“Oh, you’re going back,” Jacob said, “even if we have to bury you under six more feet of dirt.”
The head cackled, its grave voice sounding like the grinding of stone.
“Don’t matter if you get me, race-traitor. You still got five of my friends to worry about.”
“Just five, huh?” Jacob asked. “Not six?”
The head stayed silent.
“Cause the way I figure, one of you out there last night wasn’t raised by the relic. See, I think you’re drawing your life force from someone else, and I think Cyclops Justicar is that person. Am I right?”
The head stayed silent, its eyes gleaming dully and defiantly. Jacob and Christopher exited the barn.
“Who do you think they’re stealing it from?” Christopher asked when they were outside.
“Dunno for sure, but I’ve got a hunch.”
“Let’s go inside before they get here.”
The Templars walked around to the front of the house and knocked on the door. Simon came to the door, Navy Colt held in a shaking hand.
“Howdy, Simon,” Christopher said, hands raised a little, grimace on his face. “Just us.”
“Jesus,” Simon Washington said, “scared me to death. What’s wrong? Y’all come in, now. Ruth, get a hunk of bread and some buttermilk for the men.”
“Ain’t got time,” Christopher said, stepping inside. “Men from last night are coming this way right now.” He pointed at Simon. “You need to get Ruth and the children into the woods in case Jacob and I can’t stop them.”
Ruth came walking up, eyes wide with fright. Jacob could see the children peeking over the edge of the loft, a line of bright, curious eyes.
“Coming here?” Ruth asked.
“Right now,” Christopher replied.
Simon’s eyes flickered back and forth, his breathing deep and labored. “Alright. Ruth, take the children into the woods.”
“Maybe you didn’t hear us,” Jacob said, “but you all need to go.”
“Honey,” Ruth said, turning to Simon, “I know you want to stay and fight, but if they’re worried, then I’m worried. You ain’t no soldiering man. You a farmer and a father.”
“We know you built a life here that’s free,” Christopher said, putting a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “But now, we got a job to do. It’s your choice to stay or go, but just remember we can’t protect you in a shootout. Who’s gonna protect the children after you’re gone?”
“Get them children wrapped up, woman.” Simon sighed. “We’re leaving, and we’re leaving quick. They forget something, they might as well lost it forever.” Ruth, the grip of fear still on her, turned and called for the children to get ready cause they were camping out for the night. Simon turned back to the Templars. “You two real worried, ain’t you?”
“Not any more than normal,” Christopher said.
“Reckon we’ve seen worse.”
Simon nodded and went to grab more ammo for his shotgun.
After a short while the family was packed and ready. They stood out on the porch, all five of them, arrayed in loose formation. The eyes of the parents were determined, the eyes of the children alight with the prospect of adventure.
“Remember,” Christopher told them, arms folded across his chest, “no campfires, no lights, no loud noises. These men are killers. They finish with us, they’ll come for you. You understand?”
Simon and Ruth nodded.
“We do,” Simon said.
“Alright,” Jacob said. “No matter what you hear, don’t come back till first light.”
The quintet tramped off into the night, circling around the back of the cabin and going into the woods. Jacob and Christopher checked their guns one last time and sat on the porch to wait. It was nearing midnight already.
“You worried?” Jacob asked after ten minutes or so had passed.
“Any man with a bit of brains should understand he needs to worry before a fight.”
“For what it’s worth,” Jacob said, shifting his left leg to get it more comfortable, “I am too.”
A quarter hour or so later, Christopher saw the first glimmer of fire out on the cutoff. The torches rode solemnly through the night like a funeral procession. The Templars went inside the cabin and dimmed the lights. They’d wait there.
Hooves clip-clopped outside in the yard. Jacob took his hat off and peeked out the window. The gang was all here, including the one with a missing head. Six white-robed men holding torches, with the headless Kukluxer slumped across the back of another rider’s horse.
“Jacob Smith and Christopher Freeman, we know you’re in there,” Cyclops Justicar shouted. His voice sounded dry and hoarse, as if he’d been shouting a week straight. “Come on out and we’ll let the family be.”
“No,” Christopher hollered back. “Gonna have to come in and get us.”
“We’ll just light the house afire, then.”
“Then we’ll just be roasted, Sheriff,” Jacob yelled back. Silence followed. Jacob popped his head back up and looked at the men. The horses shifted uneasily. “I’m sure you got your reasons, Sheriff Coleson,” Jacob continued. “But this is still wrong.”
“Know who I am? That’s just dandy. See what good it does when my boys put that house to the torch.”
The Kukluxers spurred their horses forward, torches raised. As they rode within range, Jacob and Christopher came out from behind cover and shot them off the backs of their mounts. The torches fell and sputtered on the ground beside the white-cloaked men.
The Kukluxers stood right back up, though, and grabbed the extinguished sticks from the yard. Jacob shot one on his left. It didn’t slow the white-robed thing down as he walked back to the group and again lit the torch. The creatures all laughted as they, torches held high, began their steady, calm walk back towards the house.
“Aim for their arms,” Christopher said, taking a bead on the one to his right. “Maybe we can sever them and keep the bastards from being able to carry those damn torches.”
“Caliber’s too damn small,” Jacob said, shooting into the Kukluxers. Most of his shots missed entirely because of the robes. “Only chance we have to stop these things is go after ‘em with swords or shotguns, and all we got are swords. They’ll cut us down before we even clear the yard.”
Christopher reloaded one of his pistols methodically, reflexively. “I only have a dozen or so rounds left,” he said.
“About the same here,” Jacob said. A thrown torch shattered the front window on the side farthest from Jacob. It landed on a rug and immediately began smoldering.
“Well, this ain’t exactly the way I pictured my dying. Fitting, I reckon.”
“Fitting? Why’s that?” Jacob asked, popping up to take a few shots.
“Tell you if we live,” Christopher replied. “Listen, Jacob. We get down to our last few shots, I’m charging the bastards.”
“Sounds alright to me. I’d rather die in the open than have a house burn down round my ears.”
Another torch came crashing in through a window. This one landed near the potbellied stove. What could have only been a third torch thudded on the roof. Jacob leaned out and took a few more shots. The Kukluxers weren’t even bothering to shoot back anymore.
Both men took kerchiefs from their pockets and tied them around their faces as masks. They wouldn’t filter all the smoke and soot out, but they’d help some.
“Almost ready for that charge?” Jacob asked through his makeshift mask.
“Just about. You’re gonna look pretty silly, you know that? Charging with that crutch-broom of yours.”
“Yup.” Jacob smiled a tight-lipped smile. He changed his pistol from his left hand to his right and offered his free hand to Christopher. “Wanted to say it’s been a real pleasure, Christopher. You’re just fine in my book.”
“You too, Jacob.” Christopher accepted the offered hand. They shook.
“Getting hot enough in there for you boys to come out and talk?” Sherif
f Coleson called from the yard.
“Why don’t you talk to us instead, Sheriff?” yelled a voice. Saddles creaked and tack jangled as the Kukluxers shifted.
“Hold your fire, men,” called Coleson, “hold it. I know them. What the hell you folks doing out here?”
Christopher and Jacob looked at each other. Jacob popped his head back up for a second.
“Ms. Reid, John Ketch, and Dench, that barkeep from the saloon,” Jacob said.
The sheriff rode his horse back through the group of Kukluxers to where the folks from town had arrayed themselves in a ragged line. Jacob could see them and their shouldered shotguns and rifles illuminated in the glow of the burning cabin.
“Figure that same question’s on our lips, Coleson,” Reid said.
“I’m doing this for the good of the community, Eliana. Don’t you see that?”
“See what? Your burning folks out? Take off that damn mask. You look like one of my children playing as a spook.” There was a pause. Someone spoke, but the crackling of the flames kept Jacob from understanding what had been said.
Jacob coughed raggedly. The smoke had gotten heavier and their kerchiefs weren’t enough to cover their noses and mouths anymore.
“We gotta get outta here,” Christopher said.
Jacob nodded and the Templars stood and went out on the porch. They both pulled down their kerchiefs and breathed in great lungfuls of air. The men split and went to opposite sides of the porch.
“Jesus,” asked John Ketch, “what the hell did you do to yourself, Coleson?”
Jacob could only barely make out the sheriff in the light, but he saw enough to know that the sheriff was in a bad way. Only a few strands of thin hair remained on his head. His ears seemed bulbous in comparison to his skull. The fat and muscle had been eaten away, and his skin hung in loose flaps from his face and neck.
“Justice requires sacrifice. You all know that.”
“Justice?” Eliana Reid asked. “Justice? You want justice, you go to the courts. You’re just a vigilante, and you ain’t better by any reckoning than the men that ran the original folks off this homestead. You’re sick, Sheriff, and the war’s over.”
“I know that. But these niggers were here squatting. I’m just doing what’s right and running them off so folks can come back to what they built. And I ain’t sick, I’ve just sacrificed what none of you were prepared to.”
“Just cause you couldn’t protect the folks lived here before don’t mean you can make it right this way,” John Ketch said. “Reid’s right. You gotta halt this before it gets out of hand.”
“No,” the sheriff roared, “this’ll only be over when everyone comes home.”
“Sorry, Sheriff,” Dench said, training his shotgun on Sheriff Coleson, “they’re both on the mark. You got to play dress-up and scare people for a mite too long. Throw your guns down and come on in. I believe folks deserve their peace.”
Only the crackle of flames and the creak of leather could be heard. Christopher and Jacob looked at each other. Both men stepped down from the porch and into the yard. They began hobbling towards the Kukluxers.
“You going yellow on us, Coleson?” one of the Kukluxers asked after a moment.
“Knew the price when the Grand Wizard laid this burden on your shoulders,” said another.
“Niggers ain’t even people, Sheriff. Deserve what they get for stealing land the way they have.”
“You ain’t getting rid of us anyhow.”
Sheriff Coleson raised his pistol slowly. Eliana Reid fired, the shot from her big Army Colt sounding like a cannon in the night.
The ball from Reid’s revolver entered through the bridge of the sheriff’s nose, right between his eyes, and exited out the back of his skull. His head snapped violently back, the upper vertebrae of his neck compacting and breaking with the force. A sound of tearing, like the Heavens, Hells, and the Earth itself being torn asunder, ripped through the air. The sheriff slumped in his saddle briefly before his horse reared, its hooves pawing at the air, and threw him to the yard.
The Kukluxers looked at each other. They went to raise their guns but stopped. In unison they threw their heads back to the sky and howled. Hellish light, the color of rage and hate, burst through their white cowls and washed over the whole of the yard, bathing it in the brightest, most unearthly red imaginable.
The horses of the townspeople reared in fright, spinning on their hind legs, neighing in rejection of what was happening, and pawing at the air. Smoke, wisps at first and then a billowing plume after, poured from the sleeves of the Kukluxers’ white robes and their eyeholes as they thrashed violently, writhing in agony. White-gloved hands dropped torches, pistols, and rifles and reached for the sky, clenching and releasing and gasping. Their robes burst into flames, the tongues licking through the white cloth and devouring them. And, all the while, that howl coming from their desiccated lips soared through the air like a single note of harmonious anger and loss.
And then it was over.
The Kukluxers had gone, transformed to grey ash that the wind quickly caught and blew away into the Missouri night. Their coal black steeds, silent as ever, looked briefly at each other with eyes colored that same hellish red as before. They turned and trotted out of the yard, around the splayed out body of Sheriff Coleson, and past the stunned townspeople.
The Templars just watched the horses go, too, full well knowing it would be a waste of time to try and stop them.
“Huh,” Jacob said, holstering his pistol.
“Reckon the head did the same?”
“Likely,” Jacob replied. He began hobbling over to the townsmen. “Y’all alright?” They didn’t respond at first. “Hey,” Jacob yelled, “asked if you were alright?”
Eliana Reid shook the stupor and shock first, and she did so physically. She came out of it with a tremor that shot through her body like a breath of wintery air had blown up her trouser legs.
“I’m alright,” Reid called. “What the hell was that?”
Jacob shrugged and said, “Your guess is as good as mine, Ms. Reid.”
“Place is gone now,” Christopher said. He was facing the cabin.
“Huh?” Jacob asked.
“The house,” Christopher said, pointing back at the cabin. Jacob turned and looked back. “Ain’t no saving it.”
Jacob spat to the side. “What do you think we should do with the sheriff’s body?”
“We’ll take care of it,” John Ketch said. He dismounted and walked over to the sheriff’s corpse. “He was one of ours, even if he acted a fool near the end.” He scuffed at the dirt with the toe of his boot, his head down. “Were those demons or devils or some such?”
“No,” Jacob said. “Whatever they were, just be happy they didn’t have tentacles. Gonna check on the horses and that head, Christopher.” Jacob limped off to the barn.
He went inside and grabbed the now-empty sack from the workbench. It was filled with soot and bone dust, but, nonetheless, empty. He tossed the burlap sack back where he found it and went over to the horses.
They were a bit spooked, but still in good shape. Better shape than him, that was sure. “Well,” he said to the horses, patting the side of the one he’d ridden in on, “just glad I didn’t have to shoot the sheriff. One less man on my conscience.”
Jacob heard boots coming up to the barn. He hobbled over to the door and looked out at Christopher coming up from the yard.
“How’s that leg?” Christopher asked.
“Hurts like Hell itself’s burrowing into my calf. Your arm?”
“Almost as bad, but without the exaggeration.”
Jacob grunted and went back inside. He started checking the tack on the horses. “What’s next?”
“Figure we’ll get the Washingtons a wagon from Eliana. If she’ll extend some more credit, that is.”
“Then?”
“Fort Smith. Trusting you can ride, of course.”
“I can ride,” Jacob said, scratching at
his horse’s muzzle. “Might need me some of them patents from Mr. Ketch, though. Christopher, can I ask you something?”
“I suppose.”
“Back there, in the house, you said it’d be a fitting way for you to die.”
“I did.”
“Also said you’d tell me later.”
“Yep, I did.”
“Well?”
Christopher sighed, a long, exhausted sigh.
“You don’t have to if you don’t feel the need.”
“No, I should.” He walked over to the barn door and looked out at the burnt, smoldering pile of ashes that once was a home. “My wife and child died in a house fire. I couldn’t save them, though.”
“How did it happen?”
Christopher just grunted. “Maybe some other time. We need to get back to Grace.”
They led their horses down to the townsfolk. Ketch and Reid were finishing throwing Sheriff Coleson’s body over the back of his horse.
“It sure is a shame,” Ketch said. “He was a good man.”
“Amazing,” Eliana said, walking over to her horse.
“What?” Ketch asked.
“How fast we pass into platitudes after a man’s death. I thought he was yellow, through and through.”
The Templars and the townspeople rode back to Grace soon after. The sun’s rays were creeping over the eastern horizon and through the doors of the livery as Jacob and Christopher settled up on the horses with Eliana Reid.
They bought a wagon on credit from her and drove it back to the Washington place. The small family would need one to get to Kansas. This time around, they wrote a receipt for the purchase.
A week later, after Christopher’s arm had mended a bit and Jacob could handle the ride, they began readying to leave.
“Mr. Smith?” Ketch called from the porch of his general store. “Mr. Freeman? Telegram for you men.”
Jacob tightened down the flap on his saddlebag and turned towards the shopkeeper. He removed his hat and slicked back his hair.
He went and met Ketch in the middle of the roadway. The older man handed Jacob a slip of paper. Jacob read it.
“New Orleans?” Jacob asked no one in particular. Ketch shrugged his shoulders.
The New Orleans Zombie Riot of 1866: And Other Jacob Smith Stories Page 10
