Lords of an Empty Land (25 page)

The sun rose over the eastern horizon, just enough of its round, burning glow poking up over the distant hills for its shape to be discernible. The army patrol had bivouacked atop a small ridge, in an open, twenty-acre field. The tired soldiers had gotten a few hours in their bedrolls, and their horses had grazed on a thick stand of grass behind the camp.

Before Basil had departed with Hannah, the gun hand had informed him that old man Dallon had been the third man the posse had lynched.

With the aid of the torches, the army patrol had picked up the trail of the lone rider, only requiring the troopers to stop every mile or so to make sure the tracks remained on the road. They had stayed far enough back to give the renegade no hint of their chase. The night ride had been strange, almost weird, the dark sky overhead blotted with an enormous, hours-long meteor shower, the largest Douglas had ever seen, a magnificent display of captivating light.

Whoever rode the horse had been in one hell of a hurry. The patrol had followed the tracks about fifteen miles south of Atkins before they turned off on a small side trail leading to a deserted farmhouse. The army troopers had arrived there about two in the morning, and Douglas ordered his men to stop and get some much-needed rest, out of sight, taking turns guarding the house. Huff had wanted to dynamite the house upon their arrival, but Douglas had refused. He wanted Amos alive.

Basil had suggested that Amos was probably aiming for a safe house. After a little rest there, he was then on to Texas, probably with an armed escort. He would likely cross the Red River via a little-used ferry at Colfax, thirty miles south of Atkins. By Douglas's deduction, the outlaw had three or four more hours in the saddle to get there.

Douglas looked at the little abandoned farm. The well-constructed and comfortable house had two nice barns hidden in a thick stand of pines set back from a small creek bottom near the road. How many men did it currently house? He didn't like the picture. The dense platform of trees made visibility poor. Now, early in the morning, he and four of his men surrounded the house, facing all four sides, a hundred paces from the grounds. From where he sat horseback, he saw none of his men. He had sent Huff and two more soldiers down the road about a mile toward Colfax in case Amos managed to slip out unseen.

Despite his doubts, Douglas almost didn't believe his good fortune. He had Amos surrounded. He only had to keep him from escaping. The bandits had killed Sidney, but he still had the written testimony, certified, from upstanding members of the society, both Republican and Democratic. The last few weeks had been expensive. Four of his soldiers had been killed, also the judge and Cyrus Carter. But in exchange, a pair of Dallons and two Garretts had been killed. He had banished two more of their gang out of the state, and disposed of the sheriff and his deputy. If he could just get Amos, try him, then he would accomplish much more than he had ever realistically expected. It might actually do wonders for the peace, prosperity, and political stability of the entire region.

The clansmen who hanged Sheriff Thaxton and his underlings had no interest in seeing Amos go to trial. They probably would kill to thwart it. Douglas's patrol horses were almost used up, and the bushwhackers always had better mounts than the army. The little farm likely kept fresh horses for Amos and whoever might accompany him. Douglas would have to get Amos before he crossed the river and that would probably be right here, if he ever wanted to catch him.

A light wind blew cool, a lingering remnant of the storm two days prior. A large flock of beautiful, colorful ducks swooped by overhead, diving for a small lake behind Douglas. The sound of their wings, piercing the air, drifted over the placid morning. How could such a serene land be so vindictive and homicidal?

A single shot broke the morning calm. He raced toward the sound that came from behind the house and to his right. Sergeant Dixon fell in behind him. Ducking under and around the limbs and trees, he saw one of his troopers, distinctive in his blue uniform, spread out on his back, blood gushing from his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he also saw four men on horseback charging roughshod toward the little creek bottom near the road. In the morning haze, one of the riders looked like Amos.

“They're headed for that creek!” Douglas yelled. “Down by the road. We can beat them there. Everybody, go!” He spun around, spurred the mare, and raced into the thick patch of timber surrounding the creek. A hundred yards behind him, two of his other soldiers rode in his direction. “Let's get on the other side of it! Maybe we can get them in a crossing fire!” he yelled to Sergeant Dixon.

Douglas and Sergeant Dixon beat the bandits to the creek, and the two soldiers stormed across the little stream, ankle deep and ten feet wide, its water flush with red soil. On the far bank, Douglas dismounted, grabbed his shotgun, and slapped his mare on the rear to send her into the trees. The sergeant did likewise. They took up a position behind a small red-rock outcropping. They squatted, inspecting the creek, which was spotted with a few birch trees and some wild coffee trees.

Fifty yards upstream, four riders emerged from the trees into the tight opening between the stream's banks. Douglas and Sergeant Dixon fired a few rounds that flushed the riders into the trees, unmolested. On the other side of the creek, on a bluff, two other soldiers arrived. The little stream had high banks, about four stories, but the incline was gradual enough to be traversed on a horse.

“Get off of those horses and get downstream!” Douglas yelled to his two soldiers on the other side of the creek. “Make sure they don't get to the road and don't shoot Amos.” He shoved two more shells into his shotgun.

The little slice of earth awoke with gunfire pinging and zinging off everything. Douglas squatted and took stock. The outlaws were trapped in a side draw where it petered out in a ravine, one from which they couldn't escape without coming under unhindered fire, at least on horseback. But the desperadoes held the high ground, firing down on him and Sergeant Dixon.

“They's going to get us,” Sergeant Dixon said, as the hostile fire continued to rain down from above. “If nothing else, a lucky shot will find us.”

Douglas looked up the hill. Nothing to shoot at. He emptied both his barrels. He tried to forget the situation, the consequences, just treat this as a routine action. He looked across the creek trying to locate his other soldiers, out of sight, but firing. One of the soldiers screamed. The friendly strafing stopped. The bullets from above still pelted everything.

“This is hopeless,” Sergeant Dixon said, scanning the area quickly, the whites of his eyes big. “I can't gets a good bead on them from here. I'm going to work my way around. Gets up there where I can see them.”

“You'll never make it.”

Sergeant Dixon climbed out from behind the rocks, the lead still flying. He splashed into the creek, the brown water gushing around his feet. The sergeant moved upstream. Bullets stormed into the water as the bandits zeroed in on him.

A deep voice sounded from above. “There goes the sum' bitch. Shoot that nigger.”

“Get over on the bank!” Douglas yelled.

Sergeant Dixon took a knee, raised his rifle, and fired two quick shots up the hill. Then a bullet splattered into the sergeant's groin, crumpling him over forward. The sergeant regained his composure, lifting his rifle. His eyes brazen, his movements calm and steadfast, the sergeant searched the hill as he carefully returned fire.

“Get some cover!” Douglas screamed, stretching his arms out toward Sergeant Dixon, just twenty paces away. Douglas leaned over into the creek, attempting to help the sergeant—foolhardy and certain death. Helpless, he watched another bullet slam into Sergeant Dixon's neck. His head fell sideways to his shoulders, limp, as his body made its descent to the rocky streambed.

The firing slowly faded. The trickling of the water whispered in the background. The stream now dribbled by with spots of Sergeant Dixon's blood dispersed within.

“God damn, I got his ass,” another voice said from above.

Panicky, Douglas looked around. He heard nothing from across the stream where his two other men had been ensconced. He didn't want to go like this.

Twigs snapped. Footsteps thudded above. Two men, almost faceless figures with big wicked grins, emerged twenty feet above him. The sun rising behind the outlaws burned Douglas's eyes. Both outlaws raised their pistols and pointed them at Douglas. Holding his shotgun at his waist, Douglas froze. Everything slowed down. He paused just a second, intending to jerk the shotgun up and send a wall of buckshot at the vigilantes as he braced for the impact of the oncoming barrage.

A loud shot pierced the air. Douglas lifted his shotgun and fired. Both men tumbled over. More gunfire rang out from above. Douglas fell back into the rocks. He looked down at his chest, body. Shocked, he saw no blood, no bullet holes. He felt no twinge of pain as he heard the thud of dashing horses fading away.

Almost not believing he was alive, Douglas reclaimed some spirit, quickly reloaded, climbed out from behind the rocks, and struggled up the hill. From the tiny escarpment where he had stared at death, the two bandits, neither of them Amos Dallon, lay sprawled on the ground, still squirming and grimacing. Douglas finished each off with a head shot.

More groans came from behind him. He wheeled around, his shotgun at the ready. Huff lay stretched out on his back, blood profusely flowing from his gut. Douglas rushed forward and knelt to inspect the wound.

“I gots 'em,” Huff grunted. He tried to laugh. “Heard all that shoot'n, thought the daring captain of the Republic had killed them all.”

“Hush,” Douglas snapped, quickly inspecting the wound, the blood pulsing freely from the gash as Huff's heartbeat slowed.

Douglas removed his shirt, balled it up, and pressed it against the large wound.

“It's no good,” Huff growled, spitting up blood. “I can't feel anything down there. My legs won't work. I want some water. Gives me some water, Captain. I guess you won't gets to court-martial me now.”

Douglas removed his canteen and poured water into Huff's mouth, sprinkling some on the private's face. He wiped up a fingertip full of dark blood off Huff's tongue, knowing it indicated a quick death.

Huff's breathing slowed more, and he shut his eyes.

“Huff,” Douglas whispered.

Huff opened his eyes. “Captain, let me tell ya. It was worth it. I'll see you on the other side, the better side.” The private's eyes got glassy and fell shut.

Douglas put a hand on Huff's chest as its movement slowed further. Like all men, rich or poor, regardless of social status or background, Huff was dying alone.

“Yes . . . to the better side,” Douglas mumbled. What had this man seen in his life, far more than even he, hardened by a lifetime of war and death, could even fathom. Surely, this man had spent a life of constant toil with little or no relaxation. Huff finally looked at peace, probably happy to be escaping this world of seething anger. Douglas had always wondered about Huff's past. He didn't even know where this man came from or where he'd been born. Did Huff even know this, or anything about his parents? Douglas would never know now.

Four candles flickered in the little room. The afternoon sun poured in through the window. Together, the two sources of light lit the gloomy space.

Private Mercer, wrapped in blankets, lay on a cot, his mangled leg now covered with blood, some dark and dried, some fresh red and recent.

The doctor examined the bullet hole, a few inches above the knee, swabbing it a few times with a piece of cloth. He picked up a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand and handed it to the private. “Finish this, all of it.”

The army patrol had gotten to Colfax an hour and a half earlier. The outlaws' trail had been easy to follow here. By Douglas's judgment they had arrived almost two hours before the army patrol, and the ferry captain had confirmed that two men on horseback had crossed the river mid-morning.

Douglas's pursuit had not been speedy. Their tired mounts wouldn't have any part of it. Before he departed the site of the skirmish, he had policed up his three dead men: Huff, Sergeant Dixon, and the private shot behind the bandits' house. He lashed them over their horses and brought them here. A fourth soldier, Private Mercer, had been shot in the leg. He had been one of the two across the creek during the final, deadly engagement. His partner had dragged him to safety and treated his wound, which was probably why he was still alive and would most likely survive.

In the back room of the general store that also served as a hotel and café, the surgeon now inspected the private's wound. Douglas turned to Private Combs, standing beside him. Neither said anything, both fearing the worst: the leg would be removed.

Private Mercer nursed the bottle, helpless in these brief events that were sure to impact the rest of his life. Douglas had seen this many times during the war. His nightmares of the glum field hospitals, the lasting, scarring work that transpired under the rank tarps had been worse than the battles themselves. These victims suffered long after those slain in their quest of glory. This sight would surely reinitiate his horrid dreams.

“Don'ts let him take my leg,” the private cried, his eyes glassy, tears running down his cheeks. “I gots no one to take care of me.”

“Drink up,” the doctor said, opening his little bag. “I'm just going to trim the trousers, clip a little skin. That's it, but you may feel a little twinge.”

The doctor raised a pair of scissors and trimmed the trousers. He severed the man's meat in a familiar routine—the preparation for amputation. The doctor cut free all the skin around the leg, exposing the bone, but left a long flap of flesh attached to the upper thigh to cover the stub.

Only this morning Douglas had felt numb, dead, staring at the gun barrels, but he now felt totally alive, everything clear, exaggerated, completely real. There couldn't be a greater, more pitiless transformation in all the world. The next few minutes would change this man from a strong, vibrant soldier, someone the government depended on, into a weak, feeble soul depending on the government just to survive.

The doctor turned to Private Mercer. “I'm going to give you more, something to kill the pain.” He lifted a metal apparatus from his bag.

The private grunted and threw his head back, resisting.

The doctor turned to Douglas. “Give me a hand.”

Douglas grabbed the private's head, holding it still as the doctor placed two metal tubes into the patient's nose and squeezed a little rubber bulb that injected the chloroform.

The soldier drifted away. He was still conscious, but clearly not comprehending much.

The doctor pulled his bone saw out of his bag. “I need you both to hold him still, very still.”

Douglas reached into the doctor's bag and pulled out a second bottle of whiskey. He turned it up, finishing a third of it. After two more large gulps, he handed the bottle to Private Combs, who emptied it into his mouth. Douglas then placed all his weight on the patient's chest. He closed his eyes and hugged the upper body, securing Private Mercer's arms as he waited for the screams and firm quivers. It came in only a second. Douglas squeezed his eyes hard. The seconds passed slowly, the only sound the surgeon's long breaths and some jingling from the doctor's bag.

“Okay,” the doctor said. “That went well. He's very strong. Just a few seconds more, let me close it up.”

Douglas opened his eyes, turning his head to the wall. He buried his nose into his arm trying to escape the vulgar smell.

Finally, the doctor stood. “Wound's very clean. He should make it. I don't want him moved for at least a week. He can then go to Natchitoches, but by steamer only.”

Douglas stumbled outside. Fresh air. Nearly catatonic, he emptied his canteen into his mouth and spent a few seconds collecting himself in front of the hotel. What was left of his patrol, two of his three remaining men, dressed in their dirty uniforms, sat horseback on the riverbank, looking out across the river from under their forage hats. Beside them, the three dead soldiers remained lashed over their saddles.

“Corporal Foster . . .” Douglas said in a tired voice, looking at a soldier he had grown fond of in recent weeks due to his lively makeup. “You and Private Jenson come with me. Let's ride down to this livery. See if we can buy some fresh horses.”

Douglas led his mare a few hundred feet down the riverbank to a stable. Sitting on the steps of a wooden barn, he found a stout, healthy freedman. “You Thompson?”

The man nodded as he leisurely chewed on a piece of straw.

“We need three horses, your best three. Going after Amos Dallon.”

The man stood and ambled over to the adjacent stable. “Ain'ts got but two horses. And one of them's not for sale. I ride him home every day.”

Douglas reached into his saddlebag and grabbed a little leather pouch. He poured the gold coins in his hand, counted them, and then put the money back in the pouch before tossing the bag to the man. “Five hundred dollars. Almost twice the going price. We'll take both. And I'll need you to lead us to Fort Jessup. I'm sure that's where Amos will camp. Going to get him tonight.”

Thompson looked up at Douglas, then turned to the two soldiers still on horseback. “You're a fool to cross that river. General Banks took twelve thousand men over there and came back with barely eight. There's not a stick of law and order over there, Federal or local. I ain't going under any circumstances. You just as well shoots me now. And I told you, I've got one horse for sale, one hundred and fifty dollars.”

Douglas stiffened his stance. His hoarse voice got loud. “I'm not asking, I'm
telling
you. I'm requisitioning the horses. Me and Corporal Foster are going to Fort Jessup. You're going to lead us on foot until we get close enough to find our way. Then you can come back.”

Thompson started to say something, but paused, turning again to look at Douglas's two subordinates.

Irritation filling him, Douglas grabbed his pommel and climbed onto his horse. He yelled at his men, his loud voice filled with fury, “I'm going to check on Privates Combs and Mercer. Be back in ten. When I get back here, have two of our saddles put on these two horses.” He turned back to Thompson. “And you be ready to go, or we'll see if you'd really rather be shot.”

Douglas spurred his horse and trotted off back down the riverbank. About halfway to the store, he heard a horse behind him. He turned to see Corporal Foster riding up.

“Captain Owens,” Corporal Foster said softly, pulling up.

Douglas locked a firm gaze on the corporal.

Corporal Foster retained a silent stare.

“What is it?” Douglas finally snapped. “Speak freely.”

“Wells, I knows you want this Amos real bad. We wants him too, but you sure you wants to go after him with just me and you? Maybe we should wait till we rested and ready. And if you don't minds me saying, you think it's right to order that man to go with us? We's all had a long two days. Maybe none of us thinking right now. You's got a new bride you going to be marrying real soon. You needs to be thinking about that.”

Douglas looked up the riverbank to the three dead soldiers still tied over their horses. The Red River rushed along, its power almost making him feel miniscule and frail. The recent storm had washed all sorts of limbs and debris into the murky waters, accentuating the river's strength and volume. Douglas scanned the rich alluvial soil to the distant hills, the vast wilderness between the mighty Red and the Sabine Rivers. Texas lay just beyond this wild and untamed area almost devoid of civilization and Federal control.

He turned to look at the little settlement of Colfax, a rare Republican stronghold in the area, its six buildings fronting the river. Nearby, a few hogs snorted in a pigsty. The only other life in sight was the ferry driver, currently transporting a woman and a child across the river to the far bank. He was hungry. His men appeared small and meek compared to the land. How skinny and spent the army horses looked.

Tired, his vision almost blurry, he looked back at Corporal Foster. He'd never had one of his soldiers question his orders. Rage washed over him, but Corporal Forster's calm, kind, and competent gaze carried a sobering reality. He wanted to get Amos, more than anything. This was his only chance. He blew out a mouthful of air, shaking as he realized it was not to be, not in his current state.

“I guess you're right,” Douglas finally muttered, pausing and thinking. “We'll wait for the steamer. The man at the store says around eight. We can then bury those three in Natchitoches. Amos is more than three hours ahead of us. Probably be a small army of outlaws camped at that old fort that will be waiting on us.”

Douglas reached into his coat and pulled out a letter he had removed from one of the men Huff had killed that morning. The letter was addressed to an Ann Thompson in Tyler, Texas. Hoping its contents might give him a hint to the future location of Amos, he opened the letter and read:

Douglas folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. He then sniffed the rusty, spongy water. The letter reminded him that despite this setback, his work here wasn't done; there would be tough days ahead and many battles still to fight. He looked back around at his men, growing fewer by the day. “Let's ride over to that little grove of trees, let our horses graze and water, spread our bedrolls and get some rest so we'll be fresh in case we run into any trouble.”