Sentinels (5 page)

The bell dangling over the entrance's arch jingled as Noah opened the door.

“Howdy.” He nodded to the lone man seated in the small reception area.

“Hi.” The man's eyes widened upon seeing the deputy. The expression did not go unnoticed by Noah.

“All right, Franklin, let's
go
.” Lyle Kimbrell appeared from behind the door leading to the examination room, with Brendan behind him followed by Richardson. Lyle stopped, causing Brendan to collide with Lyle's back, and the doctor into Brendan's.

“Morning, officer,” Lyle said nonchalantly as he limped to leave.

Franklin stood and twisted the doorknob, barely needing to move. Brendan slid around Lyle to escape the crowded reception room. A patch of white gauze stained crimson poked out of the shredded black fabric that covered Brendan's shoulder.

“Thanks, Doc,” Brendan said, freedom in sight. “We owe you.”

“Actually, you do,” said Richardson, a small, balding man with gray fuzz wrapping around the back of his head. “To whom should I send this bill?”

“Send it to Thomas Diggs,” Franklin blurted.

In Lyle's mind, he effortlessly drew his LeMat and blasted Franklin's brains all over Richardson's shiny white walls—but only in his mind. Reality dictated he keep his poker face and not scrunch his eyelids and furrow his brow in rage.

“Morning, Doc. I stopped by to see if you had any patients with odd injuries, but I don't think I need to ask you,” Noah said. “You go on ahead and bill Mister Diggs for your fine work.”

The doctor retreated into his office as Noah assessed the trio.

“Good morning, boys. Why don't we all step outside so you can tell me what you've been up to?”

Lyle played it cool. “Of course, Deputy?”

“Chandler.”

“Deputy Chandler, pleased to oblige.” Lyle walked past Franklin, glaring at him. Brendan, per usual, kept quiet as they all left, Noah being the last one out. They gathered on the small covered porch—the doctor's extended waiting area with four more seats—surrounding the office entrance.

“Looks like you boys have had a bit of bad luck,” Noah said. “What happened?”

“Oh, don't you mind us, Deputy Chandler,” Lyle said pleasantly. “Just a brainless hunting accident this morning and—”

“You guys went hunting without me?” Franklin seemed genuinely wounded. “When did you find the time to go hunt—”

“Franklin!” Brendan clapped the big guy's shoulder. “I really want to thank you for checking in on us and making sure we could get home okay after Lyle and I had our little mishap this morning hunting ducks.”

“
Oh
.” The bell clanged in Franklin's head. “Yeah, you're welcome.”

“Duck hunting, huh?” Noah stroked his chin, surmising the absurdity. “Since when do you go hunting ducks with a LeMat?”

“This?” Lyle patted his holstered revolver. “I wear this everywhere I go, Deputy Chatwell.”

“Chandler,” Noah said.

“Sorry about that.” Lyle smiled, but cocked his head sideways and squinted—
where the hell have I seen you before?

Noah instinctively knew Lyle and the boys figured out he was
that
Chandler who fought for the North.

“As for my weapon, I trust these freedmen like I trust a bear in a rabbit hutch—you never know when one of them niggers is going to accost you on the street,” Lyle said. “I consider it my moral duty to protect myself.”

“That so? How about this—you boys weren't at Toby Jenkins's place last night, were you? Spoke to him earlier. Said something about three men outside his house and that one of them managed to get shot. And lookie here—I have three men in front of me with two of them injured. I'm assuming the ducks didn't do that to you.” Noah smirked at Brendan and nodded toward the shoulder wound.

“We were carrying our rifles near Ashleigh's Pond behind the Diggs plantation where a whole mess of ducks flew out of the tall-grass, spooked us both,” Brendan said. “I accidentally pulled my trigger and hit Lyle, who turned and accidentally shot my shoulder. Thank goodness it wasn't more serious.”

“And you honestly expect me to believe that?” Noah said.

“Sure do, Deputy Chandler.” Lyle took the story from there. “Especially since Thomas Diggs will vouch for us. The word of a man of his caliber should suffice. But I don't think a minor hunting accident should concern the law, especially when the Klan's planning something.”

“And I'm sure you would tell me if you knew what the Klan had on its agenda?”

“No, Deputy Chandler, I would not.” Lyle ceased being cordial. “I ain't yet joined that fine organization, but maybe one day I will. What kind of future member would I be if I ratted them out to some nigger-loving deputy who works for some nigger-loving scalawag?”

Brendan and Lyle stared at Noah, who didn't give an inch.

“Stay away from Toby Jenkins.”

“Never went near him,” Lyle said.

“I'm not as stupid as that giant behind you.” Noah pointed to an oblivious Franklin, who watched with childlike amazement as a Monarch butterfly fluttered around the porch. “It's good for you I've got more important things to do right now than investigate what looks like trespassing.”

“I told you, Deputy Chandler—we went duck hunting,” Brendan said. “Go ask Mister Diggs yourself. He stopped in to check on us before he took care of some business here in town. Heck, maybe he's still around. Why don't you go look for him?”

Great, they got their stories straight,
Noah thought.

“Why don't you boys go home and bathe. It smells like you worked up an awful big sweat walking to a pond. Speaking of awful big,” Noah said, turning to Franklin. “Did you say you went duck hunting with your friends this morning?”

“You don't have to answer him, Franklin,” Lyle said. “In fact, shut the fuck up. We've been hounded enough by the deputy for one day. That's really no way to treat a couple of injured hunters,” Lyle addressed Noah. “I might make a complaint to Sheriff Cole about your insensitivity. But I think your suggestion of taking a bath sounds solid. I could use one, but not because of the way I smell—a manly smell, if you ask me. Deputy Chandler's got some nigger stink on him that I'm afraid has befouled us. That cannot be tolerated.”

Lyle brushed past Noah, bumping him with his shoulder, daring him to make an arrest for assault. “Be sure to check in with Mister Diggs, Deputy Charter,” Lyle called over his shoulder without looking at him. “Come on, boys.”

Brendan and Franklin followed Lyle. They weren't sure where. They just followed.

Noah stayed quiet and made a mental note to ask Sheriff Cole for whatever details he had on the three lying thugs, whether any of them were regulars in the jail. He looked on his shirtsleeve where Lyle had bumped him and flicked away the grime.

Toby left the general store with a new water bucket—made of metal. He mounted his horse and gripped the saddle horn with both hands. He slid his thick forearm under the bucket handle and let it dangle as he rode through Henderson. He nodded graciously to the soldiers patrolling the town. They began converging on the railroad station as soon as they heard the locomotive's whistle. Thieves sometimes loitered near the platforms where supplies were unloaded, and the extra set of eyes helped to dissuade this practice.

Piano music echoed from the Tavern, wedged in between a restaurant and a hotel along Main Street. Feeling parched, and having a few extra cents on him, he hitched Chester to the post in front of the bar. The music continued without missing a beat upon his entry; such was not the case immediately after the War. Some of the diehards couldn't believe the audacity of freedmen sauntering in for a drink or a whore or both. Nobody blinked upon these now common occurrences.

“One whisky, please,” he said to the barman, a hunched elderly fellow with a mop of thick white hair.

“Drink or a bottle?”

“Drink please.”

“That'll be five cents.”

Toby tapped the coin on the bar and slid it to the old-timer.

“It'll be right up.” The barkeep retrieved the bottle and fidgeted under the bar for a glass. Toby listened to the chinks of glass and for whatever else he could hear through the din of piano, card players saying “call,” and the drunken guffaws. He hadn't lived this long after the War and grew what Charlie Stanhope left him by keeping his nose out of other people's business. He never butted in to inquire about what might be going on, but if he heard something—plans of a lynching or a cross-burning, both of which had been tried on his property without success—Toby reacted accordingly.

“Here you go.” The bartender slid the small glass of whisky to Toby, who nodded thanks.

The big room featured twenty round tables that each sat six. The place was a quarter full as noon neared. It would pick up come lunchtime as the farmers and sharecroppers closest to town would stop in for a drink. Toby gulped half his glass and let out a satisfied “ah” and wiped his chin with his hand. He pretended not to notice the four men—who he knew to be Klansmen—sitting at the table at the far end of the Tavern. He detected their stares and glances from the periphery of his eyes that he focused elsewhere, but close enough to see. Toby also read lips—another trick to survival. Toby played oblivious while stealing glances of the men he could see. Fortunately the guy with his back to Toby didn't talk much, only nodded. They all wore cowboy hats, and the brims covered their eyes but not their lips. Toby kept reading “Tonight,” spoken over and over by the man across from the guy whose back was to Toby.

Tonight what?
He threw back the rest of his whisky and ordered one more, slapping a nickel on the bar. The bartender handed him a full glass and Toby sat at the nearest table that still offered an inconspicuous view of the four Klansmen.

“Eight of us, total,” Toby read. Eight Klansman tonight, but where? Toby nursed his drink, timing his glances to keep up the charade.

“Elkton.” That cinched it. Leroy Elkton's farm. It made sense. Leroy embraced Reconstruction, and despite being a former slave owner, he treated the mostly black sharecroppers with dignity, asking for a respectable cut from their toil so everyone could profit. He grew corn, cotton and wheat on his farm and, all things considered, fared well with the freedmen. Toby reasoned the Klan wanted to put Leroy in his place.

The lead man slapped his hand on the table to end the conversation. Everyone at the table nodded and they all stood in unison. They each bought a full bottle of whisky and walked out.
Hmm, it's either to help loosen them up before war, or for a celebration afterward,
Toby thought
.
His insides fluttered. He knew Leroy Elkton and some of the freedmen who worked on his farm. Claude Jefferson and a few other sharecroppers rented rooms in the former slaves' quarters near Elkton's barn. Elkton didn't gouge the four men currently living there. He made sure the living conditions stayed acceptable. Happy tenants meant for greater chances of their prospering, thereby enriching Elkton.

“What to do?” Toby said to no one in particular. He drank the remainder of his booze and let it melt into him. He savored his victory the previous evening. A well-earned buzz seemed a proper reward. Chester knew the way home and Toby would let the horse's amble lull him into further comfort.
Individual soldiers continue to wage the disbanded Confederate Army's stealth war,
Toby thought. Whoever snuck onto his farm certainly served under Lee and could not rid themselves of defeat's sting.

Same thing with the Klansmen
.
They'll keep on coming, federal prison or not.
The only question now: should I alert the sheriff and the soldiers?
Toby mulled a third option during Chester's slow walk home.

Chapter Six

The eight men had previously made camp in the woods on the Elkton farm's outskirts. The Army patrolled the roads so the Klansmen avoided traveling obvious routes, and instead of thirty-man lynch mobs, they worked in smaller pockets. The men labored at the railroad station loading and unloading goods. At day's end, rather than returning to their miserable little homes barely big enough for a bride and a baby, they hopped the seven o'clock train for the evening journey to Atlanta and jumped off where the tracks aligned parallel to Elkton's property. They brought provisions to the campsite over a period of weeks rather than transporting everything at once and arousing suspicion. They pitched the campsite deep in the forest from the road they traveled every morning to the train station. The Army never noticed and the Klansmen could spring their trap whenever they grew the stones for it.

Like the previous evening, nothing but a chalk-white moon loomed.

“Should we call off the whole deal?” one asked Robert Culliver, the self-proclaimed Grand Wizard of this patchwork Klan. Toby Jenkins had spied him leading the conversation in the Tavern earlier in the day.

“No, tonight's the night. Army'll be paying attention to what happened at the Jenkins place—not here. Makes sense to do it now,” Culliver said.

Similar in age to Lyle and his gang, these former Confederates wore their white sheets and held their hoods. Each wore a pistol under their cloaks.

“Make sure there's nothing, and I mean not one goddamn speck of evidence that'll identify us personally,” Culliver said.

They gathered around the small pit where they made fire for their beans. Knowing the night of attack loomed, they had broken down camp bit by bit. They completed the task that morning by bundling up and ditching their tents in the trash after arriving to work at staggered times. They hid their hats at the station to be retrieved the next day. Now, just the fire pit remained.

“Look, soldiers ain't stupid,” Culliver said. “If they come poking around, they'll know
someone
was here, but I want it looking like it could've been anyone, a young couple that wanted to screw in the woods.”

Each now carried under his cloak an unlit torch and leather pouch stuffed with essentials: a change of clothes, matches, and a bottle of whisky to drink while whoring it up at the Tavern. It didn't matter that most of the men were married. Their wives agreed with the plan of attack and that their husbands could get drunk afterward—the men left out the whoring part.

Culliver led the Klansmen single file by torchlight through the woods, which would open into Elkton's wheat fields. A wooden fence separated Elkton's property from the forest, and the plan was to follow the fence toward the road. The only time they'd be exposed to soldiers would be when they trotted the short distance along the road to Elkton's home. The fence appeared before Culliver's torch.

“Remember, attack fast, we run the road, breach the property, four of you burn the slave quarters and the barn, me and the other three go for Elkton's house,” Culliver said to the men—each knew their grouping. “Kick down the doors and shoot the niggers. Then set the place on fire. Same goes for Elkton's home. Throw the torches the second we hit the entrance. Do your business, leave your sheets in the fire, and head for the Tavern. Last one in pays for the whores.”

A murmur of laughter eased the mounting tension felt by each man.

They hugged the fence line, waiting for the firelight to reveal the opening to the road. Sweat drenched their pants and short-sleeved shirts, staining their white sheets. Crickets chirruped, cicadas buzzed, the occasional firefly zigzagged into view. They kept their steps in time without realizing it and filled the air with soft, repeating thump-thumps.

Culliver's torch revealed the fence corner and he looked to his right. They'd found the road. Across from them stood more wheat, similarly partitioned. The road split Elkton's property and stretched three miles down before forests towered over both sides.

“Hoods on,” Culliver said.

They cloaked their heads so the big, wide eyeholes allowed a full view of a dusty barren road. Their hearts beat faster as they jogged, Culliver leading, but stopped when they heard the wheat rustling. Wind didn't sway the stalks. Each man felt something skimming through the wheat.

They fumbled under their robes, awkwardly drew their guns and waited for their leader to speak. Culliver had no words as he gazed skyward to see an inexplicable dark mass blot out the full moon.

“Robert, forget this,” one of them said above a whisper, followed by murmurs of agreement from the majority of men. Culliver then stared down center of the dark road, and after a moment of panting hesitation, he ventured onward.

“Just critters eating the wheat.”

“Are you crazy, someone's out there! Fuck this,” said the rearmost Klansman, who turned to leave.

Culliver turned and snapped, “We come too far to just abandon—”

The sky vomited rain on the Klansmen and doused Culliver's torch. Mud puddles formed along the road with no place to take cover. The forest they navigated stood long behind them and wheat provided no shelter.

The deluge steadily pounded the men and crops for a few minutes before lightening to a steady rainfall.

“Of all the times for a storm.” Culliver, realizing the plan was shot, holstered his gun. The rest of the demoralized Klansmen, seeing their clothing through saturated sheets, did likewise. Their once-pointy hoods drooped sideways. The bugs quieted.

“Anyone have a torch we can
use?
” Culliver said.

“I hunched over to keep mine dry,” he heard from the back. A wet ghost of a Klansman hiked up the robe that clung to his underclothes and handed over the torch.

Culliver first heard the tinny sound in the distance but couldn't tell from which direction it came. He yanked up his cloak and fumbled with his leather pouch for the matches. He lit the torch on the first try. The Klansmen now heard the sound: steel skimming stalk tops.

The slither grew louder and was accompanied by footfalls plowing through gloppy puddles.

The Klansmen kept off the road next to the fencing. Culliver's torch flickered as a shadowy figure stuck from behind, gliding along the road's shoulder closest to them, swinging a two-handled scythe. The blade whirred by the men, cutting through cloth and skin. Some barked confused obscenities while others shrieked in pain. The attacker fled into the darkness ahead of them.

The torchlight caught the shapes of two men collapsing onto the muddy road. Their throats gushed blood below still-hooded heads.

“Dylan, that you?!” a Klansman called to one of the bodies.

“Nah, I'm here.”

“Then who's down?!”

Two lights emerged from behind the men, and with it came steady clip-clops. The confused Klansmen flapped aside their wet sheets to draw their guns.

“Don't move!” yelled a soldier perched in the passenger's side of the two-seat Bronson wagon that burst through the darkness. He aimed a short-barreled scatter gun square at the shaken mob. The coachman slowed the two horses and likewise pulled a sawed-off shotgun from the holster strapped to his back. Two lanterns, hanging and swaying on both sides of the wagon's front, provided the light.

“I don't care
who
moves, I'll shoot straight ahead if
anyone
pulls a gun,” the passenger said. “I'll drop three of you for sure.”

“You already killed two of us, you sons of bitches!” Culliver raised his arms in surrender. “I thought you boys were all about trying us in the courtroom these days—not cold-blooded murder.”

“You're one to talk,” the coachman said. “And what the hell you talking about? We follow this route every night around this time. Finally we get a nibble with you all. Didn't you boys even scout the road for patrols? No wonder you lost the War. As for your two friends down there, tell them to get up or my partner here shoots.”

“Didn't you hear what I fuckin' said?” Culliver slowly pointed at the two slain Klansmen. “There was no need for that other soldier to cut them down when they weren't even looking!”

“
Again
, what the hell you talking about?” the coachman said.

“There's only two of you?” Culliver turned and squinted into the blackness where their attacker vanished. Nothing appeared, but the tinny noise trickled back to life and fast approached the huddle.

The two horses whinnied and reared, causing the coachman to drop his shotgun and wrestle the reins to calm them. The passenger stood.

“Nobody move!” he yelled at the Klansmen. “Quiet, all of you!”

He shouted into the darkness ahead of him, “United States Army, stop or I
will
shoot!”

The metallic sound intensified as it rippled over the crop tops.

“Jesus almighty, what is it?” Culliver disregarded the soldiers, who ignored the six armed men. They all focused on an unseen horde stampeding through the darkness.

The horses, their eyes wildly bulging in the lanterns' glow, screamed as they reared and fought the coachman to flee. The passenger hopped atop his seat and fired over the horses and Klansmen into the void but the blast could not stop what was coming. The metallic sizzle mutated into a deafening screech as the force causing it blurred by Culliver, who dropped his torch to seize the horizontal gash yawning from his belly and collapsed.

The coachman regained his shotgun, aimed it chest-high from his perch, and blasted an oncoming machete-wielding cowboy, laying him flat in the mud. He never lost the machete. More breached the darkness to attack the Klan. The soldiers jumped from their rig, unable to control the horses, which dragged the carriage into darkness toward town. The passenger landed face-first on the ground, writhing, unable to pull out the hand scythe wedged between his ribs.

Culliver retreated as the shotgunned assailant, who wore a black bandana over his mouth, lithely kicked out his feet and jumped to stand. The nearest Klansman drew his piece and blasted the cowboy's belly. Unfazed, the cowboy twirled three-hundred-and-sixty degrees while holding an outstretched machete. The Klansman's cloaked head plopped before his feet as his body fell.

The cowboy waded into a fray with two more Klansmen. The footfalls grew louder. Culliver, clinging to the ground, reverse crawled under Elkton's fencing to hide within the wheat when an ax-wielding lunatic shambled into his view. Culliver figured him a Mexican—for he wore a droopy sombrero—who stood over the quivering coachman on his knees. Through the triangle arc made by the Mexican's legs, Culliver watched the coachman fire his last shotgun shell into the Mexican's gut. The buckshot disgorged a mangled ball of overalls, guts, and bone into the field, splattering onto Culliver's face. Culliver froze, aware that to behave normally—by screaming and shaking himself like a dog ridding its body of water—would reveal his hiding spot. Yet the Mexican stood, moving only to raise his ax to cleave the coachman's head. The last thing Culliver saw before closing his eyes to prevent putrid offal from leaking into his skull was the Mexican—unfazed by the ragged intestinal link dangling from the hole in his back—bringing down the ax.

Leroy Elkton awoke startled and pushed open his bedroom shutters, grateful to see, hear and smell the rain. But his elation faded upon noticing distant sounds of gunfire and screams.