Rough Justice (9 page)

“You, there!” a gruff voice called out from across the street. “Throw up your hands!”

Ryder turned to face a stocky figure, bandy-legged and barrel-chested, round face shaded by a wide-brimmed, high-crowned hat. He wore a pistol on his right hip, fingers curled around its grip, but had not drawn it yet. The star pinned to his vest glinted despite a layer of tarnish.

Ryder kept his hands down at his sides, asking the lawman, “What's the problem, Marshal?”

“Sheriff,” he was instantly corrected. “Harlan Travis of Marion County.”

“You're in the right place, then,” said Ryder.

“I told you to throw up your hands!”

“And I asked you what the problem is.”

Arriving on the sidewalk, Sheriff Travis kept his distance. “I just witnessed you assaulting three respected citizens of Jefferson,” he said. “I'm putting you under arrest.”

“Respected citizens?” Ryder could only smile at that. “I guess you've got a different definition for it, here in Texas.”

“Listen, you—”

“Three blowhards, drunk at half past nine
A.M
., insulting ladies on the street and threatening a man who intervenes. Is that your kind of law and order, Sheriff?”

“You can tell it to the judge,” Travis replied.

“I'm telling you. And if you're smart, it goes no further.”

Smelling trouble, Travis cut a glance toward the lady and told her, “You can go about your business, ma'am.”

“I will not,” she informed him. “I'm a witness to the whole event. This gentleman—”

She hesitated, realizing that she didn't know his name, and Ryder had to think about how he should handle that. Give out the name he'd signed at the hotel, or use his own to match his federal credentials.

Well,
he thought,
to hell with it.

“Gideon Ryder,” he told Travis. “And I've got a badge, myself.”

Travis was frowning at him now. “Where is it?”

Ryder used his left hand, slowly, kept the right hand ready for his Colt as he drew back his coat's lapel to show the badge pinned on its inner lining.

“What's that say?” the sheriff asked him, squinting.

“U.S. Secret Service,” Ryder said. “And let me guess: you never heard of it.”

“Are you some kinda Yankee spy?”

“In case you missed it, Sheriff, that war's over. Lee surrendered.”

“Some around these parts would argue that point with you.”

“If they haven't learned it yet, they will, in time.”

“Uh-huh. About this other deal . . .”

“You want to file a charge against me, Sheriff, go ahead. I'll cable the Unites States attorney, up in Austin, and he'll be here for the trial. You'll wind up looking like a fool, or worse, costing the county money for a case you're bound to lose. What I will
not
do is surrender and sit waiting in your jail, until a mob of yellow scum with sacks over their heads come and string me up.”

The sheriff's face had gone from pink to red, verging on purple. Ryder knew his type, could sense his first resort was violence, but Travis managed to control himself somehow, lifting his gun hand clear, flexing the fingers as if they were paining him.

“I'm gonna check this out. Where are you staying?”

“Haven't made my mind up yet.” Why make it easy for him, after all?

“I'm gonna keep an eye on you.”

“And take care of that other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“The bums who were harassing Mrs.—”

“Miss,” the lady at his side corrected him. “Miss Anna Butler.”

“I know who you are,” the sheriff said, his eyes on Ryder.

“I've no doubt of that,” she said. “Now, if we're finished here . . .”

“Those other three,” said Ryder, not inclined to let it go.

“I'll look 'em up and get their side of it,” Travis replied.

“And do your duty, as the law requires?”

“As I see fit,” the sheriff said and turned away, clomping along the wooden sidewalk in his high-heeled boots.

“Some law you've got here,” Ryder said, when he was out of earshot.

“If you want to call him that. He's little better than a thug, himself.”

“In which case, I'd say that it's wise to stay away from him.”

“But will he stay away from you?” she asked, half smiling.

“If he's smarter than he looks.”

“I wouldn't count on that.”

“Miss Butler, may I see you safely home? Assuming that you're finished with your shopping for today?”

“All this has put me off. And yes, Mr. Ryder, you may.”

*   *   *

G
lad you could make it, Sheriff.”

“Came here straightaway, soon as I got your message,” Travis said. “You've heard from them, I take it?”

Them
being the three who'd caused the trouble, Caleb with his nose mashed flat and now taped over, as if that would help it any.

“We've been talking, that's correct,” Roy Coker said. “And now, I'd like to hear your part of it.”

“These three decided that they'd have some fun with Anna Butler.”

“The carpetbagger's sister. We've been over that,” said Coker.

“But they didn't count on someone steppin' in to call 'em on it.”

“Once again, I've heard that bit.”

“O' course, they didn't stick around to find out who he is.”

“Don't make me guess, Harlan.”

“Name's Ryder. Gideon, he says.”

“A judge from the Old Testament,” said Coker. “Did he have a Hebrew look about him?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Judge? He weren't no judge I ever saw,” said Jackson.

“I was citing scripture, Ardis. You won't know it, but the name means ‘mighty warrior' or ‘destroyer.'”

“What name?”

“Lord preserve us.” Coker turned back to the sheriff. “So, if not a judge, what is he, then?”

“Comes from the government. In Washington, I mean. Showed me a badge from somethin' called the U.S. Secret Service.”

“Which confused you, I suppose.”

“Well . . .”

“It was organized in July of this year. A kind of national police force, but with limited responsibility. At least, they
say
it's limited.”

“So, not a spy, then.”

“Only inasmuch as all police spy on the common citizen.”

“I never did.”

“Of course not, Sheriff. Now, as to his business . . . ?”

“Didn't say.”

“And you were too absorbed to ask.”

“Abthorbed,” said Caleb, trying on a grin for size. “Tha's Harlan.”

“Keep it up, you want a jaw to match that nose,” the sheriff warned.

“Ya doan thcare meed.”

“All of you, simmer down,” said Coker. “You can kill each other when we've done our work in Jefferson and finished cleaning up the state. Meanwhile, I want to know about this mighty warrior in our midst.”

“Who's that?” asked Jackson.

Coker felt the color rising in his cheeks. “That would be Agent Ryder, Ardis.”

“Oh, right.”

“Can you focus long enough to find out where he's staying? Put some eyes on him and find out where he goes?”

“Will do,” said Jackson, making no move to stand up.

“Right now would be the time.”

“Yessir!” He bolted for the door, spurs jangling, half surprising Coker when he opened it without a hitch.

Coker turned back to the sheriff, saying, “Harlan, this could be a problem for us.”

“I can handle it.”

“No doubt. But I'm concerned that if you do, there may be repercussions from the federals.”

Travis frowned at that. “What's repo-cushions?”

“Trouble,” Coker answered, swallowing an urge to slap Travis and send him back to grade school. “If a lawman like yourself, or any of your deputies, does anything to interfere with Agent Ryder, we could be ass-deep in bluecoats. And we don't want that, do we?”

“No.”

“Exactly. So I'll deal with him, and you will carry out a full investigation, satisfying all concerned.”

“I will?”

“At least, on paper.”

“Oh. I get it. Whatcha got in mind?”

“I'll have to think about it,” Coker answered. “First, we'll find out where he's staying, then come up with something suitable.”

“Ah cad haddle im,” Burke interjected.

“All evidence to the contrary, Caleb,” said Coker. “You have had your chance. Now give your nose and mouth a rest. I'll try someone with more finesse.”

Burke muttered something unintelligible.

“What was that?”

“Nuddin.”

“As I suspected. You may go.”

When he was left alone with Travis, Coker said, “I know it's difficult for someone like yourself, a man of action, to be eased aside. But trust me, Harlan, this is for the best. You're too important to be jeopardized.”

He almost choked on that bit, but the sheriff swallowed it, nodding along as Coker spoke. “Okay, I see that. But if you need me for anything—”

“You'll be the first to know.”

“Awright, then. If we're done . . .”

“We are, indeed.”

Travis went out and closed the office door behind him. Coker took a glass and bottle from his desk drawer, bottom right, and poured himself a double shot of whiskey. Being lubricated helped him think, and he had plans to make.

Charting the final hours of an enemy from Washington.

R
yder and Anna Butler walked six blocks due east from South Polk Street, passing locals who regarded them with various expressions ranging from suspicion to outright distaste. Since he was new in town and hadn't met a one of them before, Ryder supposed that their hostility was meant for his companion—and, by logical extension, anybody else who deigned to walk with her.

So be it.

Every block or so, he paused to look behind them, watching out for any of the gunmen he had rousted earlier.

“You think they'll follow us?” she asked.

“No sign of them so far.”

He didn't say that there might be no need for them to follow. If she was notorious in Jefferson, an object of antipathy, the thugs likely already knew where Anna lived, giving the chance to go ahead and lie in wait. Or maybe, after being
shamed in public, with the sheriff now involved, they would be smart enough to bide their time.

Maybe—though
smart
wasn't the first description Ryder thought of, when he pictured them.

Not smart, but no less dangerous for that.

“Miss Butler—”

“Call me Anna, please. You saved my life, remember.”

“Likely not your life.”

“My honor, then. More than the so-called gentlemen of Jefferson would do.”

“You don't have lots of friends in town, I take it.”

“Well, not
white
friends, anyway.” She watched his face and asked him, “Does that shock you?”

“I don't shock that easily.”

“I'm glad to hear it, Mr. Ryder.”

“Gideon.”

“That's better.”

“What I meant to ask is if you're down here on your own.”

“Oh, no. There's Abel.”

“And he is . . . ?”

“My brother. We're with the American Missionary Association. You may have heard of it?”

“The New York abolitionists?”

“Not all from New York,” she corrected him. “But, yes, that is the group I mean.”

“What brings you south, now that the slaves are freed?”

“In theory, they are free,” she said. “Reality is something else entirely. Our goal, for the AMA, is to establish schools. Did you know that before the war, it was a crime to educate black men and women held in bondage?”

“Sounds familiar.”

“First, ban them from learning and imprison anyone who
tries to teach them, then use ignorance as an excuse for keeping them in servitude.”

“Doesn't sound fair, I grant you.”

“Not fair? It's diabolical!”

“Were you a teacher, back at home?”

“Training to be,” she said. “My brother is a minister.”

“So, healing hearts and minds.”

“If we can get the chance.”

“And people hereabouts are stopping you.”

“By any means they can devise.”

“I can't promise to clear that up for you,” Ryder admitted, “but I'll do the best I can.”

“You've done enough,” she said, then stopped and told him, “Here we are.”

The house was small but well kept, freshly painted sometime in the past six months or so, new-looking shingles on its sloping roof. Someone, likely the woman at his side, had cultivated flowers in two beds below windows facing the street, and while the yard was sandy dirt, it had been raked to keep it smooth and free of jutting stones. A knee-high picket fence enclosed the yard, with access through a swinging gate.

They passed through, Anna pausing long enough to latch the gate behind them, then proceeded to the house. Before they reached its porch, a man emerged to greet them, dressed in shirtsleeves and suspenders. He resembled Anna, though his face was masculine enough that no one would have called him pretty.

She performed the introductions. “Abel, this is Mr. Ryder. Gideon, my brother, Abel.”

“And what brings you here?” asked Abel Butler.

Anna answered before Ryder had a chance. “He helped me out of trouble. Coker's men again.”

“Are you all right? They didn't—”

“More rough talk, as usual,” she told him. “Calm yourself.”

“They need a hiding,” Abel answered, through clenched teeth.

“They got it. Well, one of them did,” she answered, smiling up at Ryder. “And he sent the sheriff packing, too.”

“It seems that we are in your debt,” said Abel. “Please, sir, come inside.”

Within, the house was every bit as clean as its exterior. It might have been prepared for a white-glove inspection, nothing out of place that Ryder saw, and no dust visible on any surface. The only sour note he spotted was a bullet hole, high up on the parlor's north wall, in line with one of the street-facing windows.

“A token of appreciation from the KRS,” Abel explained. “We've just replaced the windowpane.”

“The KRS,” Anna began to say, “that's—”

“I'm familiar with them,” Ryder said. “In fact, that's why I'm here, in Jefferson.”

“Not one of them?” Abel was instantly suspicious.

“Just the opposite,” said Ryder. “I'm investigating them.”

He showed his badge again, and Abel read the small inscription.

“Secret Service? Yes, I've heard of that, I think.”

“You're one in a million.”

“But what can you do, if the sheriff won't act?”

Ryder shrugged. “That remains to be seen. I had some luck with them in Corpus Christi, earlier this week.”

“Did you arrest them?”

“Not exactly.”

“What, then?”

“Let's just say they seemed discouraged when I left.”

“This is their headquarters,” said Abel. “If you found a way to crush them here . . .”

“I'm working on it,” Ryder told him. “And I'm hoping you can get me started with some information.”

*   *   *

I
checked all the hotels in town. There ain't no Ryder booked at any of 'em,” Ardis Jackson said.

“I see,” Coker replied. “And what else did you try?”

“What else?”

“Describing him, for instance. To the clerks?”

“Yessir, I did do that. They got a fella stayin' at the Bachmann House sounds somethin' like him. Calls hisself George Reynolds, I believe it was.”

“You're not sure?”

“No, that's right.”

The same initials,
Coker thought.
He's not so clever, after all.

“And did the clerk inquire why you were asking?”

“Told him I was working for the sheriff, and he oughta keep it quiet.”

“You surprise me, Ardis. That's good thinking.”

Jackson beamed, delighted with himself.

“You didn't actually
see
him, though?”

“Boy said that he was out somewhere.”

“We'll need a confirmation,” Coker said, “before we move against him. Punishing the wrong man could rebound against us.”

“Uh-huh.” Jackson's normal blank expression had returned.

“One of you needs to keep eyes on the Bachmann House. Make sure this Reynolds is the man we want. Not Burke, of course. That busted mug of his stands out a block away.”

“I'll see to it.”

“But carefully,” said Coker. “Verify the man's identity and come straight back to me. Do
not
try anything yourself.”

“I reckon I could take him.”

“Let's recall this morning, Ardis. How'd that go?”

“He cheated.”

“Mmm. Imagine that.”

“He wouldn't have to see me comin'.”

“Let me say this one more time. You are to watch, and then report back. Nothing else. You understand?”

“I hear you.” Sullen.

“And.”

“I'll do just like you say.”

“Should you forget, I will be mightily displeased.”

“Yessir. Who's gonna take him, then, if you don't mind me askin'?”

“I was thinking of Chip Hardesty.”

“He's got that Sharps.”

“Indeed, he does.”

“No worries about gettin' close.”

“You read my mind.”

“Okay, then.”

“I'm so glad that you approve.”

“Well, sure.”

An awkward, silent moment passed, then Coker asked, “Is there some reason you're still standing there?”

“Huh? Oh, nossir. I'm just goin'.”

“Adios, then.”

“Good one. Talkin' like a Messican.”

Coker watched Jackson close the door. It was a struggle sometimes, dealing with the quality of men he had available. They were passionate enough about the cause, but when it came to brains . . . well, many of them would not bear a
close examination. Most were poorly educated, which he understood. It was a function of their social standing. On the other hand, the KRS seemed to attract more than its share of village idiots. Which made him wonder sometimes, in the dead of night, whether his fight was doomed to fail.

Faith made the difference, of course. His Bible told him that God Almighty had set the races apart. Adam's seed were the masters, while Cain's were the hewers of wood and drawers of water, ordained to be servants forever. No earthly king or president could violate that standard with impunity, as Mr. Lincoln had discovered to his sorrow. On the one hand, there was man's law, sometimes useful, often foolish and misguided. On the other, God's immutable commandments.

Royson Coker saw himself as one of God's elect, a man apart, born to the struggle between light and darkness in a world gone mad. If he could not restore the antebellum order to his state alone, then he would have to trust the Lord for help. And when had He denied a faithful servant's plea for aid?

But God helped those who helped themselves. And Coker had a plan in mind that might eliminate the need for thunderbolts from Heaven. He had Chip Hardesty, a master of the Sharps .52-caliber rifle who had distinguished himself as a sniper at Round Mountain, Shiloh, Murfreesboro, and Chickamauga. He'd picked up a limp at Lynchburg, hip-shot, but it had not spoiled his aim.

Before he sicced Chip on a target, though, Coker was bound to make sure that he had the
right
target. Initials could turn out to be a mere coincidence, although he doubted it in this case. Once he knew for sure that this Ryder and Reynolds were one and the same, he could take the next step. Until then . . . well, an accidental killing of some
random stranger was the last thing Coker needed now, with Washington prying into his business.

And what about killing a federal agent?

That would bring more scrutiny upon him, surely, but it had been part of Coker's plan from the beginning. Every rebellion had to start somewhere, and no war was fought without killing. He would not repeat the grave mistake of the Confederacy, though. There would be no pitched battles, no massed formations or batteries of field artillery. He meant to wage an irregular struggle, emulating the Mexican
guerrilleros
who, in turn, had learned their style of fighting from Apaches.

Hit, retreat, slip back to strike again, and so on, till your enemy was frazzled and exhausted, ready for the final coup de grâce. His first move, Coker now decided, would be the elimination of the scout sent down from Washington to build a case against him.

Was this Ryder, Reynolds, call him what you liked, responsible for Coker's recent losses down in Corpus Christi? Did he have a hand in wiping out Chance Truscott and the local Knights? It seemed unlikely, on the face of it, that any lawman acting on his own could take such forceful action.

On the other hand, Coker had no faith in coincidence.

He would eradicate this enemy and be prepared to deal with any others whom the Radicals might send against him. It was in his nature to survive and triumph.

Why else had the Lord put him on Earth?

*   *   *

Y
ou seem to know a lot about the so-called Knights,” said Abel Butler.

“Most of it, I picked up on the road,” said Ryder. He did
not intend to mention Corpus Christi or the killings there, uncertain how the Butlers might react. Abel was something of a pacifist, and Anna . . . well, he didn't want her looking at him as a killer, if he could avoid it.

“Coker is the man in charge. You got that right,” Abel went on. “He was some kind of officer in the rebellion and still sees himself that way, telling his soldiers where to go and what to do. They're rabble when you get down to it, though. Controlling them's a trick he hasn't mastered yet.”

“The three who stopped your sister on the street,” Ryder suggested.

“As a case in point. I doubt Coker would send them to harass a woman, more particularly as you say they were intoxicated. There's a chance he may impose some kind of discipline on them, when he finds out.”

“The sheriff will have told him,” Anna said. “He rushed off like his shirttail was on fire.”

“We're in a kind of war here,” Abel said, “although it wasn't meant to be. I aim to see the freedmen get their due. Coker stands on the other side, believing Appomattox was a fluke and he can still restore the South's peculiar institution. Failing that, he wants to see Negroes kept in subservient positions by whatever means are presently available. Cheap labor, if it can't be absolutely free, and God forbid they ever get the vote.”