Rough Justice

by Lyle Brandt

  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.

  8

  Another 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 Jackso
n 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.”

  *

  The 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.

  “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.”
r />   “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?”