Rough Justice

by Lyle Brandt

  Relaxing of a morning didn’t mean he was a fool.

  For breakfast, Ryder tried a café called The Ruby. He had seen it twice in passing and was lured by the aromas from its kitchen. He ordered ham and scrambled eggs with grits, a southern oddity that he’d grown fond of since he’d been in Texas. Thick toast and a mug of strong black coffee finished off the meal.

  When he was finished, Ryder asked his waitress for directions to the livery. She gave him three choices, and Ryder picked the nearest stable, located a quarter of a mile from his hotel. The morning wasn’t hot yet but was clearly on its way, and he enjoyed the walk. Some of the locals Ryder passed regarded him suspiciously; others pretended not to notice him at all. He’d known that word of last night’s violence would make the rounds, but having total strangers focus on him in a town the size of Jefferson defied coincidence.

  He wondered now if someone—Sheriff Travis, possibly—was marking him deliberately. That would be no surprise, considering the sheriff’s ties to Coker and the KRS, but it could be an obstacle to Ryder as he followed his investigation. As a Yankee in the midst of Rebels, he had started at a disadvantage. Now, he hoped to even up the odds a bit.

  The stable smelled of fresh paint and manure, a heady combination on a day that promised to be scorching by high noon. The man in charge was stocky, ginger-haired, and freckled, somewhere in his early thirties, muscular from shifting bales of hay and handling animals five times his weight. He was affable enough and readily agreed to rent Ryder a horse, providing that he paid a full day’s rate up front.

  Ryder had half a dozen animals to choose from, all appearing strong and healthy to his less-than-expert eye. He chose an Appaloosa gelding for its coloration, which the hostler said was called a roan blanket with frost—meaning its neck was mostly brown, the rest a mix of brown and white as if it had been through a storm of chocolate and powdered sugar.

  “I call ’im Traveler, after the stallion rid by Gen’ral Lee. O’ course, his horse weren’t gelded and were mostly white.”

  “It suits him, anyway,” said Ryder.

  Ryder chose a trail saddle, designed with comfort of the horse and rider as a top priority, its rigging made of brass to ward off rust and leather rot. When Traveler was saddled up, he had the hostler add a rifle scabbard to the getup, for his Henry.

  Playing safe.

  Last thing, he got directions to the local Union garrison, northwest of Jefferson, two miles beyond the city limits. Ryder paid and left, thinking he’d got more than his money’s worth.

  He rode back to the Bachmann House, noting that people seemed to pay him less attention now that he was mounted. It was strange, but Ryder didn’t try to work it out. He fetched the rifle from his room, secured it in its scabbard, and began his journey at an easy pace.

  *

  Whern he gwan?” asked Caleb Burke.

  “The hell should I know?” Stevens countered. “Nobody said nothin’ about trailin’ ’im if he left town.”

  “Ardish ain’t gwan lige us losin’ ’im.”

  “You’d best run on and tell ’im, then.”

  “Canned run. Id huts mah node.”

  “How long you gonna lean on that crutch? Go and ask ’im—”

  “Ask me what?” Ardis surprised them, coming up behind them on the sly.

  “The Yank picked up a horse from Jamison’s and headed out of town,” said Stevens.

  “And neither one of you saw fit to follow him?”

  “We didn’t think—”

  “No we in dis,” Burke interrupted.

  “You didn’t think,” said Jackson, with a sneer. “The story of your life, Wade.”

  “Hey, now.”

  “Where’s he headed?”

  “Um, I couldn’t tell you that.”

  “And you don’t think it might be useful if we knew?”

  “Well, sure, I guess.”

  “You see him ride out?”

  “Sure did!”

  “Which way was he headed?”

  “North from the hotel.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Ten minutes. Mighta been a little more.”

  “You’ve still got time to track him, then.”

  “Track him? Jus’ me?”

  “Hands off. To find out where he goes and who he talks to.”

  “Oh, well, sure. I can do that, I guess.”

  “So, what’n hell are you waiting for?”

  Stevens departed at a loping run, to fetch his horse and try to catch up with the Yankee agent. Jackson hadn’t warned him to be careful, hoping it was understood between them, but he worried now that he was taking too damned much for granted. Stevens didn’t have the nerve to jump the Yank himself, alone, but what if he was spotted and their quarry turned on him? It would be like Wade to run blindly, in a panic, leading the Yankee straight back to Jackson.

  That’s what I get for using idjits.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothin’,” said Jackson, unaware that he had voiced his thought aloud.

  And now I’m talking to myself. Jesus.

  “You gwan ted Mr. Coker bow dis?”

  “When I’m feel like it. How long the sawbones reckon you’d be talkin’ like you gotta buncha marbles in your mouth?”

  “Din’t see none.”

  “Didn’t see a doctor?”

  “Nuh.”

  “Still hurts, though?”

  “Ya dab right.”

  “Well, lemme fix it.” As he spoke, Jackson reached out, gripped Caleb’s nose between his thumb and forefinger, twisted, then yanked it straight—well, straighter—with a sudden jerk. Burke howled in pain, drew starts from passersby, but no one stopped to ask him if he needed any help.

  “Goddamn it, Ardis!”

  “See, you sound better already,” Jackson said. “What’s that worth to you?”

  “Boot up your ass.”

  “Damned ingrate.”

  Jackson left him whimpering and went in search of a saloon. He hadn’t had a drink so far that morning, and his nerves were wearing thin. On top of going behind Coker’s back to kill the Yankee, now he had to worry about losing him, before they had the chance. Five hours yet, before the rally started, and he was supposed to be there with the other Knights, hearing their leader’s speech and hooting up a storm. When that was done, they had the other thing.

  A little trip to Colored Town.

  Sounded like fun, all right, but Jackson’s mind was focused on the Secret Service man, and what he planned to do to him.

  A little taste of sweet revenge.

  *

  Abel Butler’s headache had retreated overnight. It still throbbed dully on the left side of his skull, but he no longer felt as if his head was going to explode.

  Small favors.

  He had never come so close to death before, much less to being murdered, and the shock of it had shaken him. Seeing the fear in Anna’s eyes, on top of being hurt himself, had prompted him to reconsider what he’d taken for a righteous calling when they left New York for Texas.

  It was easy to be ardent for a cause when you were sitting in a well-appointed home, twelve hundred miles from where the trouble was occurring. Once you had bridged that distance, though, and found yourself surrounded by a city full of people who despised you, offering your life up as a sacrifice for other folks who didn’t understand or trust you, things were different.

  Abel was starting to believe that he had made a serious mistake—and worse, that he had dragged his sister into it, placing her life in jeopardy.

  “You’re looking better,” Anna said, as she set breakfast down in front of him.

  “I’m feeling much better,” he exaggerated.

  “I’ve heard nothing yet today, from Gideon.”

  “Were you expecting to?” he asked, eggs poised before him on his fork.

  “Not necessarily. But after last night, I supposed … well, I don’t know.”

  “Don’t tell me that you’re falling fo
r him.”

  “What? Of course not!” Anna managed to look angry and to blush, at the same time.

  “You know he won’t be staying, Anna.”

  “And are we?”

  The question startled him. “What do you mean?”

  “You almost died last night, Abel. That crazy man almost blew out our brains.”

  “We both knew it was dangerous. We talked about it, back in Syracuse.”

  “Talking about it’s one thing. Living it is something else entirely.”

  “Are you frightened?”

  “Yes! Aren’t you?”

  He swallowed his eggs, along with his immediate response. Admitting nothing to his sister, Abel said, “The point is not to let your fear immobilize you. You remember Edmund Burke?”

  “Not personally.”

  “Please be serious.”

  “All right. Which quote is it this time?”

  “‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil—’”

  “‘—is that good men do nothing,’” she finished for him. Adding, “Or women.”

  “Exactly. We are on a mission, helping the less fortunate. Some evil men oppose us, but we have the strength of Providence.”

  “I don’t feel very strong. Last night was horrible. Yesterday morning, with those men out on the street—”

  “You feel a debt of gratitude to Mr. Ryder, certainly. I understand.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “How could it be? You’ve barely known him for a day.”

  “I fancy I’m a decent judge of character.”

  “The man’s a killer.”

  “If he wasn’t, you’d be dead now.”

  “And he’s a policeman.”

  “So?”

  “Their work corrupts them, rots their minds and souls. They see the very worst of other men and women every day. It gets inside them. Gnaws away at their capacity for caring.”

  “When did you become an expert?”

  “I have more experience. I’m older—”

  “Two years!”

  “And you’ve led a sheltered life.”

  “I’d like to have it back,” she said, voice softening.

  “I’ve thought about that. If you wanted to go home—”

  “And leave you here? Ridiculous!”

  “It’s something to consider. You could help the AMA in other ways, with mailing, or—”

  “Become a secretary.”

  “Something to consider.”

  “I’ve considered it. The answer’s no.”

  “If you would just—”

  “Eat up,” she said. “Your breakfast’s getting cold.”

  *

  The garrison wasn’t what Ryder expected. He’d pictured the kind of stockade shown in Beadle’s Dime Novels: a wall made from tree trunks, all sharpened on top to repel climbing foes, with log structures inside, and corrals for the horses. Instead, he was looking at tents pitched in rows on dry ground, with a cluster of picketed animals off to one side, what the Texans called a remuda. He counted five blue uniforms on guard duty, each with a musket and fixed bayonet.

  The one who stopped him was a kid, late teens or early twenties. He demanded Ryder’s name and business, studied Ryder’s badge, and frowned when Ryder asked to see the officer in charge.

  “Can’t leave my post, sir. And you can’t go in alone.”

  “That’s a conundrum.”

  “Huh?”

  “Could you call someone else to walk me in?” asked Ryder.

  “Well, I guess so. Wait right here.”

  “I promise.”

  Ryder waited, still astride the Appaloosa, while the sentry walked a few paces away and called out for the sergeant of the guard. An older, larger man in uniform appeared, this one with fading yellow chevrons on his sleeve to designate his senior rank. The sergeant took his turn peering at Ryder’s badge, then asked him, “What’s your business with the captain?”

  “To discuss affairs in Jefferson,” Ryder replied.

  “Uh-huh. Well, I don’t know if he’ll see you, but it costs nothin’ to find out. Follow me.”

  Ryder dismounted, led the Appaloosa by its reins to reach a tent significantly larger than the others. While he waited, wishing there was shade, the sergeant paused outside the open tent flap and requested leave to enter. It was granted, he went in, and came back moments later to tell Ryder, “Sir, the captain is available.”

  The tent had shade, but it was hot shade, and the slight breeze he had felt outside was banned here. Ryder found himself confronted by an officer midway in age between the sergeant and the sentry, wearing striped trousers and boots, his blue coat draped across a camp chair near his cot.

  “You’ve caught me out of uniform,” the captain said.

  “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  “We have a deal. Captain Legere,” he said, reaching for Ryder’s hand. “And you are?”

  “Ryder. Gideon. I’m with the U.S. Secret Service.”

  “So my sergeant indicated. Wishing to discuss affairs in Jefferson, I understand.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How do you find the city, Agent Ryder?”

  “It’s all right, I guess.”

  “It’s a pesthole,” said Legere, with sudden vehemence. “My men are treated like pariahs by these Rebels. They’d be spat on, if the locals weren’t afraid of being pricked with bayonets.”

  “You’ve had some trouble with them, then.”

  “Nothing but trouble, from our first day here.”

  “Are you familiar with an outfit calls itself Knights of the Rising Sun?”

  “Indeed I am. Is that your business?”

  “More or less.”

  “Feel free to round them up and take them all away. They’re rabble of the lowest order and mistreat the coloreds terribly.”

  “What have you done about it?”

  “Done?” The captain almost smirked. “I’ve followed orders, sir. And to the letter, may I add. Those orders are precise: observe and intervene, if called for, should any incident appear to threaten civil order or incite rebellion.”

  “So, you’ve made arrests?”

  “Of whom? For what?”

  “Of KRS members, for the abuse of freedmen that you talked about.”

  “Oh, that. It’s not rebellion, and it doesn’t threaten civil order. Truth be told, in this wasteland it is the civil order. Things like that I leave to Sheriff Travis.”

  “Who does nothing,” Ryder guessed.

  “Out of my hands, unfortunately.”

  “What would it take, exactly, for you to involve yourself?”

  “A clear and present danger to the public peace, or to our garrison.”

  “And short of that?”

  The captain spread his hands. “It sounds more like your jurisdiction than my own.”

  “Okay. I’m glad we had this talk.”

  “Feel free to come back anytime,” Legere replied. “We’re always here.”

  *

  Jackson was right, for once. Wade Stevens hadn’t had much trouble following the Yankee, once he stopped by Jamison’s and found out that his man had asked directions to the Union garrison. There was a chance that he’d been laying a false trail, in case someone like Stevens tried to follow him, and Wade had ridden hard for fifteen minutes, lathering his roan before he caught sight of the Yank, still half a mile ahead of him. He backed off then, letting his quarry lead him at the very edge of visibility and hoping that he wouldn’t turn around to look behind him.

  Sure enough, he rode into the army camp. That couldn’t be good news, a spy from Washington canoodling with bluebellies. They must be cooking up some kind of plot against the KRS, or Mr. Coker personally, planning how to spread their damned race-mixing poison far and wide through Texas.

  Stevens almost bolted then, uncertain whether he should spill the news to Jackson or go straight to Mr. Coker with it. He was leaning toward the former, since the boss man di
dn’t even know they had the Yank under surveillance, when it hit him that he couldn’t leave.

  Not yet.

  Ardis had ordered him to trail the agent and discover where he went. A part of that was done, but Stevens couldn’t satisfy himself that this was all of it. Suppose the Yank went on from there to someplace else, and he’d gone back to Jefferson, not knowing what came next? For one thing, Ardis would discover he’d been shirking, when their target came back hours later. For another, Stevens didn’t want to be the one who let his buddies down.

  With that in mind, he stayed, scanning the countryside and picking out the only tree that he could find, a cottonwood, standing a half mile due west of the camp. From there, he could observe the garrison without much fear of being seen himself. He would have liked to be inside one of those tents with the commander and his visitor, eavesdropping on their plans, but that was just a daydream.

  Twenty minutes after he went in, the Yank was back, riding his rented Appaloosa back toward Jefferson. He didn’t glance toward Stevens, hiding in the shadow of the big old cottonwood, and faded into the distance before Stevens made a move to follow him back home.

  What would he say to Ardis? Just the truth and nothing but. Tell what he’d seen and not embellish it with anything from his imagination. Ardis couldn’t get mad at him over that.

  Could he?

  *

  Ryder kept his eyes peeled on the ride back into Jefferson. He half expected to be ambushed on the way, but with the countryside so flat and open, snipers would have found no ready hiding place. At one point, halfway back to town, he had a sense of being watched and reined in, turned the Appaloosa back the way they’d come, to sweep the skyline, but he spotted no one on his trail.

  Getting jumpy over nothing? Maybe.

  At the livery, he helped unsaddle Traveler and gave the ginger man a little something extra for selecting such a fine, accommodating animal. From the reaction, Ryder thought he might have made a friend, but he knew better than to take such things for granted in a southern town.

  His watch told him that he had time to catch an early lunch before the midday rally started. He’d developed a taste for Mexican since arriving in Texas, and now sought out a little restaurant two blocks from his hotel, called La Comida. Seated near a window, with his back against the wall, he ordered tacos sudados, with an enchilada, rice, and beans, washed down with dark beer, stronger than his usual. The spicy taco filling made his eyes water, but Ryder cleaned his plate and might have asked for more, if there’d been time.