by Lyle Brandt
“Thought you might like to meet the man in charge,” said Travis.
“What, that isn’t you?”
“Come on with me, and learn somethin’,” the lawman said.
“You lead the way,” Ryder instructed him. “And keep both hands where I can see them.”
*
The Red Dog?” Ryder asked, as they approached the two-story saloon.
“It’s just a name,” said Travis.
“I expected something more Confederate. The Merrimac, let’s say. Maybe the Slave Market.”
“Your jokes don’t sit well here in Jefferson.”
“What makes you think I’m joking?”
“Either way, a smart man doesn’t start a conversation with no insults.”
They were at the bat-wing doors by now. Ryder could smell the scent familiar from every saloon he’d ever patronized: stale beer, tobacco smoke, sweat generated by the booze or lust or gambling fever. Instead of a piano, Coker had a three-man brass band backing up a banjo player perched upon a stool.
The sheriff led him through the Red Dog’s barroom, all eyes on them as they passed, around the south end of the bar and down a hallway, to a door marked PRIVATE. Travis knocked and waited for a voice inside to say, “Come in.”
They entered, Travis leading, while a tall man rose behind a desk. The boss man wore a satin vest, dove gray, over a crisp white shirt, trousers to match the vest. His hair was long enough to hide the collar of his shirt, slicked straight back from an oval face wearing a Van Dyke style of beard. He moved around the desk, offered his hand, and said, “We meet at last. Roy Coker, and I take it you’re the famous Agent Ryder.”
“I hope not.”
“You don’t crave fame and fortune?”
“Wouldn’t mind the fortune,” Ryder said, on impulse. “But with fame, all kinds of people try to rob you.”
“Isn’t that the truth? Sheriff, feel free to leave us.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind—”
Coker’s eyes went cold. Travis swallowed whatever he had planned to say and left the office, making sure to close the door behind him.
“Harlan can be useful, but he’s not the sharpest chisel in the toolbox,” Coker said, smiling.
“I meet a lot of dull ones,” Ryder said.
“I would imagine so.”
“Comes with the territory.”
“Which, in this case, happens to be Texas. More specifically, Marion County. May I tempt you with a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“So, straight to business, then. What brings you here?”
“My work.”
“A mission for the fledgling Secret Service, I’ve been told. But more specifically … ?”
“Investigative work.”
“Is there some reason why we can’t speak candidly?”
“Beats me. Is there?”
“I’m hoping you can trust me.”
“I just met you.”
“Still—”
“And trust is something that I find in short supply, these days.”
“May I be frank, at least?”
“Feel free,” Ryder replied.
“You spend a lot of time with carpetbaggers.”
“You have someone watching me?”
“Despite its recent, rapid growth, Jefferson is still a small town at heart. Word gets around.”
“Apparently.”
“It seems to me you’ve traveled far, to spend your time with strangers in our midst.”
“Free country, since the war. People can travel where they want to, drift or put down roots.”
“You understand, I’m sure, how sensitive the common Texan is right now, to matters touching on the racial situation.”
Ryder frowned. “Are you a common Texan?”
“Born in New Orleans, as it happens, but my family moved here when I was still a suckling. Texas is my home.”
“I meant the ‘common’ part.”
“I do my best to rise above the herd, without losing the common touch.”
“Sounds like you’ve got an eye on politics.”
“It’s crossed my mind. But at the present, while we’re occupied by foreign troops, that’s not an option.”
“Foreign troops?”
“We were a nation, as you know. First, the Republic of Texas, then a part of the Confederacy.”
“I believe you skipped a step between the two.”
“One of the U.S. states, of course. Until the government in Washington betrayed us.”
“By opposing slavery?”
“The war was based on economic issues, not some sudden urge to free the Africans. You must know that, at least. Slavery was enshrined in the original constitution. Article Five protected foreign trade in slaves.”
“Till 1808,” Ryder said.
“While Article Four, Section Two, forbade white citizens from aiding runaway bondsmen. My Lord, Article One, Section Two, permits slaves to be counted for purposes of determining representation in Congress.”
“Bound to be repealed, now that you’ve lost the war.”
“Did we?”
“The last I heard.”
“Great issues aren’t decided in a day, a month, or in four years.”
“You think the Rebel states will rise again?”
“It’s not rebellion, when you’re fighting for principles the country was founded on to begin with.”
“We’ll have to disagree on that,” Ryder replied.
“In which case, let me ask you whether you’re investigating me.”
“I’ve had my hands full since I got here, dealing with your men.”
“My men?”
“Slip of the tongue. I mean to say dumb crackers starting fights they’re not prepared to win.”
“Another man might take insult at that.”
“Glad he’s not here, then.” Ryder rose and started for the door. “Next bunch you send, tell them I’m at the Bachmann House.”
“I own it,” Coker said. “You may sleep peacefully beneath its roof.”
“Appreciate it. You wouldn’t want to see it damaged, after all. It’s likely not your style,” said Ryder, one hand on the doorknob, “but if you decide to finish this like men, the two of us, just let me know.”
*
Travis had been waiting in the barroom. He returned when Coker summoned him and took the chair directly opposite, sitting with hat in hand. The sheriff had a sour look about him, and he clearly was not looking forward to their chat.
“He’s not amenable to reason,” Coker said, without preamble.
“Huh.”
“That means he won’t negotiate.”
“What did you offer him?”
The question was impertinent, but Coker chose to answer it. “We never got that far. He has the smell of abolitionist about him.”
“Well, then.”
“Hardesty was quite the disappointment.”
“Overmatched, I guess.”
“Indeed. We’ll need to try a new approach, next time.”
“More men?”
“And smarter,” Coker said. “No more clumsy mistakes.”
“I thought Chip was the best we had.”
“I hope not, since he failed us.”
“I can put the word out. Get a bunch together, maybe take him out tomorrow.”
“You’re forgetting something.”
“What’s that?”
“Jesus, man. We’ve got a rally scheduled for tomorrow, noon.”
“Oh, right.”
“I don’t want any more disturbances before then. Understood?”
“I hear you.”
“Make it crystal clear to anyone you speak to. If they spoil the rally, I’ll be holding you responsible.”
“I’ll wait till after, so there’s no mistake.”
“Good thinking.”
“Is the other thing still happening?” Travis inquired.
“What other thing?”
“You know. After the rally.”
“Given the results desired, the answer would be yes.”
“Okay. And I’m not s’pose to interfere.”
Coker restrained an urge to roll his eyes. “That’s right. Because you don’t know anything about it, Sheriff.”
“Course not. How would I?”
“And when the first reports come in … ?”
“Takes me some time to raise a posse, swear ’em in and all. They’d have to fetch their guns from home.”
“Exactly.”
“I was thinkin’, though.”
Never a good sign, Coker thought. And said, “Thinking? About what?”
“Bluebellies. We got the garrison outside of town. They might jump into this.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Oh?”
“We need a spark to set this county and the state on fire.”
“It could mean killin’.”
“Every war means killing. You know that.”
Travis was nodding. “Sure, I know. But folks elected me to keep the peace.”
“Did they? And what peace would that be? The one imposed from Washington, where black and white are equal? Do the people who elected you want field hands voting? Knocking on their doors to see if little Mary can come out and play?”
“Who’s little—?”
“I’m referring to their daughters, damn it!”
“Right. Okay.”
“So, are we clear? No trouble with this Yank before the rally or what follows after. When that’s done, have people standing by to deal with him. Before the smoke clears would be best. Tie all the loose ends up into one knot.”
“Got it.”
The sheriff didn’t move, so Coker asked him, “Why are you still here?”
“Huh? Oh. Just going.”
“Saints preserve us,” Coker muttered, as the door closed, “from the shoddy tools we have to use.”
*
The Bachmann House was quiet by the time Ryder arrived. A bell above the front door jingled as he entered, and a sleepy-looking clerk emerged from somewhere in the back, blinked recognition of a paying resident, and wandered back the way he’d come.
Upstairs, Ryder listened outside his door and checked the keyhole for scratches, then passed inside and locked the door again, behind him. No one had been snooping through his things, as far as he could see—not that he’d left them anything to find. His telegrams from Washington were burned as soon as he had read them, and he had no other written orders for his job in Jefferson. The guidelines had been vague, which left him ample elbow room, but also furnished rope enough to hang himself if he got careless.
On his way back from the Butlers’ place, he’d seen posters on several of the streetlamp poles, announcing a KRS rally tomorrow, at noon. Remembering the last one he’d attended, Ryder thought there was a good chance there’d be trouble, either with the local Union garrison or from the Knights themselves. He knew exactly where the troops were quartered, on the northern edge of town, and planned to visit their commander in the morning, introduce himself, and see if they could make some kind of an arrangement to cooperate in an emergency.
And failing that?
Then he was on his own. Again.
Before he went to bed, Ryder sat down to clean his Colt Army, keeping the Henry rifle handy just in case. He switched out cylinders, reloaded five spent chambers on the one he’d used that night, and stowed it in a pocket for tomorrow. Next, he checked the Henry on a whim, found everything in working order, and finally tested the Bowie knife’s edge on his thumb. Still razor sharp and ready for the ultimate emergency, if he ran out of lead before a fight was done.
What fight?
That was the rub. He never knew, until one started.
Lying back, the Colt beneath his pillow, Ryder let his thoughts return to Anna Butler and her brother. Mostly Anna, it was true. She seemed so out of place in Jefferson—or what he’d seen of Texas, generally—that he wondered how she stood it. If their places were reversed, Ryder imagined he’d have run back screaming to New York and never crossed the Mason-Dixon Line again. That she remained to labor in her brother’s cause spoke volumes about Anna’s courage and the bond between them. She was in it all the way, and any adversaries would be forced to drag her out feet first.
Sadly, from what he’d seen in Corpus Christi, Ryder didn’t think that prospect bothered Coker and his Knights at all.
Some southern “gentlemen” they were.
The more he saw of Texas, Ryder realized it was a world apart from anything he’d known back East. Its cities, although some were fairly large, could not compare for size and crowding to New York or Philadelphia, even to Baltimore or Washington. The open spaces pleased him, and the weather he’d experienced so far, but people were the same, unfortunately, anywhere that Ryder traveled.
They were greedy, bitter, bigoted, and violent, whether you found them in the nation’s capital, Manhattan’s Five Points slum, or on the open plains. Not everyone, of course. From time to time, he got a nice surprise from someone like the Butlers or the Hubbards, but they seemed to be in a minority, and they were usually victims of the others, those he was assigned to hunt and bring to justice.
Ryder took that strange, depressing fact of life into his dreams when sleep arrived at last, tossing and turning on his narrow bed through the small hours of the night.
*
I know what Mr. Coker said. He ain’t the one got buffaloed in public. Didn’t get his nose broke, neither, far as I can see.”
Burke nodded in agreement, muttering, “Thash right.”
“So, are we gonna take it lyin’ down, or do somethin’ about it?” Ardis Jackson asked his friends.
“Do thumpin,” Burke agreed.
“I don’t know,” Stevens said. “This ain’t only from Coker. Sheriff Travis said—”
“That bag of wind? You know he only does what Coker tells him,” Jackson sneered.
“The same as us, I reckon,” Stevens answered.
“Nossir! There’s a difference. We’s free men, ain’t we? Knights, we claim to be. The only one a Knight takes orders from would be a king. King Coker. Do you like the sound of that?”
“He started up the KRS,” Stevens reminded him. “We all agreed on him as leader.”
“Then he needs to lead, goddamn it! What’s he done to make things right for Caleb, here? For any of us? Sends Chip Hardesty to do the job and gets ’im killed. What good is that to anybody?”
“Loss a good man,” Burke chimed in.
“Not good enough,” said Jackson. “Now, we’s s’pose to let it go and wait some more. For what? Until the damn bluebelly dies from old age?”
“Maybe Mr. Coker’s thinkin’ of the soldiers,” Stevens offered.
“Mebbe so. We don’t know, cuz he never tells us what he’s thinkin’. All we get is go here, go there, do this or that cuz he says so. We ain’t in the army no more, case you missed it.”
“I know that.” Stevens sounded irritated now.
“So, if we’s fightin’ for a cause, we should be fightin’, not sittin’ around and waitin’ all the time.”
“This thing tomorrow—”
“Helps the boys let off some steam. I unnerstand that. But it don’t accomplish nothin’ in the long run. Scare some darkies, shoot a few. It’s fun, o’ course, but who’s the enemy? Bluebellies, carpetbaggers, and the radicals behind ’em. They’s the ones we should be fightin’, if we’re gonna make a difference.”
“Dan rye,” Burke growled, agreeing with him.
“How we gonna fight the army when we ain’t an army?” Stevens challenged. “You just said—”
“I know what I jus’ said. The point is, I’m fed up with takin’ orders when they make no sense and get us nowhere.”
“Okay, then. So, what’s your big idea?”
“Take down this spy from Washin’ton our own selves. He’s the one insulted us and made us look like rubes. Don’t
ask no one’s permission, neither. We jus’ up and do it.”
“When?” asked Stevens.
Jackson drained his whiskey glass and topped it up again before he answered. “Not tonight,” he said. “After the thing with Chip, he’ll be expectin’ somethin’ else. Tomorrow’s better, when the sheriff and his deputies are all distracted.”
“How we gonna fin’ ’im?” Burke inquired.
“We know where he’s stayin’,” said Jackson. “Jus’ watch the hotel, follow him when he leaves. Once the rally breaks up and the boys get down to business, he’s ours.”
“Jush da tree ob ud?” asked Burke.
“How many do you think we need?” asked Jackson.
Burke shrugged, raised a hand to touch his mottled face. “He purdy fass.”
“I seen him draw,” Jackson replied. “I don’t plan meetin’ him head-on.”
“Thash bedda,” Burke said. “Got mah shoggun rethy.”
“Are you in, or not?” Jackson asked Stevens.
“Hell, you know I’m with y’all. I jus’ don’t like surprisin’ Mr. Coker.”
“What’s he gonna do about it, once we’re done? Thank us, is what.”
“Or kill us.”
“Bullshit! I’m expectin’ a promotion.”
Stevens nodded, clearly skeptical, then asked, “How do we set the watch?”
“He’s tucked in for the night. The rally’s not till noon, but we should watch him from the time he leaves the Bachmann House. How bout we meet up there at six o’clock?”
“Right there, at the hotel?” asked Stevens.
“No, he’d see us. Over cross the street, that alley by the lawyer’s office and that dress shop. We can watch from there, no problem.”
“Six o’clock,” said Stevens, woefully. “I need to get some sleep, then.”
“May too,” Burke agreed.
“Go on, then,” Jackson said. “But don’t be late. Our honor’s ridin’ on the line.”
13
Ryder had a facility for losing track of dreams when he awoke. Some people suffered disappointment, waking, when their dreams blew out the window like a wisp of smoke, but Ryder figured he was lucky. He had passed a fitful night and had a long new day ahead of him. The last thing that he needed was anxiety conjured from somewhere in the depths of his unconscious mind.
He washed his face, got dressed, and went downstairs to use the privy in the hotel’s fenced backyard. A dozen windows overlooked the yard, but Ryder wasn’t bashful. Anyone who cared to watch him come and go was welcome to the pleasure, though he watched the window curtains for a hint of movement, keeping one hand near his Colt.
