of the pack.

“Okay, then.” Ryder aimed his pistol at the speaker's face. “Let's settle it right now.”

“My mama didn't raise no fools.”

“I was about to ask if she had any children who lived.”

“What's that supposed to—”

“Pull your pistol,” Ryder said, “or pick your friend up off the sidewalk and get out of here.”

The two still standing glanced at one another and decided not to risk it. Ryder kept his Colt in hand, its muzzle lowered now, and stepped aside to let them pass, with their companion slung between them, arms over their shoulders. Focusing as best he could, the one Ryder had slugged said something sounding like “Ah no zhu wan.”

“That goes for all of us,” the leader said. “We owe you one, and then some.”

“Anytime you grow a backbone,” Ryder said and watched them hobble off, the short one slung between them, slowing progress, till they reached an alley's mouth and ducked into its shade.

Ryder half expected two of them, at least, to spring back out with pistols drawn. He waited for the best part of a minute before holstering his Colt, then stood so he could see the woman and the alley both, at once.

“Thank you,” she said. “That might have been . . . well, worse than it turned out to be.”

“Ask Shorty how he feels about it in the morning,” Ryder said.

That made her shudder as she answered him. “I hope I won't be seeing them again.”

“I ought to introduce myself,” he said but didn't get the chance.