Ride With the Devil (6 page)

BY THE TIME MOODY, HOOPER, AND JARVIS RETURNED to the office, they were limping on sore feet. Culpepper, Vox, and Bates looked up in surprise.

“What the hell happened to you?” Vox asked.

“What happened to us? That damn piano player took our boots, that’s what happened to us,” Moody said.

“And you just let him do it?” Bates asked.

“We didn’t have no choice. He took our guns too,” Hooper added.

“But we aim to get ’em back,” Jarvis said. Taking a rifle from the rack, he jacked a shell into the chamber. Then he took two more down and tossed them to the other two deputies.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Culpepper asked.

“There ain’t no thinkin’ to it, Colonel. I aim to kill that son of a bitch,” Moody said angrily.

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“No means no. I didn’t stutter,” Culpepper said. “You aren’t going to do anything to Hawke.”

“Damn it! You think we’re just goin’ to stand around and do nothing? I mean, this piano player is beginning to be a
real problem,” Moody said. “First he cuts down Delaney and brings him back into town without so much as a fare thee well. And that was right in front of everyone, when everyone in town knew we had put up a sign tellin’ people to leave the body hangin’ there. Then, this morning, he took our guns and boots.”

“What I want to know is, how the hell did he get your guns and boots?” Vox asked.

“Yes, I’d be interested in hearing that myself. There are three of you and one of him. Just how did that happen?” Culpepper asked.

“We wasn’t expectin’ nothin’ like that to happen,” Moody said. “All we done was stop him and that Delaney woman.”

“Stop them from what?” Culpepper wanted to know.

“Just stop them. They were leaving town in a buckboard, and the whole thing looked a little suspicious to me. Especially her being Delaney’s sister and all. We was just—”

“You were just meddling in something that is none of your business,” Culpepper said. “Put the rifles back in the rack.”

“What about our guns and boots?” Jarvis asked.

“My guess is he’ll return them today. If he doesn’t, you can go to him, hat in hand, and ask him to give them back to you.”

Culpepper’s guess that the guns and boots would be returned proved to be correct. Just before dark that evening, Ken Wright came into the office.

“Yes, Mr. Wright, what can we do for you?” Culpepper asked.

Ken made a motion with his thumb, jerking it toward the street.

“Mason Hawke rented a buckboard from me today,” he said. “When he came back there were a few items in the back that he said might belong to you.”

“Our guns!” Moody shouted, and darted through the front door, followed by the other two. Grabbing the guns and boots, they came back inside, then sat down and started pulling on the shoes.

“Damn, my feet is so sore I can barely get into ’em,” Jarvis said.

“Thank you, Mr. Wright,” Culpepper said.

“Colonel, if you don’t mind tellin’ me, how’d they wind up in the back of my wagon?”

“You mean Hawke didn’t tell you?”

“No, sir. He didn’ say nothin’, ’cept he thought these might belong to some of your deputies.”

“Ain’t none of your business how he wound up with ’em,” Moody said.

By now all three men had their boots on, and after strapping on their pistols, they walked around the room a few times, gingerly testing the boots against feet swollen from going a day without shoes.

“Let’s just say my deputies got careless,” Culpepper said. “I thank you again, blacksmith.”

“Yes, sir, I’m glad to be of service to you,” the blacksmith said, touching his eyebrow in a casual salute.

Moody waited until the blacksmith left before he spoke again.

“I’m beggin’ you, Colonel, let me go settle scores with this man.”

“Try it, and you’ll be dead,” Culpepper said.

“I can’t believe you would go that far to defend him against one of your own men.”

“Oh, I don’t mean you’ll be dead by my hand,” Culpepper said. “Hawke would kill you.”

“What if all three of us went up against him?” Hooper asked.

“Don’t you understand? I’m talking about all three of
you,” Culpepper said. “If all three of you go against him, all three of you will be dead.”

“Wait a minute,” Jarvis said. “He can’t possibly be that good.”

“Oh, he can, and he is,” Culpepper said. “If you know what is good for you, you’ll stay the hell out of his way.”

It was four o’clock in the morning, and the saloon was dark except for the small golden bubble of light that came from the single candle on the open key lid of the piano.

Hawke sat at the piano playing “Les Jeux d’eau a la ville d’Este,” a composition of his old piano instructor, Franz Liszt. The music filled the darkened room and spilled out into the street.

Abner Poindexter, a hostler for the West Texas Stage Company, was on his way to work when he heard the music. He stopped in front of the saloon and sat on the front porch to listen.

Maurice Baldwin, the baker, also heard the music, and after he got his dough rolled out and in the oven, he came over to join Abner.

Ken Wright had risen early to get the fire going in his forge. Hearing the music, he walked down the street to join the other two.

When the concert was over, the three men sat for a moment longer on the porch, then Poindexter stood up and brushed off the back of his pants.

“I reckon I’d better get that team put together or the folks plannin’ on takin’ the stage out this mornin’ won’t be able to make the trip,” he said.

“You think he’ll do this again tomorrow mornin’?” Baldwin asked.

“Oh, he be here tomorrow,” Ken answered.

“What makes you think so?”

“Because he got the gift,” Ken explained. “When the Lord give a man the gift, He also give him the need to use it. The music Mr. Hawke play in the daytime don’t satisfy that need.”

“Then I’m going to bring my wife tomorrow morning,” Baldwin said.

“Yeah,” Poindexter replied. “I think I’ll tell my neighbor about it. He was in the saloon the day this fella arrived when he played that real pretty song. I bet he’d like to hear it.”

With the music finished, the three men returned to their respective occupations.

Ken checked on his fire, then went back to his room to look at his latest work in progress. When Ken told the others that an artist had to practice his art, he knew what he was talking about.

Ken was a painter. He had never sold any of his paintings, had never even thought about selling them, because he was an artist for art’s sake. Picking up the palate, he dipped a brush into a dab of ochre, then applied it to the canvas.

Flaire’s thirteen-year-old brother Paul sounded the alarm, and when Flaire opened her eyes, she saw that her bedroom was as bright as day, illuminated by the burning barn.

“Everyone turn out! We’ve got to save the animals!” Flaire’s father shouted.

Within seconds the family dashed out through the front door. They were still in their sleeping gowns, not taking the time to get dressed because every second lost decreased their chance of saving any of the trapped animals.

When they reached the front porch, they came to a sudden stop, shocked to see three mounted men out front. Backlit by the burning barn, they were in silhouette, as if they were ghost riders from hell. Their faces could not be seen.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Flaire’s father asked.

“Delaney, you have a boy ridin’ with the Yankee army?” one of the men called.

“I do,” Flaire’s father answered.

Flaire shielded her eyes against the glare of the fire, trying to see who the men were, but try as she might, she couldn’t see their faces.

By now the animals in the barn were screaming in terror. The horses were kicking at the sides of their stalls, underscoring the snapping and popping of the fire.

“Why is it you didn’t try to stop your boy from joining up with the Yankees?” the man asked.

“What? What are you talking about? We don’t have time for all this. Listen to those poor animals,” Flaire’s father said. “Help us get them out of there!”

“Help you? Why, you damn fool, we started the fire,” the man said.

“Why would you do something like that?” Delaney asked angrily.

The animals continued to scream, though there weren’t as many screams now, as some of them had already succumbed to the flames.

“Papa, listen to them! The poor animals are dying!” Flaire cried.

“We’ve got to get to them,” Delaney said, stepping down from the porch.

They were interrupted by a gunshot, then the one who had been doing all the talking yelled at Delaney.

“Delaney, the people’s court of Platte County has tried you, found you guilty of treason against the South, and sentenced you to die.”

“No!” Flaire’s mother said.

By now the animals were silent. The barn was a roaring inferno and Flaire could feel the intense heat, even from where she stood.

“You and the boy have thirty seconds to say your prayers. Then the sentence will be carried out.”

“The boy? Wait a minute! He’s only thirteen!” Delaney said. The defiance was gone now, replaced by concern for his son.

“Your thirty seconds are up.”

“No!” Flaire’s mother screamed again, and grabbing her son, she pulled him to her and stepped in front of her husband, trying to shield the two of them with her own body.

Her action did nothing to prevent what happened next. The riders began firing. Flaire heard the bullets whizzing by her, saw them tear into the flesh of her mother, father, and younger brother. She screamed, and was still screaming, even when the firing stopped and the reports of the gunshots were but distant echoes.

HAWKE ACCEPTED AN INVITATION FROM TITUS Culpepper to join him for lunch in the private dining room of the Ranchers’ Hotel. The two-story edifice was not only Salcedo’s only hotel, it was also the town’s only brick building. It had been built in anticipation of a railroad spur line that never developed.

The hotel clerk recognized Hawke as soon as he came in the lobby, and he smiled broadly at him.

“You would be Mr. Hawke?” he asked, affecting what he was certain was a cultured accent.

“Yes.”

“Colonel Culpepper is waiting for you in the private dining room. If you’ll come this way, sir, I’ll take you there.”

“Thanks.”

The lobby of the hotel was covered with a deep wine carpet; the wainscoting was light blue with gold trim, and the wallpaper featured huge baskets of flowers. The oak stairway was broad and only partially covered with a narrow runner of the same color as the carpet in the lobby. The polished wood of the steps was exposed on either side of the runner.

The clerk led Hawke across the lobby to a hallway that went behind the stairs. At the end of the hallway he opened a
door and made a grand gesture with his hand, inviting Hawke to enter.

Culpepper was standing near the window in the back of the room, smoking a cigar. He turned when Hawke entered.

“Hawke,” he said warmly. He chuckled. “I would thank you for dressing for dinner, but you are always well-dressed.” Culpepper picked up a silver box, opened it, and extended it to Hawke. “Would you like a cigar?”

“Yes, thank you,” Hawke said, taking one from the box.

Culpepper lit the cigar for him.

“I want to thank you for returning my men’s guns and boots the other day,” Culpepper said. He laughed. “You should’ve seen them limping around all day long. I tell you, they were mad as wet hens.”

Hawke took several puffs, waiting until the cigar was well-lit before he exhaled, then spoke through a cloud of blue smoke.

“Well, I’m glad you aren’t taking it personally,” he said.

Culpepper dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “No, no, not at all. In the first place, those boys had no business stopping you like that. Or asking you where you were going. And in the second place, you did me a big favor. I think they have all three been getting a little too big for their britches. Or, in this case, boots,” he added, laughing again.

“Why did they stop me?”

“Oh, I suppose they thought that, in some way, they were just doing their job,” Culpepper said dismissively. “But don’t worry about them, this won’t happen again.”

“They don’t particularly worry me,” Hawke said.

“No, I wouldn’t think they would,” Culpepper agreed.

A swinging door from the back of the room opened and a tall, thin man with a very narrow moustache came into the room. He was wearing a white jacket and a white hat.

“Monsieur Culpepper, shall I serve now?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you, Monsieur Mouchette, please do,” Culpepper answered. Then, as the chef withdrew, Culpepper said to Hawke, “I hope you enjoy the meal I’ve had the chef prepare for you. Mouchette is a real Frenchman, you know. He works for the governor, but I brought him out from Austin just for this occasion.”

Mouchette came back in, carrying a wine bottle and a corkscrew.

“Monsieur Mouchette, I would like you to meet Mr. Hawke,” Culpepper said.

“Bon matin, Monsieur Mouchette. Très agréable pour vous rencontrer,”
Hawke said, before Mouchette could say anything.

“It is good to meet you as well, Monsieur Hawke.
Merveilleux! Vous parlez français
!”

“Yes, I speak French.”

“Mr. Hawke is a pianist, Monsieur Mouchette. He once toured the continent giving concerts.”

“How wonderful,” Mouchette said.

“Tell Mr. Hawke what you have prepared for us.”

“Le sein de canard aux abricots frais.”

“Now, tell it in English, so I know.”

“Breast of duck, in apricot sauce,” Hawke said, translating it for Culpepper. “It sounds delicious.”

“And with it, a nice Cabernet Sauvignon,” Mouchette said, presenting the bottle he had brought with him.

After the men seated themselves, Mouchette uncorked the bottle in front of Hawke and let him test it. When Hawke nodded his approval, Mouchette poured it slowly.

“A little better than the raw whiskey and green beer you get over at the Golden Calf, isn’t it?” Culpepper asked.

“You’ll spoil me,” Hawke replied.

“To the friends we lost in the war,” Culpepper said, holding his goblet up.

“To absent comrades,” Hawke replied.

The meal was served, and for a while there was nothing but the sound of eating. Finally, satisfied with one of the best meals he had enjoyed in a long time, Hawke pushed his plate away and looked across the table at Culpepper.

“All right, Titus,” he said. “What’s all this about?”

“What is what about?” Culpepper asked, refilling his glass.

“I know you well enough to know that you have something on your mind.”

Culpepper chuckled. “You’re right, I do,” he said. “Hawke, I want you to come work for me.”

“Work for you. You have a piano you want me to play?”

This time Culpepper’s chuckle turned into a full-bodied laugh. “A piano to play,” he said. “That’s good. No, what I really had in mind was a combination of things. First of all, I want you to be my chief deputy. You’ve seen the caliber of help that I have. I need someone I can depend on, someone who can think on his feet and, quite frankly, someone who could rein in the…let’s just call it enthusiasm, of the men who work for me.”

“Is that what you call it? Enthusiasm?”

Culpepper shook his head. “All right, I’ll admit, I was just trying to make it sound better than it is. The term I should have used is arrogance. I’m talking about their arrogance and obnoxious, even improper, bullying behavior. I can’t afford too many incidents like what happened to you. If that had happened to the wrong person, it would have resulted in only two possible outcomes. Either my deputies would have killed the civilian, or the civilian would have killed the deputies. Quite possibly, a combination of both.”

“You said there were two things you wanted,” Hawke said.

“Yes,” Culpepper replied with a nod. “I also want you to manage my campaign for Congress. After all, you have some experience in that area.”

Hawke shook his head. “My father was a congressman, not I,” he said.

“Nevertheless, there is that connection, that cachet,” Culpepper said. “I think it would play well among the voters of this district. And, of course, we have the accomplishments of the Regulators to help.”

“And you want me to be your chief deputy?”

“Yes.”

“Vox is your chief deputy now, isn’t he? Wouldn’t he be a little put out if I took his job?”

“He might be. But that would be his problem, not yours,” Culpepper said. “We’re doing good work here, Hawke. You could be a part of it. And with you to keep a rein on my deputies, we could do even better work.”

Hawke shook his head. “I thank you for the invitation,” he said. “But I’m not much for joining volunteer organizations.”

Culpepper ran his hand around the lip of his wine glass, making it sing.

“Maybe you misunderstand. Don’t get the idea that you would be working without compensation, my friend,” Culpepper said. “Join me, and you will be paid. In fact, you will be paid very well.”

“You are talking about the nickel tax on beer?” Hawke said. “It doesn’t seem like a nickel tax on beer would generate that much money.”

“We don’t just tax the beer,” Culpepper said. “We tax every business in town. It all adds up, and it adds up very quickly.”

“And the town goes along with it?”

“Yes, and gladly. Like I said, we keep the town safe.”

“I see.”

“Look, don’t give me your decision now. I have to go to Austin for a few days. For one thing, I must file my intention
to run. For another, I have some things to discuss with the governor. I wish you would accept my offer now, so I could leave you in charge during my absence. But since you won’t, I’ll have to leave Vox. At least give my offer some thought while I’m gone.”

“All right,” Hawke said. “I’ll do that.”

“That’s all I ask,” Culpepper said, once again lifting his wine goblet toward Hawke. Hawke returned it and the men drank a second toast.

In the wee hours of the next morning there were nearly a dozen people gathered in front of the saloon as Hawke, unaware of his audience, bent over the keyboard. The strains of Beethoven’s Sonata Number 32 in C Minor held the listeners enraptured for nearly twenty minutes.

“It’s like music from heaven,” the baker’s wife said as they walked away from the saloon at the conclusion of the concert.

Word spread throughout the town about Hawke’s nocturnal concerts, and every morning at four, people would gather on the saloon porch, in the alley alongside, or in front of the stage depot next door, and they would listen.

“Did you hear the music last night?” they would ask each other the next day.

“It’s like an angel come down from heaven to entertain us,” another would say.

And Hawke, unaware of his growing nocturnal audience, was pleasantly surprised to see that the bowl in which tips were placed seemed to be getting fuller every day.