Lords of an Empty Land (13 page)

Three days later, a few hours before dusk, Douglas slowly cantered over a tall, narrow wooden bridge on the rudimentary, solitary road west of Winnfield. He looked down. The magnificent wood trusses spanned a quaint little stream, fifty feet below, its muddy water trickling along slowly. The bridge and the impressive modern truss stood as a testament to man's engineering and resourcefulness in the middle of nowhere.

Behind Douglas, Huff rode with his Henry resting across his lap. Out in front, two young sturdy sergeants, hardened veterans, weaved along the road on their imposing geldings, each giving the woods a prudent inspection. Douglas turned in the saddle. Behind him, Cyrus followed the column. Earlier that morning, he, Cyrus, and Huff had rendezvoused with the two soldiers north of Winnfield. After the rendezvous, Douglas had only let one of the men ride through town. He and the other three had branched off on a side road that missed the town in hopes the town folks would take heed of the lone soldier riding the road.

Strangely, Douglas had enjoyed the trip thus far. They had seen little, only a possum, two whitetail deer, and a few often-used campsites along the road where the endless stream of travelers making their way to Texas or farther west had bivouacked for decades. The camps' fires were now just black ash. He looked out through the thick trees and over the endless sheet of rust-colored pine needles and combs covering the land. Though the pines grew thick, the space below the limbs, high above, and the ground remained relatively open, only blotted by the rows of the tall, thin, perfectly straight trunks, affording some view for almost a quarter mile. The day was splendid, a flawless blue sky. The country had a tranquil quietness.

Though deficient of beauty, this dreary, bleak, isolated land could at times have an enchanting serenity. Unlike the vast expanse of the West or more mountainous terrain, the confining, almost unpopulated, and unspoiled forest gave one the sentiment he loomed far from any of man's doings. The air was clean and clear and in complete contrast to the foul manufacturing holes of the Northeast.

Resting on his pommel, Douglas looked down at his map, and then at a few high ridges, trying to find a valley that correlated with a vast stream. He loved picking his way through the rugged, quiet, virgin territory with only his map, compass, and knowledge of their pace. Something about it afforded a pleasure, a sense of using his skills, far from the civility of town. In this country, on the twisting trails, getting any sense of direction at all required his full attention.

As the monotonous time passed, minute by minute, Douglas reflected on the last few weeks. Was this all worth it? His lengthy conversations with Hannah and her uncle and his hopes of catching one of the outlaws alive weighed on his mind. He and the army had been trained to defeat the country's enemies in an open scuffle. They were good at that, but that meant killing on a vast scale and taking willing prisoners. The army and its methods were not set up to police the country and take unwilling men alive. The typical paradigm didn't work here. For certain, it would be much easier to simply track the bandits down and kill them. But that would be an endless job, his actions actually resulting in an increase in the number of bushwhackers and bandits he'd have to pursue. Though the new task seemed considerably more dangerous and complicated, it appeared to be the only pragmatic thing.

“You boys up front can relax a little,” Douglas finally said. “Doubtful any Rebs will be out in the daylight. It's dusk and afterwards when they operate.” He paused for effect. “But it does get dark in these trees at night, real dark. Night's alive with all kinds of critters, friendly and otherwise.”

Huff smiled.

Douglas raised his voice. “Next open campsite we come to, we'll stop and camp. Catch some rest so we can keep watch tonight. If they hit us, it will be midnight or later.”

 

 

About two hours after midnight, Douglas saw the two torches, slowly moving down the road, bouncing up and down, still a hundred yards away. The fragile patrol had camped in a small opening, about an acre, at an often-used site along the road lying adjacent to a natural spring. They had built a fire, now just barely flickering, twenty feet off the road. The five men sat near the fire, leaning against a small rock outcropping.

Douglas elbowed Huff beside him, and whispered to the two sergeants and Cyrus, all awake but sitting quietly, “Somebody's coming. Probably the night riders. Who else moves at this time of night?”

The four bodies around him shuffled. Hammers cocked on their rifles. He gripped his shotgun firmly, lifting it up and slowly cocking its two hammers. His stomach turned, and his skin got numb as he stared into the night. Amid the incessant fireflies, the two torches got closer. Beneath their fluid flames, he saw the silhouettes of the riders, all clad in sheets or burlap, their details becoming more precise by the second. The light colors of the costumes pulsated powerfully in the glinting gold light. Douglas's muscles tightened as he stood, his comrades following suit.

In awe, he now stared at the cavalcade as it approached. For years, he had hunted these men with barely a glimpse into their clandestine world. Now he saw the cloaked riders up close and personal. A high-pitched whistle blew. The six horses all slowed, turned in the little campsite, and approached the dying fire. He had heard legends about the sinister whistles, used for commands to disguise the clans' voices. Live and in person, the eerie, high-pitched sadistic noise, like the hoot of an owl, permeated the night and ran a chill down his spine.

Douglas's heartbeat reached a crescendo. Almost like magic, the riders came into view a few feet from Douglas, the black voids of the eye slits clearly visible. All carried weapons, a few shotguns and rifles, either in their laps or in their hands. Two riders had their rifles haphazardly pointed at the army patrol.

The lead horse reined up five paces from the soldiers. The other five horses halted, a half-length behind, two on one side of the lead rider, three on the other. A dozen seconds of tense silence passed with only the soft sounds of tack rattling and the fire hissing.

“What do you want?” Douglas finally asked. He raised his shotgun and put its sights on the lead man, feeling his own hands get cold. Beside him, he heard the movement of the other soldiers raising their weapons. Two of the night riders steadied the aim of their rifles on the four soldiers as two more started to turn their weapons on the army patrol. “Easy, we see the barrels of any more of those weapons, we'll pull these triggers.” Douglas spoke directly to the lead man. “Might not get all of you but I'll get you before I go—a few more, too.” Speaking down his shotgun's barrel, Douglas moved his sights from the man's chest to his head. He tried to keep cool, but felt his exterior betraying the upheaval in his gut.

The lead rider moved his cloaked gaze over the soldiers slowly. He put a hand under his mask. “Don't want nothing,” he finally said in a muffled voice.

“Then what the hell you doing out on the road in the middle of the night? Drop those weapons, all of them. I'm taking you all in.”

“What for?” the man replied. “We ain't done nothing. Riding the country armed, or riding concealed ain't no crime, not even up North. We're just ensuring the peace. Looking out for the best interest of our people, promoting ideas for their benefit. Most people in these parts approve of it, too.”

His mind racing, Douglas thought for a second. His plan had a flaw. The man had a point; they hadn't yet done anything, though he suspected their intentions. He had figured there would be gunplay at the inception of any encounter. He thought he recognized the voice, not one of the Garretts or the sheriff, but someone he had heard somewhere, probably just in passing. He strained, but couldn't place the voice in the endless sea of people he saw everyday.

“I guess you could kill a few of us,” the faceless rider continued. “Haul the rest in and say you were ambushed. That's how you damned soldiers operate most of the time. You're a dishonest lot of heathens. If you do, we'll get you first. Even if you eventually kill all of us, one day, you and the army will be gone, for good. And the natural order of God will be restored.” The man turned to Cyrus. “I thought the army claimed the highest moral bearing. Seems you don't have any problem riding with infidels.”

Douglas let out a long breath, keeping his sights on the man. A sense of utter frustration fell over his soul. He wanted to pull the trigger. Do just what the outlaw had evoked. It seemed the only rational action. If he did, he'd have blood on his hands, blood that would never go away. His mind was constantly haunted by similar episodes in the war when he'd done things. Things accepted by the army, but not by his conscience. Shooting these men would violate his code, his rectitude, what made him different from the outlaws. Secondly, he had men around him, soldiers under his command. Huff certainly would revel in the action, but probably not the sergeants.

“Pull off those masks, now!” Douglas yelled.

The lead horse wheeled around and raced into the darkness, the other five behind it. Douglas followed the figures with his barrel, wanting to fire. He applied a little pressure to the trigger, almost hoping the gun would ignite, or one of his men would open fire, and the shooting would start. But the rumble of hooves only grew fainter by the second.

An hour after noon the next day, Douglas and his four subordinates crossed the Red River via ferry on the outskirts of Natchitoches. They had departed the campsite at dawn and completed the seven-hour ride back to town without incident. Douglas instructed the two sergeants to go ahead into town to the army post to get some much-needed rest. He'd be along shortly.

He lifted his hat and ran his hands through his hair, exasperated. He had spent the morning in the saddle, not thinking or scheming, not even really on the lookout for enemies, but almost lifelessly staring into the green haze around him. He felt almost beaten, almost wanting the outlaws to storm out of the bush and settle up in a final shoot-out that would end his ordeal, one way or the other. That was what he and his troopers were trained to do, reconciling in the open, honorably, like the war, not the endless game of chasing ghosts. He looked forward to this evening. Hannah had promised to cook him dinner when he returned. She seemed to be his only refuge.

The day was ordinary, sultry and breezeless, as Douglas looked over at the Cotton Palace, the only structure near the ferry. A few citizens walked about the rutted, red road. Two idlers, typical in appearance, rugged, middle-aged, and unsavory, loitered on the porch of the bar. He turned to look at two Negro kids, not even ten years in this world, running, laughing, and playing in the deep ravines along the riverbank. Both the young lads carried the gullible bliss of youth, untouched by the tyranny, the hardships, and injustices their black skin would curse them with when they grew older. They had little knowledge of the pushing and shoving around them.

Douglas smiled. He had genuine concerns for their predicament. He knew their smiles would wane over the years. The war and its aftermath had been the cruelest to the area's freedmen. With no homes or social structure, many had simply starved to death after the war, and most now barely eked out an existence sharecropping or at odd jobs, many living in the same quarters and working for the same masters as before the war, now not by law, but by necessity. Douglas had long since quit worrying about the prejudices and the plight of these people so blatantly flashed in his face every day. He was only one man, he couldn't alter the world. The Northern Army had changed the land and laws, but done little to change people's convictions in four years of war. His practical side told him the world wasn't fair. That was just the way it was. It wasn't the government's job to care for these people, only to ensure their rights.

He turned to Huff and reined his horse toward the two-story Cotton Palace. “Let's check on Basil.” He swung his foot over the saddle and stepped down. With an affable tone, he continued, “Grab your rifle and come on . . . in case we run into any drunk Rebs.”

The spacious bar looked rather tame when the two soldiers entered. In the early afternoon, an employee banged on the keys of the grand piano, more in practice than anything else, and a lone customer, a humble yeoman, sat at the bar over a glass of whiskey. Douglas's entrance caused the piano to pause, and the captain immediately noticed the bartender's shifty, startled eyes. Eyes that signaled alarm that something was awry.

Douglas's stomach squirmed with a nervous twitch. “Upstairs, now!”

The two soldiers ran upstairs. Douglas turned to Huff, put a finger over his lips, then tiptoed down the hall. When he drew close to Basil's room, he heard two loud pops and a powerful grunt. He heard a man talking, almost yelling, authoritatively. As he reached the door, he wiped the sweat building on his face, pulled his pistol from his holster, and pointed to Huff's rifle.

More thunderous pops that induced a muffled squeal of a woman seeped through the door.

“Bitch, we'll teach you to double-cross us!” a voice shouted from the other side.

Douglas softly felt the doorknob, locked snug. He inspected the entrance, a flimsy set of planks that opened to the inside. He sucked in a deep breath, held up his pistol, and pointed to Huff, who lunged into the door, smashing its handle and flinging it open.

Huff fell to the floor in the doorway with the collision. Douglas ran into the room, pistol extended. A room full of busy flesh filled his eyes. Two men stood beside the bed, one flaunting a long leather whip. Both men turned, reaching for their pistols. Before either man got a gun up, Douglas instinctively pumped a round into each man's chest. Crimson circles formed on their shirts, as each twisted, almost lifeless, to the floor.

As the sounds of the shuffling feet and gunfire dissipated, the room got still, only the rattle of one of the outlaw pistols twirling on the floor and Huff rising to his feet. Death moans came from the two men. Then more whimpers. There was disorder on the bed.

The gunfire still ringing in his ears, he looked to see the two naked, sweat-laden bodies, both with mouths gagged and tied to the bedposts, lying face-down on the bloodstained sheets. Dozens of deep gashes carved up the backs of Basil and the beautiful whore. Douglas winced, almost shaking, as he looked at the girl's soft, luscious skin, now a gnarled mangle of blood and torn flesh. Thick areas of chafed skin surrounded the two's ankles and wrists, a testament to their torment. The girl turned to look at him, exposing the abundant, deep, black-red knife slits in her face set against now almost lifeless eyes.

The bed then shuddered and vibrated ferociously, moving a few inches on the floor and bouncing up and down as Basil jerked on the ropes confining his hands and feet. He shook and quivered like some type of caged beast.

Hands shaking, Douglas grabbed his knife and reached over to cut Basil's hands and feet free. The gunfighter slowly rolled over on his side, his eyes more alive than Douglas had ever seen them.

Face totally lathered, Basil struggled to his feet. He hobbled over to the two bodies on the floor. He grabbed Huff's rifle and began to bludgeon each of the men with the gun's butt, expending all the energy in his blood-covered body. His anger charged the air, and he grunted like an ape as he swung the rifle. Below, the two expired outlaws' lifeless skulls became contorted into something without shape, their brains now spilling onto the wood floor.

Douglas stepped back, still in a state of shock. One of the men had been the deputy from Winnfield, Weaver, the other he had never seen. “They're already dead,” he finally mumbled.

Basil flopped down on the floor, his exposed rear landing first. He sat up straight, let the rifle fall from his hands, and ripped off the mouth gag wrapped around his head.

Douglas slowly walked back to the bed. He tried to hide his gaze from the bloodstained wounds as he cut the girl free. She didn't respond. She didn't even remove the gag from her mouth, but balled up on the bed in the fetal position.

Douglas's stomach turned, his hands shook. He had seen plenty of innocents suffer, and many of his own troops meet their maker, but most of those had been hidden in the bigger haze of a repugnant war. But his current actions, those of his men, had consequences, unspeakable consequences for people who had no interest in his cause, any cause. If this girl lived, she was doomed to a hideous existence: an unsightly, disfigured shell of a woman. This vicious, pitiless land would have little sympathy for her.

“Huff, go fetch the doctor,” he said.