Lords of an Empty Land (22 page)

“If you
touch
him,” Clinton barked, trying to stand, but restrained by Basil, “. . . the vengeance of the Lord will fall on you.”

“I'm not too worried about the vengeance of the Lord,” Douglas persisted. “Here's the deal. I'll let you go. You can walk right out of this jail. Your guns are on the desk there.” Douglas turned to point at the weapons. “There's a horse tied up outside. All I want you to do is get a message to me the next time Garrett and his gang of cutthroats make a raid. I'll arrest them and then I'll let you go.” Douglas paused and reached into his pocket to pull out two pieces of paper. He unfolded them. “Here's a blank pardon for you. You can take it with you. And here's a statement from the Federal judge of record and governor stating I have the authority to issue pardons.”

Douglas pointed to a few places on the paper. “See those seals and signatures? That makes it authentic. Of course, you have to give me some information that leads to a conviction. It's all spelled out in there. You can take it, have it. That way I can't backstab you. Despite Basil's objections, I've spared your father, too, and any of your cousins. It's all in there.”

Clinton picked up the papers and studied them, running a hand through his hair.

“Now, you could turn my offer down and get out of here and not do what I tell you. Of course, I've still got your brother, and a warrant for you, and a bunch of written evidence on you and your brother. He'll hang for sure, and you'll have to leave the country. Stay on the run until we get you or the bounty hunters do. I know where you live. That's a nice farm you've got. Be a shame for the carpetbaggers to buy it for nothing. Besides, you'll be easy to find, because that ugly-ass scar on your forehead will show up well on your wanted poster. And then I've still got your brother. He doesn't look like he'll stand up to interrogation very well. Might get what I need from him anyway. I think I can flog him if he misbehaves.” Douglas turned to Basil and Huff. “Can't I do that under regs? I bet Huff there can really work a whip. Look at his big, strong arms.”

Douglas paused, and Huff shaped a big smile. “Wouldn't that be something, the slave whipping his former masters? But I don't think we need to entertain all that—so long as you act like you should.”

Clinton looked around at all three. Without a word, he stood and strolled out of the cell. He grabbed his gun belt off Douglas's desk and opened the door. After he exited, he slammed the door shut, the echo of its collision with the jamb bouncing loudly off the office's walls.

“Think you're making a big mistake,” Basil said.

“Why?” Douglas replied, standing. “We've got his brother, and a Federal warrant for him. Not to mention a stack of evidence. All he can do is cooperate or flee. He's got a wife and family here. Worst case is he hauls ass and we try the younger one. Judge Atkins doesn't give a damn about his age. Eighteen is manhood in Louisiana, written in the code and practiced. I've seen Judge Atkins throw younger men to the gallows. It's all we can do. If we don't catch the leaders, we won't do any good—just feel better about ourselves for a few days, then be back on the trail ducking bullets. Damn it, I want a trial and conviction. That's all that will solve the problems in the long haul.... Huff, go back there and get Amos. Put him back in this cell. Keep two guards in here all night, and send three fresh men to guard Sidney, now. I want the guards there changed twice a day, so they stay fresh.”

Later that night, about two hours after midnight, Douglas woke to a loud knock on the door of his room at the military garrison in town.

“What do you want?” he mumbled into the darkness.

“It's Private Jenson. There's a big problem at the Butler house.”

“Come in,” Douglas said, leaning up. He struck a match and reached over to light the gas lantern beside his bed.

As the door opened, a bright gold tint lit the room. Douglas swung his feet to the ground and pulled up his pants.

“Captain Owens,” the soldier continued, his words jittery and brisk, his motions antsy. “The clan raided the Butler house about an hour ago. Think they took Mr. Crow and Miss Butler and Privates Jones and Thompson, also.”

“
What?
” Douglas screamed. “I thought y'all were guarding the house. How did that happen?”

“Don'ts know, Captain. I was out front, guarding the road by that big tree. You know that big tree by the drive. Then I heard a couple of shots. Sounded like they hit glass or wood, not flesh. Took cover for a second, no more than thirty seconds, then I made for the house. It's about fifty yards from that big tree. Took me another minute or two. I's bein' careful and didn't want to get shot. I heard some horses running in the back. Went inside and nobody was there. I ain't see no blood. Then came straight here.”

“Goddamn guards probably sleeping!” Douglas yelled, pulling his undershirt over his body.

 

 

Forty-five minutes later, Douglas, Huff, and two soldiers rode up to the Butler house. The twenty-minute ride had been dreadful, the events unbelievable. The bandits had often outwitted him, their unorthodox methods completely at odds with reason, but they had never done anything like this, if what Private Jenson said resembled actual events. If the outlaws had taken a society woman, something considered uncouth in all realms of Southern society, they had truly become desperate, much more dangerous than Douglas had ever imagined. In the eyes of most, this vastly superseded the murder of carpetbaggers and scalawags, or even burning a courthouse.

From the drive, the Butler grounds stood peaceful, a quintessential Southern night. A few gas lanterns lit the house's windows, like square boxes of light in the dark night. Overhead, the clouds gathered. The breeze picked up, swinging around from the south, turning moist as it skimmed over the Gulf of Mexico. He smelled the air. Rain was imminent.

Before he had left town, he had awoken his seven remaining soldiers and Basil. He wanted to bring Basil to the Butler house, but leery of the night riders making an attempt to free Amos Dallon, he had been forced to leave Basil with four of the soldiers, all with orders to stay awake, on guard duty, with a picket in front and at the rear of the office.

Douglas stepped down to the ground and motioned for his subordinates to do the same. He tied his horse to a hitching post and walked up on the front porch, but found the door locked. At the house's rear, the back door was open, one of its panes broken out. The ground in the area had been trampled by horses.

Huff struck a match and bent over to inspect the torn turf. “Looks like a big posse, ten horses, fresh, two hours old at's the most.”

“Private Mercer, you stay here. Private Combs, you go up front,” Douglas ordered, and then stepped into the house.

Little seemed amiss despite a thorough inspection. In the kitchen, he smelled the faint odor of gunpowder. He looked up and saw two fresh bullet holes in the ceiling. Then his heart skipped a beat as he inspected the large dinner table in the kitchen. A long bundle of scarlet hair, tied in a knot, lay on the table. He lifted the hair, feeling its silky, smooth texture. It had been freshly cut. He put it to his nose and smelled the scent of Hannah's perfume.

Instead of sadness or worry, rage fell over him, almost making him shake. He spent a few seconds thinking, analyzing his options before putting the bundle of locks in his pocket and turning to Huff. “Let's get back to town, pronto. They're gone. We'll never pick up the trail tonight. Probably not tomorrow either. The rain will wash out their tracks before daylight.”

 

 

The rain fell from the heavens in sheets, almost horizontal. Two quick flashes of white light lit the little porch in front of the garrison, followed by two earsplitting rumbles of thunder. In the street, under their slickers, four troopers cowered in the rain on horseback. The thunder spooked two of the mounts, who threw their heads back and blew long, loud snorts. Douglas couldn't even see across the street, now just a muddy wallow, covered with almost four inches of water. Overhead, the early afternoon sun could not be located. A big gust of wind pushed the torrent under the little awning. Douglas pulled down his hat, almost to his eyes, and lifted the collar of his coat high up on his neck.

“I told you not to let the son of a bitch go,” Basil said over the murmur of the rain tapping on the tin roof. “I know these men and how they react. That's the first time you haven't taken my advice and now see wheres it's got you.”

“I'm throwing the rules away,” Douglas said, ducking away from the deluge. “We're going to get these bastards, whatever it takes. What do you think?”

“She's alive. That's why they left the hair. It's a sign. They want to swap her for Amos. She's likely not seen her captors so it's an even trade. The others are dead, gone. Never find those bodies. That's how they operate and that's why they didn't kill anybody at the house. No bodies, no blood, no crime, just speculation—except for a few carpetbaggers. They do that occasionally and leave the bodies as a sign. Makes the Northerners want to hightail it out of here, for good.”

Since Douglas had gotten back from the Butler house a few hours before daylight, he had been in a surreal, dreamlike daze, almost having to touch himself to make sure he was awake and not in a bad dream, another nightmare. An urge to get Hannah back engulfed him and all of his thoughts. It had forced the Dallons and the night riders to the back of his mind. Throughout the morning, his frenzy had not abated, and his long pondering of the events only manifested into something more like a fury, raging inside him and expanding by the minute. His face as well as his soul was permanently contorted with anguish.

The local paper had yet to mention the Dallons' arrest. This wasn't an accident, Douglas was sure of that. He doubted Hannah's abduction would be reported. As a recourse, he scratched out a narrative describing the capture of the Dallons and the taking of Hannah Butler and mailed it to Colonel Jones and an editor with a small press in New Orleans, the only pro-Northern paper in the state. But it would be at least a week before it arrived.

“They ain't going to kill her,” Basil said. “She's the beautiful daughter of a Confederate hero, one of the most beloved men in this valley, even if she is engaged to a Yankee. That'd be too much for them. They'd lose too much credibility with the locals. And they want Amos back. They'll never get him if they kill her.”

“I'm not so sure I agree with you. Like you said, maybe she'll just come up missing. Then there will only be speculation.”

“They'll never kill her if they think they can get Amos back. That would solve their problems. You wouldn't have a trial then. Wish you'd take me with you today, Captain.”

“Need you here to guard Amos.”

“These black soldiers can handle that. I already told you, they ain't going to do nothing in town, especially during daylight.”

“What's the name of that bar in Montgomery?”

“Bend in the River.”

“Are you sure Sheriff Thaxton will be there?”

“Yep, he goes there almost every day and that's where he'll be in this storm for sure. It's right there by the church. If by any chance he's not there, he'll be in Montgomery somewhere, or at his office in Atkins. . . . What you going to do after you find the sheriff?”

“Don't know yet.”

“Fuck those self-righteous rules you always abide by. If you haven't noticed, they don't work. If you want to win this fight, you just have to do it, win it, whatever that means.”

Douglas tried to respond, but only stuttered something no one comprehended, not even himself. He reconsidered bringing Basil. For some reason, he thought the gunfighter could ride off toward the bandits and solve his problems, guns blazing, and produce the outcome he wanted. Something inside him forced him to push these thoughts aside.

Basil stepped forward. “Have you decided what you're going to do if it comes down to Hannah or the bushwhackers?”

“Haven't thought it out.”

“You damn sure better decide before the lead starts flying.”

Another flash of lightning cracked in the distance. The horizon in all directions had now turned almost black. He stepped off the porch, headed into the darkness. “It will be Hannah instead of the outlaws.... If I'm not back by midnight, I probably won't be back at all. Make sure Amos goes to trial if that's the case. The judge will be here in three days.”

 

 

The four troopers and Douglas crossed the river on the ferry at Montgomery around five that afternoon. The rain had slackened, but the day had grown dark and gloomy, the pines whipping wildly. Douglas had decided to make the fifteen-mile trip on the east side of the Red River and cross at Montgomery. He had little choice because the ferry at Natchitoches had been closed due to the storm. The trip had taken longer than expected because the column was forced to take cover from a deadly hailstorm in an abandoned barn for over an hour.

During the ride, a coldness had started to run through his body. His knees had gotten weak, and he spent the time cursing everything: God, the bandits, himself, the army.

From the edge of town, he studied the little frontier village of Montgomery. It was mostly white and the epicenter of anti-Northern sentiment in the area. He turned to look back down at the river from the small hill. The deep, wide watercourse hustled along and created a natural barrier that the bandits could use to keep him from getting back to the safety of town. The ferry here and at Natchitoches were his only exit points.

The Bend in the River sat on the edge of town. The long, slender wood shack had weathered, unpainted boards, a tin roof, and a single visible entrance. No residents roamed the streets in the inclement weather. He turned to Sergeant Dixon and Privates Mercer, Jenson, and Combs, sizing up his forces. He had started to get to know his men better, all by name and manner. He found very little fault in any of them, at least from a professional perspective. He had conversed with all personally, and in so doing, gathered random information about each: where they were from, whether they had families, their personal histories, and so forth, which solidified their characters in his mind.

A fine line had always existed in the army between the ranks and commanders. The commander needed to get close enough to his men to know their attributes, display his competence, convey he cared for them, but that relationship was never to get to a point where the men considered him a friend or equal. This process was much easier with Negro troops. But with their newfound closeness came impediments as well. Douglas had grown to care for these men, their daily needs and safety. And as a result, it took almost inhuman traits to remain a good military officer. The best commanders, the ones who operated the most efficiently and accomplished their missions with the least cost, were those who ordered their men around like lifeless objects, with no concern for their well-being. A good commander only cared about his objective.

“Privates Mercer and Jenson,” Douglas said in a flat, professional voice. “You two stay out front and keep watch. Sergeant Dixon, you and Private Combs come with me. Just stand inside the door, weapons ready. Bullets might start flying any second.” Douglas dismounted, leaving his reins with one of the soldiers, and opened the door. The bar's pungent scent, rampant sounds of the banging piano, and busy voices filled the air.

Douglas paused and looked through the thick smoke and down the long, dimly lit room. The bar was on the right. Five or six sets of deer antlers and tanned hides hung on the walls. Twenty or so people occupied the room, five or six at the bar, and twice that number at the tables and the roulette wheel. Four women, scantily clad, paraded around as waitresses or sat at the tables, entertaining the raucous, unsavory looking men. Almost all the men wore sidearms, and a few had long knives tucked into their belts.

The two black soldiers followed Douglas inside and stood at each side of the door, their rifles at port. The room's ambient conversation paused briefly, but the piano music continued.

Sheriff Thaxton sat at one of the tables with four other men playing cards, drinking whiskey, and smoking. Douglas approached, his boots banging on the wood floor, the rowels on his spurs jingling. All five men at the table watched him advance.

“Captain Owens, the local representative of our beloved Federal government!” the sheriff said, his voice booming. “What can I help you with? How about a little gambling?” The sheriff turned to look at one of the women. “Or what about one of our Southern beauties here?” The lawman leaned back in his chair and placed his cards on the table, face-down.

The piano paused. The saloon turned into a room full of whispers. The ticking and clacking of the roulette wheel slowed to a stop.

The sheriff continued, “What kind of trouble are you stirring up today? And where's your sidekick, that lowlife, murdering outlaw, Basil Dubose?” He chuckled and looked around the bar. He now had everyone's attention. “I guess I should watch my mouth. Word is you and your men murder anybody that don't see eye to eye with you. Isn't that right?”