Lords of an Empty Land (20 page)

Douglas turned to Josiah. “Anybody see you come here?”

“No,” Josiah replied. “I ride out this way all the time, Sidney here, too. We buy oats from Mr. Stanton on down the road. But like I said, I kept a good watch.”

Douglas nodded to both men. “I'm going to go to town, get a few more soldiers to come out to the house tonight. Josiah, you get on home. I'm going to check all this out tomorrow. Telegraph Shreveport for the judge. Sidney, best you stay here for now.”

 

 

About eleven that night, Douglas gently knocked on Hannah's bedroom door. He had spent the last few hours riding back and forth to the garrison, bringing two soldiers to the house to guard Sidney. He had settled the guards in and given them orders that someone was to be awake and watchful at all times.

What did it all mean? It was certainly a turn for the good, but this only magnified his worries. This all seemed almost too good to be true. Could it be? Everything in his mind grew more urgent, adding a sense of anticipation to his concerns. Was Sidney genuine? Would he testify? Was this some type of trick? Possibly some elements of the clans or society had fed him Sidney, in hopes the army might clean this mess up for them, sparing them the dirtying of their hands. Was there an internal struggle within the secret groups? Did the clans or anybody really know who the night riders were? Tired of pacing, and trying to settle his psyche, he slowly opened the door to find his bride-to-be sitting in bed, reading by the light of a gas lamp.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Hannah said, her face turning red. She lowered her blanket, put her book aside, and stood. “Didn't know it was proper protocol for an officer and gentleman to indulge in front of his soldiers.”

“It's not. I just needed a break.” Douglas stepped forward. “It's been a long day.”

Hannah grabbed the gaslight beside her bed and hurried over to a little nightstand with a mirror where she began to tidy herself up. “Let me make myself presentable.” She pulled a blouse over her head and turned her back to Douglas. “Can you give me a hand?”

Douglas reached over to the two buttons on the back of the blouse. “I can, but I'm much better at unbuttoning you than I am buttoning you.”

Hannah laughed. “Captain Owens, I bet you're rather witty when you're not so serious all the time.”

“I look forward to a time when none of us is so serious all the time,” Douglas mumbled, pulling back the curtain and looking out the window.

“I let Mr. Jones know there'd be some men staying at the house tonight.”

Douglas removed his holster and sat on the bed. It felt good just to remove the weapon from his waist. “I bumped into that reporter who's so smitten with you at Cyrus's this morning. Wonder what he'll have to say in tomorrow's paper.”

Hannah smiled as she combed her hair. “I'd never pretty myself up like this for him. You should feel honored.”

“He's harmless,” Douglas added.

“No, he's not. He's a slimy, cold killer—as bad as Moses Garrett. More dangerous with that pen of his and all of his radical rhetoric.” Hannah flashed her gaze on Douglas through the mirror.

“How do you know that?”

“Just speculation, but trust me. Women know these things.”

Douglas stood and stepped forward, behind Hannah, and put his hands on her shoulders, gently massaging them. “He sure sells a lot of papers. How's that? I'm certain the majority of folks around don't adhere to his beliefs.”

“He certainly has a rivalry with you, not just over me. He fuels the people's venom, and they're easy prey for him.” Hannah stood and put a finger to her mouth. “After all we've been through, becoming minorities in our own communities and being ruled by outsiders is unendurable. It's just too much, too fast. Even the common man wants to hear that. Until they regain control of the government and have no one to blame, they'll be easy prey for these newspapermen.”

Douglas thought about pitching a rebuttal. To a person, almost every native white citizen in the state assumed that the regaining of white, home control of all forms of state and local government was a foregone conclusion despite the fact that simple mathematics made this impossible. He ran his hands through his hair. “I used to think all this was a lot of trouble so a bunch of ignorant Negroes can vote, but I'm learning there's a lot more to it than that. I can't just let everything be . . . I just can't, but it's all so confusing. Good or bad depends on your point of view. I was probably chasing Josiah and Sidney last year, and may again sometime.”

Hannah looked over her shoulder. “You've got to get these men. They'll stay after you. Their blood is thick. It's probably you or them.”

“Ah, I'm just thinking out loud. I'll finish this. I've got orders, and I always follow them, no matter what.”

Hannah walked to her bed and sat. “Quit trying to fight these outlaws by your rules. It won't work.”

“I'd feel a lot better if I'd get those additional soldiers I've asked for.”

“What about Senator Dunn? I thought he was going to find some men for you to deputize.”

Douglas sat beside Hannah. “I've talked to him. Says there's a lot of people out his way behind me, but none that are willing to ride with me.”

“Well, let's talk about something else, something not so dreary.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Hannah caressed her neck. Like a jolt, this removed Douglas from his troublesome thoughts. She slowly disrobed, then blew out the gas lamp. “But none of the good people around here will tolerate what these night riders perpetrate. And . . . it looks like my daring groom is about to bring them to justice.”

After a near sleepless night, Douglas sent for both Senator Dunn and the town's mayor, a local Democrat, and his secretary. In front of all three, and with the mayor's secretary keeping a good written record, Sidney retold the story he had told Douglas and Hannah the previous evening.

Douglas had left the two soldiers to guard Sidney, and now, late into the afternoon, he sat horseback as the crew of hired Negro laborers, guarded by four of his soldiers, worked to remove the bodies from the abandoned well Sidney had told him about. The old water source sat hidden in an overgrown thicket just off the Winnfield Road. The men had placed a long ladder into the well, and set up a series of ropes and pulleys to access the dark, damp crevasse and remove the corpses. The foreman of the work gang had already informed Douglas that the well contained a trove of carcasses.

Three bodies already lay stretched out on the ground. The town's undertaker, wearing a cloth mask over his nose, currently stood over them, pouring lime on what remained of the rotten cadavers. The young army corporal, who had come up missing seven weeks prior, was easy to identify in his uniform. The three bullet holes in his chest were still visible. Not enough remained of the two other disinterred souls for identification.

The scene had an urgent, busy air in the late day. Despite objections, Douglas had coerced Natchitoches's mayor to come to the well. Senator Dunn also inspected the work, and an artist and notary from town were both now engaging in their trades. The artist busily sketched the dead as Douglas inspected his work. The army captain wanted to make sure he had everything documented meticulously. To Douglas's delight, no crowd had showed up at the well site, not even a reporter. He'd only seen two farmers ride by, and neither seemed acutely interested in their exhuming. Looking over the scene, he joyfully thought he might finally have enough evidence for a conviction, even with a hostile jury.

“What, or rather who, else is down there?” Douglas asked the crew foreman, a tall, thick freedman in his fifties, as he climbed up the ladder and over the three-foot-tall brick wall casing the well.

Finding his feet, the foreman lowered the rag wrapped around his face, wiped the sweat from his dirty brow, squinted from the bright glare of the sun, and set the gas lantern on the well. “Probably four or five more down there, maybe more, but they's just bones. No flesh left. Say they's been down there a while. We'll try to get them out best we can, keep them separated for proper burial.”

Douglas turned to look over his shoulder as his troopers pulled a wagon up, readying it to load up the bodies. He turned to the undertaker. “I want to bury them in town.”

 

 

A purple dawn broke against the tall trees and maze of hills the next morning. The peaceful ground lay covered with dew, the air full of mosquitoes. From the saddle, Douglas looked up at the complex of houses and barns, the Dallon farm. He felt tired this morning. Despite the fact he had exerted little physical energy the last few days, he hadn't slept well the last two nights, spending all his gusto scheming and fretting. A surge of excitement and satisfaction almost overwhelmed him. He now stood at the precipice of all he had strived for the last few months.

It had been a long morning. He had left Basil and Huff at the Butler house to protect Sidney. He'd like to have had Basil at his side, but the gunslinger had a long-standing feud with the Dallons. He wanted the Dallons alive.

The cavalry line of eight soldiers had departed Natchitoches an hour before daylight, arriving at the ferry at Campti ten miles north of Natchitoches in time to catch the first ride of the day. They crossed the Red River in the portentous still of dawn, the only sound the rumbling water and cocks crowing.

Douglas had planned to arrive at the Dallon Farm, a mile into the hills on the edge of the delta, just after daylight in hopes of finding the outlaws asleep, possibly worn out from a night of unruliness. But without Basil to lead the way, the column had gotten sidetracked for an hour and a half, taking a wrong turn on one of the trails, one of the many that composed the infinite labyrinth in these hills.

To the east, the sun now peered over the trees, brightening the day with first light. A few clouds carved up the horizon, placidly turning from violet to crimson. In the pasture beside the road, some good-looking cows stood almost lifeless, like statues. He heard shuffling, but it was only a raccoon, scurrying through the pine straw. He listened diligently in the half-light of the wilderness as his mare quietly grazed under him. This bewildering land of green made you see things that weren't there: deceptions, illusions, mirages. The more you stared, the more you saw.

Douglas looked down at a hand-drawn map and surveyed the ground again. Everything matched. He looked up at the farm. Maybe its occupants were still asleep? Hope filled him. Five troopers and their horses sat behind him in a line, side by side. Two more sat atop the wagon, holding the makeshift iron cage behind the horses. The men looked powerful and competent in their blue uniforms.

“Sergeant Dixon,” Douglas said in a low voice. “At arms.” The five soldiers all removed their rifles from their scabbards, worked the levers, and held the rifles across their laps. “We're going to quietly ride up there. I'm going to take two of your men into that house on the right, the big one. You and the other three will keep a watch outside, dismounted, on the corners of the house in case we need you. Try to stay concealed best you can. We won't bring the wagon up until we have the criminals in custody. We want to take them
alive.
”

Douglas led the five soldiers to the house that was a hundred yards away. He hugged a treeline at the edge of the open field to cover his approach. As he neared the residence, he saw nothing amiss, not a soul in sight, but the farm's five buildings left plenty of areas out of sight. He thought about circling the house, surveying all the buildings, but decided against this. It would increase his chance of being seen and might stir up some dogs or chickens.

Reaching the front door, all the men dismounted without a word. Douglas waited for Sergeant Dixon and his two men to deploy to the front corners of the building, where they knelt behind some tall shrubs. He then hunched low and tiptoed to the door, his feet moving softly over the worn porch. With two of the soldiers covering him, he checked the latch of the entrance. To his surprise, it wasn't locked.

He opened the door and led the soldiers inside. The house was small, only four rooms. Not a human sound came from it. Douglas strode through the dining room and kitchen. He inspected the first bedroom, the bunk unmade, but unoccupied. He stepped to the other bedroom. As he peeked across the threshold, he saw a body, a teenage boy, snoring gently on his back under the sheets.

On Douglas's cue, the two soldiers raised their rifles at the youngster and Douglas stepped forward. He grabbed the lad's arm and jerked on it hard. Young Dallon uttered something incomprehensible. Douglas put a hand over the teenager's mouth as he pulled him out of bed.

The young man finally got a grasp of the situation and began to resist, fiercely. Douglas raised the shotgun and struck the teen across the face with its butt. “Where's your brother?”

With less vigor, the young Dallon, dressed only in his long johns, continued his struggle. Douglas turned to the two soldiers. “Give me a hand. Let's get his hands bound behind his back. We'll get some answers out of him then.”

The soldiers scurried forward. They placed their rifles on the bed and wrestled with the captive, who now renewed his resistance with all his fortitude, ranting loudly.

A deep voice boomed from the door like a bolt of lightning out of nowhere. “And the Lord said: sit at my right hand, until I put your enemies under your feet.”

Douglas turned to see the barrels of a shotgun locked on his chest. Behind the barrels stood a rangy, slim man with greasy black hair and a big, sick smile above a long, full beard. The beard reminded him of those so popular with Confederate officers during the war, but rare in the Louisiana climate. Douglas had never laid eyes on Clinton Dallon, but this man matched his description. On one side of the assailant stood a tall, middle-aged, attractive woman with fair skin and a fine, vigorous figure. On the other side stood a black man, solid and healthy, probably in his thirties.

“God damn you to hell,” the man holding the shotgun said. “Touch him again and I'll kill you before I have the amusement of wounding you a couple of times first.”

Douglas slowly stood erect from his hunched position. He held out his arms and scanned the two soldiers, scrambling for their rifles on the bed, urging them to freeze. Looking back at the shotgun, he waited for the impact. He tried to stall, hoping the soldiers outside would come to his rescue. “We're taking him and you in, to stand trial for the murder of Corporal Taylor. You can't get us all. You've only got two shots.”

“I can get you,” the man said and grinned. “I'll take my chances with these two, probably get my pistol out before I go down. If not, I'll go to the pearly gates with a big crown.”

Douglas looked to the black man standing beside Clinton. “We've got witnesses, even if you get us all.”

“Not Buck,” Dallon said. “He's a good nigger.”

“Drop that gun!” Sergeant Dixon said, out of sight. “Now, or go see the devil.”

Clinton stole a glance over his shoulder. Then returned his gaze to the shotgun aimed at Douglas.

Sergeant Dixon and another soldier came into view outside the bedroom's door, behind Clinton.

“I says drop it,” Dixon said again, but louder.

A few gut-wrenching seconds passed. Douglas's collar got wet and sweat beads poured down his back. Clinton's eyes roved wildly and his body shook, his hands quivering a few seconds before he lowered the shotgun.

Sergeant Dixon stepped forward and kicked Clinton in the ass, violently, sending him a few paces forward. “You's under arrest.”

Completely relieved, dizzy, his vision almost blurry, Douglas tried to reestablish his composure. He and both the soldiers near the bed rushed for their weapons and put everyone in the room in their sights. “Go fetch the wagon. Let's get them loaded up. I want to go back to town the back way, come in from the west. And . . . I don't want a big ruckus. Does everybody understand?”