Ride With the Devil (10 page)

As she drifted off to sleep she thought about her brother, and remembered his reaction when she told him who killed her parents, then raped her.

It wasn’t until both men were through with her and were readjusting their clothes that she actually looked at them. When she did, she recognized them, though something told her to give no sign that she knew who they were.

They were the Sumlin brothers. She knew them because they lived on a farm on the other side of the county. In fact, she knew that her brother Eddie, now away fighting with the Union Army, had gone fishing and hunting with them a few times before the war started. How could men who were once friends of her brother do such a thing as was done to her that night?

The third man did not dismount, so Flair never got a good look at him.

When Eddie came back home after the war, he learned of the murder of his parents and the rape and defilement of his sister. He also learned that it was the Sumlin brothers.

The war was over, and general amnesty had been granted for all, including the Sumlin brothers. The officials of the state of Missouri, and of Platte County, pleaded with neighbors, many of whom had been separated by the war, to put the war behind them.

Eddie rode over to the Sumlin farm and invited the brothers to go hunting with him, just as they did before the war.
The Sumlins, who had no idea Flaire had recognized them, accepted the invitation.

“Hell yes,” Dewey Sumlin said. “I mean, you fought for the Yankees, we fought for the South, but that’s all behind us now.”

“Yes,” Eddie said. “That’s all behind us now.”

They were three miles away, on the banks of the Missouri River, when Eddie called out to them. Turning, they saw him holding a shotgun, which was leveled at them.

“What you doin’, Eddie? Don’t be foolin’ around like that,” Loomis Sumlin said.

Eddie shook his head. “I ain’t foolin’,” he said.

“What do you mean, you ain’t foolin’?” Dewey asked.

“I know that it was you boys who killed my ma, pa, and little brother. And I know it was you that shamed my sister.”

The Sumlins grew white with fear, and Loomis held his hands out.

“Look here, Eddie, that was war,” he said. “We wouldn’t never done nothin’ like that iffen you’da fought on our side like you shoulda.”

“That wasn’t war, that was murder,” Eddie insisted.

“What do you call it if you kill us now? I mean, there ain’t even no war goin’on now. It’ll be murder.”

Eddie smiled at them. “That’s right,” he said.

A ringing bell awakened Flaire, and she lay there in the dark of the little bedroom compartment, wondering if she had been dreaming or was merely recalling the story Eddie had told her.

The train whistle blew, and she sat up in bed, then pulled the curtain to one side to look out onto the depot platform. She had no idea what stop this was, a small town, in the middle of the night, but the depot was relatively well lit by several lanterns, and she saw a woman and two children welcoming a passenger who had just gotten off the train.

“Board!” the conductor called.

The train blew its whistle again, then started forward in a series of jerks until it finally smoothed out.

Flaire lay her head back on the pillow and stared into the darkness above. She knew she shouldn’t feel joy over the fact that the Sumlin brothers were dead, but God help her, she did.

Then, feeling guilty for her thoughts, she silently made the Confessional Prayer.

Almighty God, Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, Maker of all things, Judge of all men; I acknowledge and bewail my manifold sins and wickedness, which I from time to time most grievously have committed by thought, word, and deed, against thy Divine Majesty, provoking most justly thy wrath and indignation against me.

I do earnestly repent, and am heartily sorry for these my misdoings. The remembrance of them is grievous unto me, the burden of them is intolerable. I have sinned in feeling joy over the death of Loomis and Dewey Sumlin, and I ask that you forgive me for such thoughts and that you forgive them for their deeds.

I ask too that you forgive my brother Eddie for committing murder against them.

Have mercy upon me most merciful Father. For thy Son our Lord Jesus Christ’s sake, forgive me all that is past, and grant that I may hereafter serve and please thee in newness of life. To the honor and glory of thy name, through Jesus Christ, my Lord. Amen.

Shortly after she completed the prayer, Flaire fell asleep again. This time the sleep was dreamless, the demons gone.

OUT AT THE BAR-Z-BAR HERD, WHICH WAS IN CAMP about four miles outside of Salcedo, Pete, Dusty, and Kendall, the three cowboys who were coming into town, were having a discussion. They were trying to decide whether they should wait until after supper before they came in or come in before supper and eat at a restaurant in town.

“It would be good to put somethin’ in our belly other than Moses’ grub,” Pete suggested. “I say we go in and find us a café somewhere.”

“If we wait until we get into town to eat, we’ll have to pay for it,” Dusty said.

“Well, of course we’ll have to pay for it. I wasn’t plannin’ on gettin’ it free.”

“Yes, but what I’m sayin’ is, if we stay here and eat Moses’ grub, we won’t have to pay for it. And that’ll leave us more money to spend on drinkin’,” Dusty said. “Besides, Moses is a good cook, and I wouldn’t be surprised if his food ain’t better’n what we’d get in town anyway.”

“Yeah, his food’s good all right, but how many women do you see eatin’ with us out here on the trail?”

Dusty laughed. “You say that as if when we go into town
we’re all goin’ to go into a fancy café with a woman hangin’ onto our arms.”

“Well,” Pete said, “maybe not. But we for sure ain’t goin’ to have no women eatin’ with us if we stay here.”

“I’m with Dusty,” Kendall said. “I say we eat here, then go into town.”

Pete was finally won over by the logic of the argument, and so it was that, even as the sun was a big red ball poised on the western horizon, the three young cowboys were just passing the
WELCOME TO SALCEDO
sign.

“‘Obey our laws,’” Dusty read. He laughed.

“What you think is so funny?” Pete asked.

“The sign says obey our laws,” Dusty said. “If a fella is going to obey ’em, he don’t need no sign tellin’ him to. And if he ain’t goin’ to obey ’em, a sign ain’t goin’ to make him do it.”

“Dusty, has anyone ever told you that you are a strange man?” Pete asked.

“You think, maybe, we shoulda left our guns back with the herd?” Dusty asked.

“What?” Pete replied. “Hell no! Ain’t nobody takin’ my gun away from me. Why, I’d feel plumb naked without my gun.”

“Moses never carries a gun,” Dusty said.

“Well, come on, who’s going to try anything with Moses? He’s a—” Pete started, then stopped.

“He’s a what?”

“You know.”

“Colored man?”

“Well, yes, that, and he’s also a cook. I mean people just don’t pay no attention to a colored man or a cook. So, when you figure that Moses is both a cook and a colored man, why, what would he need a gun for in the first place?”

“Yeah, a gun would probably scare him to death,” Kendall said.

“Oh, I hardly think that,” Dusty said. “Don’t forget, ol’ Moses was a Buffalo Soldier.”

The three cowboys approached a little house at the end of the street where two young children were playing in the yard. A ball rolled into the street in front of them, and they jerked back on the reins, bringing their horses to an abrupt halt when a little boy darted out for it. The boy picked up the ball, looked up and smiled at the three riders, then ran back into the front yard.

“Damn fool kids. They’re going to get hurt one of these days if they don’t watch out,” Pete said.

“Ah, they’re just kids,” Kendall said. “Haven’t you ever been a kid?”

Pete thought of the strict regimen of the orphanage, back in New York City. He had no memory of family, could not remember when he didn’t live in the orphanage. He was released at sixteen, joined the army, and wound up out West where he took his discharge.

“No,” Pete said. “No, I never was a kid.”

“You know what, Pete? You are as full of shit as a Christmas goose,” Dusty said.

Kendall laughed.

“Hey, what do you say we find us a whorehouse?” Dusty suggested. “A big one, where they got maybe eight or ten gals, and we could line them up against the wall and take our pick.”

“What are you talkin’ about, eight or ten whores?” Pete said. “Why, no bigger than this place is, I’ll bet there ain’t eight whores in the whole town.”

“Maybe there ain’t no whores at all in this town,” Kendall suggested.

“Ever’ town has a whore,” Pete insisted. “I mean, it wouldn’t be civilized if it didn’t. A man’s got to have his ashes hauled ever’ now and again or he’ll go plumb loco.”

“Hey, Pete, have you ever been to a real whorehouse?” Dusty asked.

“Well, yeah,” Pete answered. “I’ve been to Suzie’s.”

“Suzie’s ain’t no real whorehouse,” Dusty said. “I mean, she’s a whore, but a real whorehouse is a fancy place, with red curtains and gold-framed mirrors and the like. And they got a parlor with plush furniture where you can sit and palaver for a while before you choose up whatever whore is the one you want. Then you go upstairs with her.”

“You ever been to a place like that?” Pete asked.

“No,” Dusty admitted. “But I’ve heard tell of ’em.”

As they rode through town, they could hear the guttural guffaw of a man laughing. They pulled rein in front of the saloon and tied their mounts at the hitching rail.

“This where we goin’?” Kendall asked.

“You see anyplace else?” Pete asked.

Kendall looked up and down the single-street town. “No,” he said. “Don’t reckon I do.”

“Then this is where we’re a’goin’,” Pete said. “Let’s go in.”

The three cowboys pushed their way through the bat-wing doors and strode up to the bar.

Dusty put a quarter down. “Three beers,” he ordered.

Paddy looked at the quarter. “Sorry, mister, but you ain’t got enough money lyin’ there for three beers,” he said.

Dusty laughed. “Where at did you learn your cipherin’, barkeep?” he asked. “Your sign outside says you’re getting a nickel for a beer. That means three beers is fifteen cents.”

“The beers are a nickel,” Paddy said. “But you have to add another nickel each for the Regulator tax.”

“Regulator tax? What the hell is a regulator tax?”

“The Regulators keep the peace in this town,” Paddy said. “If you want three beers, you need to put another nickel down.”

“Damn! I ain’t never heard of such a thing,” Dusty said,
putting a nickel alongside the quarter. “If I didn’t have me a week’s worth of trail-drivin’ thirst, and if this here wasn’t the only place for fifty miles around that a fella could get hisself somethin’ to drink, I’d tell you to keep your damn beer.”

“Ain’t goin’ be all that easy to get drunk iffen ever’ beer cost a dime,” Pete complained.

“Believe me, cowboy, sure an’in this town you are better off not getting drunk,” Paddy said as he drew the beers for them.

The Homestead Hotel proudly advertised that it was the best hotel in San Antonio, with bathing rooms at the end of the hall on each of its three floors.

“Hot water is available at the turn of a handle,” the advertisement boasted.

The bathing room was the first convenience Flaire availed herself of, and having taken her bath, she was now returning to her own room. She noticed, with some surprise, that her door wasn’t locked.

That was strange. She was certain she had locked it before she left. Curious as to how the door could have gotten unlocked, she pushed it open and stepped inside.

She was startled by a large man who at first didn’t see her come in. Her suitcase was open and her clothing, lingerie, and other items were scattered about on the bed.

“Who are you?” Flaire demanded. “What are you doing in my room?”

The intruder pulled a knife and brandished it menacingly toward her.

“You just keep your mouth shut, girly, and you won’t get hurt,” he said in a raspy voice. “Where do you keep your cash money?”

“Get out of here!” Flaire said. “Get out of here at once or I’ll scream!”

“You open your mouth to scream and it’ll be the last sound you ever make,” the intruder hissed.

At that moment, Hawke happened to be walking by Flaire’s room. A towel tossed over his shoulder, he was heading for the bathing room for his own bath. He heard the raspy sounding words, “…it’ll be the last sound you ever make.”

Slowly, Hawke turned the doorknob and eased the door ajar just far enough to determine that it wasn’t locked. Then, suddenly, he pushed it the rest of the way open and moved in quickly behind it.

“What the hell?” the intruder said. “Who are you?”

“I’ll be asking the questions now. What are you doing in Miss Delaney’s room?” Hawke asked.

For just a moment the intruder’s eyes reflected fear and surprise, then he saw that Hawke was unarmed and the fear was replaced with a smug smile.

“You’ll be asking the questions, will you?” He chuckled evilly. “Well now, that’s pretty bold talk for a man armed with nothing but a towel. You made a mistake, my friend. You made a big mistake.”

The intruder crouched a little, then came up on the balls of his feet. He held the knife low in his right hand, palm up, the blade sideways. Lunging forward, he made a swipe with it, moving quickly and catching Hawke by surprise. The point of the knife opened up a cut across Hawke’s belly, not penetrating, but deep enough to bring blood.

“Mister, I’m going to carve your heart out and feed it to the pigs,” the intruder said.

It was obvious that the intruder, whoever he was, was skilled with a knife. He maintained a perfect knife fighter’s position, balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to move either way as need be. The point of the knife, waving back and forth, reminded Flaire of the head of a coiled snake.

Realizing that she might well be witnessing a life and death struggle, she backed into the far corner of the room. Had Hawke and the intruder not been between her and the doorway, she would have fled.

“Girly, I’m goin’ to let you watch me carve up this gent, then I’m going to start on you,” the intruder said.

Hawke was now holding the towel in both hands, with one hand at either end. He held it out in front of him, as if he were measuring a fish, and he used the towel a couple of times to parry the intruder’s knife thrusts.

Before then, Flaire had never noticed how fluid Hawke was on his feet. That his movements were so graceful, almost as if choreographed, became all the more beautiful, and frightening, because of the deadly implications.

The knife fighter continued to lunge at Hawke, growing more frustrated with each unsuccessful attempt. Hawke skipped back from him, warding off each thrust with his towel then scooting away as gracefully as if he were on a dance floor.

Flaire had never seen a bullfight before, but she had read about them and heard about them, and she knew that no matador could be more graceful or poised in the face of danger than Mason Hawke.

Then Hawke did a strange thing. He began twirling the towel up by making circular motions with his hands. When he had the towel rolled up tight, he flipped one end out, snapping the towel.

What might have been an act of play between two young boys took on a much more important role as Hawke aimed for and hit the intruder in the face. He got exactly the reaction he was looking for. The man let out a yelp of pain and put both hands up to cover his eyes. When he did that, Hawke kicked him in the groin, and when the man doubled over, Hawke spun him around, put one hand on the man’s
collar, the other on his belt, and started him toward the window.

The intruder opened his eyes just in time to see what was about to happen to him.

“No!” he shouted in fear. “Please, no!”

It was too late. Hawke, already committed, forced the intruder through the window, smashing out the glass with the man’s head. A lift and a shove was all it took to send him screaming through the window and down to the alley below. He hit the ground with a sickening thud that could be heard all the way up in Flaire’s room.

“We’ll have to get you another room,” Hawke said matter-of-factly. “You can’t stay in a room that has no window.”

There was blood on the broken shards of glass and on the windowsill.

The expression on Flaire’s face was one of fear and shock. She was no longer frightened for her own safety, because that danger was eliminated. But she was stunned by the side of Hawke she had never seen before.

It wasn’t that Hawke had gotten angry and reacted in rage. She could have understood that. What she could not understand was how he could do something so drastic and violent without showing any reaction at all. He had tossed the intruder out of the room with no more concern than if it had been a roach.

“Is he…is he dead?” Flaire asked in a weak voice.

“I don’t know,” Hawke replied. It was clear by the tone of his voice that not only did he not know, he didn’t care, one way or the other.

As Hawke and Flaire left for the concert, they were met in the hotel lobby by a man who was wearing a badge.

“Miss Delaney,” the sheriff’s deputy said, touching the brim of his hat. “My name is Deputy Cumbie. I’m sorry to
disturb you, ma’am, but I understand that you asked for a change of rooms.”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why?”

“What interest would the law have in Miss Delaney changing rooms?” Hawke asked.

“And you are?” Cumbie asked.

“Mason Hawke. I’m Miss Delaney’s escort.”

“And protector?”

“If need be,” Hawke acknowledged.

“I see. Earlier today a man named Eduardo Vargas was found lying in the alley behind the hotel, suffering from two broken legs and a broken arm. He was thrown through the window of what was Miss Delaney’s room. Miss Delaney obviously did not do it, and since you are her self-confessed protector, can you tell me anything about it?”

“I threw him out the window,” Hawke said.

“And would you mind telling me why?”

“When I came back from my bath, he was in my room,” Flaire said.

“Vargas admits to that, ma’am,” Deputy Cumbie said. “But he claims to have been in your room by mistake. And he says that when he tried to explain it, Mr. Hawke, here, threw him out.”

“He’s lying,” Hawke said. “He wasn’t in there by mistake and he didn’t try to explain anything. He had a knife and he attempted to use it on me.”

“And how were you armed?”

“I had no weapon,” Hawke said. “I was going to the bath when I heard him in Miss Delaney’s room.”