“It’s over now.”
He shrugged. “So it is. I think it’s time we all took a little walk down into the woods there.”
Lettie stood still. “I don’t see what you hope to gain by this.”
“Didn’t you hear me? Satisfaction, from you. You robbed me of Angelique’s favors; I think the least you can do is repay me in kind. As for Ransom here, I think I’ll make it look as if you killed him after he had … enjoyed you. A pocket full of locusts and thorns and a copy of the note you no doubt found concerning the next payroll shipment will confuse the issue, make it look as if he was the messenger while I — well, I will play the dupe, one who was taken in by a friend and innocently let fall vital information. Of course, for it to work, you, dear Lettie, will have to die of your mistreatment at the hands of this foul fiend. A pity, so tragic.”
“You’re mad!”
“Am I? Possibly. These are times to make men mad. But I don’t think so.”
Ransom stirred, and his voice was hard and steady when he spoke. “Mad or not, you have miscalculated.”
“Have I? You will naturally enlighten me as to how. Do you think the sheriff, poor, confused man, will suspect me?”
“Colonel Ward has seen the evidence.”
“Oh, but I am a collaborator, and I have made it my business to have friends among the radical Republicans. I don’t think he will be allowed to touch me so long as there is any doubt of my guilt. Too scrupulous an observance of the law among the scavengers would be a dangerous precedent.”
It made sense in a horrible way, Lettie thought. It was possible that Martin would really get away with it, if they allowed it. But if Ransom was worried, he gave no sign of it.
“There is one more thing. It’s important, I think you will agree. The proof has also been presented to the Knights of the White Camellia.”
The color left Martin’s face so that his mustache stood out dull and rather straggly. “The Knights,” he repeated, then his face cleared. “They could not have known for long.”
“A matter of some hours.”
Martin gave a sour laugh. “I appreciate the warning, then. It only means that I’ll have to hurry.”
“They may be on your trail even now.”
“In broad daylight?” Martin laughed out loud. “Don’t think you can stampede me. Turn around, both of you, and start walking.”
The gun was pointed unerringly at Lettie. Ransom gave Martin credit. He knew that he himself would be very careful as long as she was the target. His greatest fear, however, was that Lettie would refuse to move, would invite injury out of her unwillingness to bend to Martin’s commands. He knew from experience how stubborn she could be and how wily. Now, while Martin was ready and waiting for some sudden move, was not the time.
He reached out to touch her arm, trying to convey that warning. Whether she heeded it or was still dazed by the things she had learned, he did not know, but at that pressure, she turned and began to walk into the woods beside him.
The shade and moist air under the tall trees closed in around them. The contrast with the hot and dusty road was so great that it seemed many degrees cooler. Last year’s dead leaves were thick on the ground, along with the decayed tree limbs, large and small, that had fallen or blown down from above. Clumps of fern and briers and the ragged heads of sand burrs and beggar lice and sedge grass sprang up here and there, leaning together over the tunnels of rabbit runs. The air was heavy, however, with the smell of warm pine needles and dry leaf mold and spent grass blossoms.
Quiet, it was so quiet and still. As they weaved among the saplings and smaller trees of the forest understory, their footsteps and Lettie’s skirts made whispering sounds. The crunching of leaves under their shoes was muted, like soft cries. Somewhere faraway a bird called, a clear, pure trill that echoed away into silence.
Lettie walked with her head down, outwardly the image of submission, but inside her anger grew and her thoughts ran at a furious pace. Martin’s confidence was galling beyond words. She longed to overset it, to shock him. His point in covering her with the revolver was not lost on her, either. She realized that she was a handicap to Ransom, a hostage for his good behavior. If he was prevented from acting out of fear for her, then it must be her part to remove herself from immediate danger. But how. How?
They came to a small clearing. Martin, his voice gloating, said, “This will do.”
Vanity. He was eaten alive with selfish vanity. That was why he had so carefully told them what he had been about, why the treatment to which she had subjected him had him thirsting for revenge, why Angelique’s defection galled him. That was his weakness. Well, then.
Lettie moistened her lips, summoned a crooked, congratulatory smile, and turned. Her voice low in her throat, she said, “Take me with you to New Orleans.”
Martin’s brows snapped together. Beside her, Ransom’s breath left him in a near-soundless grunt.
Lettie paid no attention to either. As the silence continued, she went on. “I admire a man who comes out on top, regardless of the odds. I was leaving here, anyway, and I’ve never seen New Orleans.”
Martin actually looked shocked. “You would go with the man who killed your own brother?”
She tipped her head to one side. “The alternative is not too attractive. If I am to make love with you, I may as well do it with some prospect of enjoyment. I’m not one of your Southern belles, you know, all swooning and shrinking and maidenly sensibility.”
“I can see that,” he sneered.
There was interest in his eyes, however. She had his attention, even if it was of a sarcastic kind.
“I believe in facing facts, and the fact is that you are the victor here. And, as I’m sure you would say, to the victor goes the spoils. You wanted a woman on your arm in New Orleans? I may not be a woman of mixed blood, but I have some experience at pleasing a man. You might find you would enjoy the — shall we say — turning of the tables, the Southern victory over this particular Yankee.”
“I might at that,” he said slowly.
“Lettie,” Ransom said, a raw sound to the word. Sweat beaded his brow and upper lip, and his hands curled slowly into fists at his sides.
She grimaced prettily at Martin. “You hear? He doesn’t want to share me. He thinks that I should be faithful to him even unto death. Isn’t that sweet? Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, I’m not that self-sacrificing. Few of us are.”
“Very true.”
She gave him a roguish glance under her lashes as she moved a step closer to him. “I thought you might agree. As for your earlier suggestion, you could certainly sample the … spoils here, but it would be much more comfortable, more invigorating when we are well away, don’t you think? These things shouldn’t be rushed. They should be savored, thoroughly explored to the last tingling secret place and final gasp of fulfillment.”
A flush had risen to Martin’s face. The gun in his hand was aimed at a point between her breasts, but he seemed to have forgotten it. “You make a great deal of sense.”
“But of course. Did you think that we Northern women were cold inside simply because we like to maintain an appearance of coolness? How little you know us! But you will, oh, you will, or at least you will know one.” She moved nearer, swinging her hips, holding her breath with her rib cage lifted so that her breasts stood out full and round. The promise in her eyes was as lascivious, as vivid, as a few hours spent on the gently rising and falling deck of a ferry could make it.
He licked his lips. “But then, I could have a taste of what you are offering now, to see if it’s worth the packet ticket.”
“Of course you could, if that’s what you really want,” she said, and laughed, a sound of lascivious promise she didn’t know she could make. Allowing anticipation to rise in her eyes, she reached out to trail her fingers along his free arm. She encircled his wrist with her hand, drawing it toward her as if to place it around her waist and stepping nearer as she reached up to touch his slack
jaw. She stood on tiptoe, her lips lifted, her eyes only half open, watching, watching. He began to lower his head. His mouth parted. She could see his tongue. She trailed her fingers lower, under his chin.
With a sudden vicious shove, she pushed the heel of her hand up under his chin. She heard his teeth snap together on his tongue, and she shoved with all her might, knocking his hand with the revolver wide.
Then Ransom lunged past her, swift and silent. He was upon Martin, grabbing him by the shirtfront. He swung a jarring left that flattened Martin’s lips against his teeth. The revolver flew wide, skidding into the grass.
Martin, cursing, stabbed a right toward Ransom’s heart. Ransom twisted, the blow skidding along his ribs. He spread his legs and hooked a fist into Martin’s belly, putting every ounce of his disgust and sense of betrayal behind it. Martin grunted, bending to the impact. Ransom hit him again, knocking him to the ground.
Martin came up with a pine knot, a piece of pine with its crystalline and inflammable pitch hardened to steel-like consistency. He rushed at Ransom with it, swinging, smashing it across his head and shoulders. Lights burst inside Ransom’s brain. On the next swing, he stepped inside the blow and hit the other man with his full strength behind it.
Martin staggered back, dropping the pine knot. Ransom closed in on him in cold fury, striking, battering. Martin came up against a tree and used it to lunge forward, swinging a right to Ransom’s heart. Ransom gasped on a painful breath, his mouth wide. Toe to toe they stood, slugging, beating each other. They grappled, flinging each other first one way, then the other.
Lettie circled them, watching, darting from side to side to see as she worked her way toward the revolver. The way they tore at each other until their shirts were in shreds, the thud of flesh on flesh sent chills of revulsion through her. The gasping of their breathing, the blood on their faces gave her a feeling of panic. She had to stop it. She had to.
Ransom threw Martin from his hip. As the man landed, sliding in the pine straw, Lettie ran nimbly, almost reaching the black shape of the gun in the grass to one side before Martin swayed to his feet once more, blocking her way.
Ransom planted his feet and whipped a left and then a right into Martin’s face. Martin’s eyes were glazed, his mouth that had spoken such terrible words to Lettie a swollen red smear. Ransom surged forward with all the hard, lean force of his body behind his shoulder as he caught Martin at the waist. Martin bent double. His arms flopped, waving, as he was flung backward. He fell in a jarring sprawl, rolling with his own momentum, landing on his belly in the high grass almost at Lettie’s feet. His glazed eyes focused on her, on the revolver beside her, not three feet from him. He began to crawl, reaching out with a hand that shook, a hand with bloody, cut knuckles.
Lettie darted forward. She knelt in a billow of skirts. Her hand closed around the revolver and her finger found the trigger. She lifted the heavy barrel. Centered it between Martin’s eyes. Close, so close. No need to aim, no need to reason. Impossible to miss. She tightened her grip. She took a deep breath.
20
“LETTIE, NO!”
It was Ransom who called, a plea and a command.
Hard on the words came another voice, one Lettie had heard before on a night she did not care to remember. It was even, yet heavy with finality.
“That’s right, Miss Lettie. Don’t.”
Martin gave a strangled cry. Ransom made not a sound. Lettie looked over her shoulder. Her breath caught in her throat and the blood left her face. She sat back on her heels, lowering the revolver. Then she got slowly to her feet.
The men in their white sheets drifted out of the woods like spirits, or like the quiet hunters most of them had been all their lives. Menacing in their silence, they formed a circle around the three of them — Martin, Ransom and Lettie — closing them in. In the hands of the leader was a coiled rope. Worn and supple, dangling casually at his side, it was knotted at one end in a hangman’s noose.
Ransom stepped to Lettie’s side, placing his arm around her. She held the revolver with one hand on the grip and one under the barrel, but she made no effort to raise it or to fire. There were too many of them.
It was so quiet you could hear the soft crackling sound the sedge grass made as it raised itself from where it had been trampled. Lettie’s chest was tight and her nerves were as taut as stay strings. It could not end like this; it was not fair that it should end like this. Ransom was the Thorn, but he was no criminal to be left swinging from a tree. He had meted out punishment only to those who deserved it, had done his best to right the many wrongs he saw and to readjust the scales of justice that were out of balance. As Ranny, he had defied these men, but only in defense of his property and his friend. Nothing he had done merited so shameful and ignominious a death.
She took a step forward. “You can’t do this!”
“We are the only ones who can.”
“But it isn’t right! It isn’t just!” Her voice was rising, the tears stinging her eyes.
“What is, just now?” The leader waved the rope and two of the other sheet-clad men moved forward to drag Martin to his feet. He turned back to Lettie and Ransom. “You two will oblige us by leaving. We will handle it from here.”
It was a moment before his meaning penetrated. Martin realized it first and cursed, his voice rising, becoming shrill as he started to beg.
Ransom stood his ground. “We go only if Martin comes with us.”
“Get out of here, son. We let you have your way with Bradley Lincoln, but not this time. Leave us to it.”
“To the justice of the rope? Let me take him, turn him over to the military.”
“So he can talk his way out of it? Not likely. He’s scum. Blame the war or the carpetbaggers or whatever you like, but he’s still scum.”
“No matter what he is or what he’s done, he deserves a trial.”
“He’s had it. We’re the judge and jury.”
“You’ll only make matters worse for everybody this way. I can’t let you do it.”
It was hopeless. There were just too many of them and they were too determined, Lettie could see that. She could also see that Ransom had to try. It was the way he was made, and knowing it completely at last, she felt such a swelling of love and pride in her chest that it came close to crowding out her fear.
“It’s nothing to do with you. You can’t stop it,” the leader said, and made a quick gesture. The men in sheets who carried rifles brought them up, covering Ransom. In a ringing voice as hard as iron, their spokesman went on. “I tell you again, get out of here before something happens that we’ll all regret.”
“This is wrong—”
“Please,” Lettie said, and put her hand on Ransom’s arm as the armed Knights began to advance. “Please, take me away.”
She could feel the tension of the struggle inside him. For a moment she thought that he would refuse, that he would fight them all, not just for Martin, but for what he thought was right.
“Please, Ransom?” she whispered.
It was the use of his name that reached him, she thought, that and his concern for her. She sensed the tremor that ran through him as he conceded defeat. His fingers covered Lettie’s on his arm, pressing so hard that her hand was numb.
Their movements stiff, they turned away. The circle of white-clothed figures parted as the two of them walked from the clearing. Then it closed behind them and narrowed around Martin Eden. The handsome scalawag began to plead once more.
Ransom walked faster. Lettie stumbled along with him, tripping over her skirts, ducking under tree limbs as he held them for her. She looked back only once, when Martin began to scream. She could not see him for the men in sheets that surrounded him. Shuddering, she turned forward again, nearly running from the woods.
They found the horses, Ransom’s mount and Martin’s, cropping grass at the edge of the road, trailing their reins. Martin would not be needing his. Ransom shortened the stirrups with quick efficiency. He took the revo
lver from her and shoved it into his belt, then held the horse, made nervous by Martin’s hoarse cries, for her to mount.
Abruptly the screaming stopped. Lettie, catching the stirrup, put her head against the horse’s shoulder for a long moment, waiting for the trembling to leave her legs. Ransom moved to her side and put his hand on her shoulder.
“There was nothing we could do. Nothing.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“What happened he brought on himself.”
“I know that, too. It’s just that…” She clenched her fists in a sudden spasm of angry chagrin.
“What? Tell me.” She blamed him for not preventing the hanging, in spite of everything, Ransom thought. Or maybe he blamed himself.
Her throat closed so that the words came out in an anguished whisper. “Dear God, I thought it was going to be you!”
His pent-up breath left him. His grasp tightened for an instant. In ragged tones, he said, “Let’s get away from here.”
They rode fast, with their faces set. They looked neither to the right nor the left. The sun burned down and they hardly felt it. A trail of dust followed them, settling on the leaves of the trees and bushes along the way. They crossed a stream and let the horses drink, then rode on.
Lettie hardly noticed the roads they took, paid no attention to the direction they were heading in. If she thought about it at all, she assumed they were riding back toward town and Splendora. Until they turned down a side road and pulled up before an all-too-familiar cabin set back under pin oak trees.
Lettie looked at Ransom sharply then, but made no comment. He helped her down from the saddle and led the horses away to tend to them. She moved slowly, as if she had been beaten, to take a seat on the cabin steps. She took off her hat and thrust the pin through it, laying it aside as she smoothed her hair. Propping her elbows on her knees, she put her hands over her face and breathed deeply in and out as she waited for Ransom to return.
Louisiana History Collection - Part 2 Page 150
