by Clyde Barker
The killing of the sheriff of Terra Nova would need to be timed just right, thought Frank Mason, as he and the others waited for the Flyer. Some enterprising soul had set up a little canteen at the way halt where they were fixing to catch the train, which meant that at least they now had some coffee and vittles in their bellies.
The landscape hereabouts was windswept and bleak. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but grass and a few spindly trees. How folk were able to live in such a Godforsaken spot was a mystery to Mason; he was city bred and liked to have plenty of stores, gambling houses and saloons around him. Open spaces made him uneasy. He reached for his watch and then stopped; recalling that he no longer had one. That too was a score to settle with that young thief. Murdering the boy who had stolen his watch might well be a matter of strict policy and necessary in order to protect from discovery the Great Enterprise, but it would also be a matter of personal satisfaction to Frank Mason.
Since only he and his companions were waiting for the arrival of the railroad train and they were standing some distance off from the canteen, Mason felt that they could discuss their projected actions without fear. He said, ‘You’re sure that young hot-blood will be able to take care of Taylor and get him safe to town?’
One of the other men laughed and said, ‘I’d trust Johnny West with my life, but he surely has a hard row to hoe this time and no mistake! That Taylor is a sodden wretch, but he knows his stuff. If Johnny can keep him sober enough for a day or two, it’ll all be fine.’
‘But you think that West is the boy to make sure that the man gets there on time,’ persisted Mason, ‘For if he don’t, I tell you now that the whole thing will miscarry.’
‘You’re a worrier, Mason,’ said another of the men, ‘Allus were. You’re a damned good soldier, but you worry too much. If Johnny West said that he’d bring Jed Taylor to Terra Nova, then that’s what he’ll do.’
‘I surely wish we could o’ got somebody other than an inveterate barfly to act for us in this matter,’ opined Mason gloomily, ‘The timing is key to everything and drunks are apt to be late or not show at all. Leastways, that’s been my own experience.’
‘We had to take what we could get,’ said one of the others, who had not yet spoken. ‘We was lucky to find Taylor, after he was discharged by the ‘C’ and ‘O’ road. The old Chesapeake and Ohio line, you know? What was your idea on the subject, Mason? Advertise in the local newspaper, maybe? How about, “Smart fellow wanted to help destroy the Union; must be dab-hand with preparing explosives”.’
‘You’re funny and I don’t think,’ growled Mason, ‘I only hope we won’t repent of using a soak like Taylor, that’s all I say.’
Far away in the distance came an eerie wailing, like some discontented spirit bemoaning its fate. All five of the men became suddenly alert and began to prepare themselves for boarding the Flyer. Frank Mason said, ‘So we agreed? We kill the boy as soon as we set eyes upon him and the sheriff just as soon as Johnson is readying himself for his speech?’
Since there had not really been any sort of agreement on this, the others looked across at Mason and gave non-committal grunts and shrugs. A terrible worm of anxiety was gnawing away at Mason. He was, as the other man had remarked, one of nature’s worriers, but in the present instance, he truly felt that he had cause to fret. The wholly unlooked for circumstance of the robbery to which he had been subjected had not only put him out of countenance, but, he truly believed, had set all their plans at hazard. Only when Brent and Grant Clancy were both lying dead would he be able to breathe a little easier.
As they walked together down Main Street, presumably in the direction of his brother’s home, Brent Clancy noticed again how neat and tidy everything looked. He remarked as much to Grant, who said, ‘There’s a town ordnance which requires all the stores to paint their fronts once a year. Not just with creosote either. If they want a prime site on this street, they have to paint their fronts properly. Same as the sidewalk outside their places, they’re all legally responsible for it, has to be swept clean twice a day.’
‘That your idea?’
Grant shrugged and said, ‘Times are changing, you know. Now the war’s over, folk want something different. They’re after peace and prosperity. I aim to bring this town to order, make it a place where a man can raise his children and know that they’ll be safe, that his wife can walk down the street without being bothered.’
In the usual way of things, this was precisely the attitude of his brother that Clancy had been accustomed to dismiss as prissy and schoolmarmish, but, walking along the pretty little street now, so different from many of the towns that he had been in, he was not so sure. There was a pleasant and welcoming feel about the place and it was nice to see brightly coloured storefronts rather than the dreary browns and greys that one saw elsewhere.
Then too, there were many old barrels that had been sawn in half and planted with crimson geraniums and sweet, white alyssum. Even passing by these, Brent could smell the sweetness of the alyssum. He said, ‘Do you fine ’em if they don’t plant flowers?’
Ignoring the faintly mocking tone, his brother replied, ‘No, that was the idea of those as have stores along here. It brightens up the place considerable. Makes folk linger on the sidewalk and gaze into windows more than they might do else.’
Brent felt a little ashamed for sneering at something so agreeable and said reluctantly, ‘Well, I’ll own that this here street is a deal more attractive than many I’ve seen.’
They were passing a saloon and just as they reached the bat-wing doors, a burly man came cannoning out as though he had been shot from a catapult. He landed in a heap in the dusty roadway and, as the two brothers stopped to watch, got unsteadily to his feet, dusted himself off and then, from inside his jacket, produced a small pistol. Then he began marching back towards the doors of the saloon, clearly intent upon wreaking violence upon somebody.
It was Brent Clancy’s habit to step aside from all incidents of this kind, as being none of his affair. His brother though, being sheriff of the town, could not afford to adopt such an attitude. Without making a great thing of it, Grant strolled over to the doors of the saloon and obstructed them with his body. When the man brandishing the firearm approached, it was plain that he was as drunk as a fiddler’s bitch and Brent wondered what would chance. He knew that his brother was a hard man, but was he really prepared to risk his life for such a trifling matter?
The drunk squared up pugnaciously and said, ‘You best move out o’ my way, Clancy, if’n you know what’s good for you, that is!’
‘I know you, Jem Carter, and you know me,’ said Terra Nova’s sheriff quietly, ‘Why, I even attended your boy’s christening, if you’ll recollect. You want to end up in gaol or worse, leave that little one without a father to care for his family? That what you want?’
At mention of his baby son, the mood of this menacing fellow with a gun in his hand changed abruptly and he became lachrymose and maudlin, saying, ‘My little boy, left alone. What would become of him and his ma?’ He gave a sob.
‘Well now, things ain’t reached that stage yet,’ said Grant Clancy, consolingly, ‘I’m not about to run you in, for all that you know how much I dislike to see folk waving firearms around on the public highway.’
It was clear that the thought of his son being left without a protector had quite overcome the man who, a moment earlier, had been intent upon murder. He was at that stage of drunkenness when it would not take much for him to start bawling like a child.
‘Tell you what, fellow,’ said Grant, ‘You just hand me that pistol, real peaceable like, and then go home to your family, I reckon as I can see my way clear to forgetting all about this piece of foolishness. You can have it back in the morning you know.’
‘You ain’t going to run me in?’
‘Not a bit of it. Come now, let me have that weapon and you go home and have a nice sleep.’
‘I’m sorry. Real sorry.’
And t
o Brent Clancy’s unutterable amazement, that was the end of it. The hulking great brute of a man, in his cups and with violence in his heart, simply handed his gun to Grant, who patted him amiably on the shoulder and told him to call by the office the next day to collect it. It was one of the bravest and most extraordinary things that Brent Clancy had seen in a good long while. After they had moved off, he said to his brother, ‘That was something else again, you know that?’
‘What, getting Jem to go home and sleep it off? What do you say I should have done, arrested him and brought disgrace upon him and his family? He’s a good fellow at heart and tomorrow he’ll be as contrite as can be. He’ll remember it, what’s more. I don’t want enemies, Brent. I want friends. Makes for a better sort of town for us all.’
‘It’s just knowing how down on drink you are, I’d o’ thought you might have come down real heavy on him, that’s all.’
Grant Clancy shrugged and replied, ‘Just ’cause I don’t want to get liquored up, doesn’t mean that nobody else should. We’re all different. Here, we’re home.’
At the gate of the pretty little garden that surrounded the white-painted, clapboard house, the sheriff paused. He said, ‘Listen, I guess I don’t have to tell you that I don’t look to hear cursing or see any unbecoming behaviour in front of my family? We understand each other well enough on that score?’
Feeling very much like the kid brother, Brent said stiffly, ‘Yes, you need not tell me so. It’s understood.’
By the summer of 1866, with the mid-term elections looming, President Andrew Johnson was feeling very much as though he was at bay; a hunted animal cornered by a pack of dogs. Which was, he reflected that evening, as he sat brooding in his library, a preposterous state of affairs for the leader of a great nation! Even though he was in charge of the whole country and did not even have a vice president to contend with, he was still unable to dislodge that worthless scoundrel Stanton from his post as Secretary of War! It was absurd.
Accusing Congressman Stevens and Senator Sumner earlier that year of planning to assassinate him had been an inspired move, summoning up, as it did, the remembrance of poor dead Lincoln. People said that his speech in February had been hysterical, but they would soon discover how wrong they were after he hit the campaign trail in Illinois. Choosing Terra Nova had been a right smart idea, for it symbolised all that he thought good about America since the war. With luck, the ordinary people of the country would see what sort of a man their president was, just one of them really, and they would rally around him and give him sufficient authority to get rid of that viper Stanton once and for all.
In two days’ time, Johnson, along with Secretary of State Seward and various other important people, would leave Washington and head for Illinois. From there, he and his entourage would travel across the length and breadth of the United States, showing everybody that they had a strong and capable leader and that it was he, not Stanton and General Grant, who was running the country. As soon as the tour was over, he would return to the capital in triumph, sack Stanton, dismiss Grant and then he could get on with governing.
The railroad clerk looked dubiously at the crates that Johnny West was unloading from the freight coach. He said, ‘They’re heavy enough. What you got in ’em son?’
‘Pharmacy stuff. Special liquid.’
Mindful of the recent disaster in San Francisco, the old man said, ‘You ain’t trying for to bring any of that nitro into my depot, I suppose?’
This was so near the mark, that for a moment West was quite taken aback. He gulped and did not know what to reply. It was all right though, for the clerk suddenly chuckled and said, ‘Ah, I’s only joshin’ with you boy. Go along with you, just shift it out of the way now. You got a cart coming to collect it?’
‘Yes,’ said West. ‘Somebody’ll be along directly.’
The mention of nitro had unnerved Johnny West and he felt a trickle of ice cold sweat running down from his armpits. Although brave enough in battle or when danger was imminent, he knew that if he and the others were detected in this activity, they would all hang. It was this prospect that filled him with dread, the thought of dying a felon’s death on the gallows and not an honourable one by powder and shot.
Jed Taylor was trembling like an aspen leaf and West said to him, ‘You can cut along now to get yourself a shot o’ liquor, but mind you come straight to the hotel after. You can find it without me?’
‘Oh surely, surely,’ said Taylor, who was desperately anxious to seek out a saloon.
‘You best not go on some big drinking spree,’ said Johnny West coldly. ‘You ain’t fit to work tomorrow or you go missing or summat and I tell you now, I’m going to hunt you down and kill you like a mangy dog? We got that clear?’
The original plan for President Johnson’s assassination had been formulated by Frank Mason and entailed a troop of Klansman riding into Terra Nova and gunning down the president and anybody else who happened to be standing near him. Via an intermediary, Edwin Stanton had rejected this plan out of hand. It still stung when he recalled the aftermath of Lincoln’s death, when he had declared martial law and been about to seize the reins in Washington. But, of course, both Johnson, who had been vice president at that time and also Seward, the secretary of state, had survived to scotch Stanton’s plans for power. He did not intend for the same thing to happen again. This time, due entirely to Johnson’s hubris and desire to make an exhibition, all the main players would be crammed into one place, namely Terra Nova’s civic hall. Stanton did not want to run the chance of any of those folk escaping out the back when the assassins opened fire. The attack on the government the previous year had been bungled, such a thing would not happen again.
So it was that Mason had come up with a new scheme, whereby eighty pounds of the deadliest explosive known to humanity would be secreted in the hall where the president was going to begin his grand tour. The stuff would be concealed beneath the stage where Johnson was to deliver his speech, and from what Johnny West had seen at that old mission station the quantity used would be more than enough to blow the entire hall to atoms, killing everybody within. There would be no mistakes on this occasion. If by some mischance there were any survivors, they would be gunned down by the five men stationed on the rooftops opposite the civic hall.
The fellow with the horse and cart, who had been engaged to meet the eastbound train when it pulled into the depot, finally turned up a good half-hour after Johnny West had unloaded the crates containing the acid and glycerine. The man in charge of the horse had a bulbous red nose and his speech was slightly slurred, suggesting to West that he suffered from the same weakness as Jed Taylor. ‘You’re late,’ said West, staring at the man balefully, ‘You should o’ been here waiting for me.’
‘Well, I’m here now.’
The little southerner could move with the all the speed of a striking rattler when he was roused. The owner of the cart had no sooner climbed down and set his foot on the ground, when Johnny West was on him, his hands grabbing hold of the man’s shirtfront and almost lifting him up in the air by the material. He said, through gritted teeth, ‘Do not get smart with me, my friend. It’s apt to be the death of you, understand?’
‘All right, all right,’ said the other pacifically, ‘No harm meant, I’m sure. I was delayed. I’m sorry.’
The smell of whiskey was sour on the man’s breath and West said in disgust, ‘Delayed by what, urgent business in a saloon? Just get these crates loaded up and take ’em where I bid you. I’m going to sit along of you and give you directions.’
Chapter 6
Eliza Clancy was not best pleased to see the man whom her husband had thought fit to invite to stay. His appearance was against him to begin with, a bloody gash across his face and brown bloodstains all over the front of his shirt. He was dirty and unshaven too, to say nothing of smelling as though he hadn’t had a bath in some long while. Learning that this disreputable-looking tramp was her brother-in-law did not increase her enthusiasm
for his presence in the house. She had heard enough about this young man to know that he wasn’t at all the sort she wished her children to associate with. Still and all, he was Grant’s brother and so she greeted him civilly enough, saying, ‘Why, Mister Clancy, I’ve heard a deal about you from my husband. You’re very welcome.’
Brent was not at all deceived by these pleasant words, gauging quite correctly that here was a woman who would have him out of the house if he so much as breathed in the wrong direction. He said, ‘I heard much about you too, ma’am,’ which was a lie. He’d assumed that his brother had a wife, but knew nothing definite about the matter. ‘These must be your little ones, I’m guessing.’
The two small and unprepossessing children put Brent in mind of goblins from a fairy tale. Neither could have been above two or three years of age and the pair of them clung to their mother’s skirts and peered at Clancy as though he were a strange animal. He smiled at them and said, ‘Hidy!’ in a cheerful voice, whereupon one of them burst into tears and the other buried his face in his mother’s clothes, the better to block out the sight of him.
Grant said, ‘You’ll be wanting to wash and suchlike. You got shaving tackle?’
