Sentinels (2 page)

Franklin assumed the position he'd become accustomed to seven years earlier with his sweat-slicked rifle. He hugged the side wall while aiming at the house before him. He counted five of the barn wall's rectangular openings roughly five feet off the ground that helped ventilate the stables. Franklin watched for any horse heads that could jut through the darkness for a breath of fresh air. His stomach heaved when the barn door creaked and swayed into his view before swinging back. He blinked sweat out of his eyes and felt blood pulsing through his ears.

Should I close the damn door to cut out the racket?
he thought.
No! Don't take your eyes off that house.

The moon bathed the home in light, casting an impenetrable black shadow behind the house.

Christ, if Toby's back there he could be aiming at my forehead and I'd never know.
Franklin tensed and focused on the black patch. He listened for movement and felt unnerved upon not hearing the summer sounds that should be everywhere.

Where are the goddamn cicadas, the crickets?
There should be flies buzzing around the barn because of the horseshit!

The lack of insect chirrups amplified each of Franklin's steps. He gulped and pulled the butt of his rifle into his shoulder while swiping sweat from his eyes with his trigger hand. He scanned the cornfield and horse paddock beyond the dark patch and saw a small, moonlit, white cross poking out of raised ground near a weeping willow whose branches shaded the grave on sunny days.

Charlie Stanhope,
Franklin thought.
He never wanted to leave this place.

Although he saw only one cross, he didn't miss a second heap of soil piled ten feet from Charlie's plot. Franklin had shoveled enough of those holes to know its purpose.

Rumor was going around that Toby's wife died in childbirth,
Franklin thought.
A false rumor.

For the life of him, Franklin could not figure why a second grave yawned from the earth.

He brought himself back to the moment and refocused on the home's rear. His peripheral vision caught movement in the side window. A black hand pushed a shutter outward. Franklin ignored the darkness and aimed square at the open window and the person taking a gander.

The black void from behind Toby's home disgorged a deep grunt—loud enough to spook Franklin. Instinct told him to duck, and as he did, a three-pronged pitchfork sailed over his head and impaled the barn door with enough force to shut it. Franklin looked over his right shoulder just as the door smacked against its frame, dislodging the second of the double doors from its stasis. The clatter jangled Franklin into accidentally pulling his rifle's trigger. Brendan witnessed the scenario and bounded, his Colt drawn, toward Franklin as the pitchfork struck wood. Franklin's gunshot surprised Brendan almost as much as the bullet that ripped clean through his meaty left shoulder. Brendan screamed as he stumbled forward, his arms flailing as he tried regaining his balance. Unable to control his momentum, Brendan fell and hit the ground, inadvertently firing a single shot from his Colt as he somersaulted toward the farmhouse—where Lyle had thrown down his white hood and now steadied himself to kick open the front door. Brendan's bullet bored into Lyle's right butt cheek.

“What the
fuck?!
” Lyle screamed as he collapsed on the porch. He dropped his LeMat and scrambled to grab it, fearing Toby Jenkins would open the door and start blasting.

Franklin, unaware of the chain reaction, and left with only his rifle's bayonet to protect himself, looked once more at the pitchfork—certain its tines penetrated five inches through the door—and back into the darkness from whence it came.

“I'm going home.” Franklin about-faced and stampeded a reverse trail to the weeping willow where he originally hid with Lyle and Brendan, and then to the horses to unhitch his ride and complete the retreat.

Brendan—aided by the circular, stone, water well in front of Toby's house—abruptly stopped somersaulting.

At least I have cover
, he thought after the thud. He felt the top of his hairy blond head.
I lost my hat! Shit, did I write my name in it? I did! I gotta find it or they'll know I was here!

Brendan stayed hidden until his brain stopped bouncing in his skull. He'd forgotten the pain caused by his ragged shoulder wound and peered from behind the well to see Lyle stumbling to regain his footing like a newborn horse. Brendan stood, his body concealed from the belly down by the four-foot-tall well, his head obscured by a water bucket dangling from a pulley secured to a wooden arch. He'd held on to his Colt and cocked it, not sure of his next move: kill Toby, help Lyle, or forget both and find his hat?

Both front barn doors sprang outward. Brendan, craving the well's protection, crouched and peeked above the stone rim.

“He's in there! Sumbitch's been in there all along!” Brendan called to Lyle, who found his LeMat but still struggled to stand. The moonlight shone a few feet into the barn, enough to reveal boot tips poking out of the darkness. Brendan stood and barely made out the forelegs before the figure backed into the abyss. A gleaming object launched from the blackness, moving in a rainbow arch toward the well and Brendan, who heard the projectile slice the air and pierce the wooden bucket, which swung like a pendulum into Brendan's forehead, knocking him backward. The bucket twisted to reveal a sickle had split the wood.

“Aw, hell, this ain't worth a thousand bucks!” Brendan charged toward Lyle, but not to break into Toby's house.

“Forget 'em, if they didn't know we were coming, they do now!” Brendan grabbed Lyle to urge him off the porch and make for the horses. “Run toward the corn and stay within the first few rows. We'll be harder to hit! I'll cover you.”

“Goddamn, it hurts to move!” Lyle whined. He hobbled ahead of Brendan as fast as his body would allow.

The dark figure re-emerged from the barn toting a machete in each hand. Brendan gasped when he saw a moonlit Klansman's hood concealing the man's identity. Brendan, even more than two-hundred feet away, fancied himself a skilled shot and aimed square at the chest, successively firing three bullets.

The Klansman remained still, watching.

No way I missed him three times,
Brendan thought.

He looked ahead to see Lyle entering the cornfield. Brendan charged, firing his remaining two bullets into the barn not to hit anything, but to provide cover for his escape. Brendan breathed easier upon spotting his hat in the grass near where he began tumbling. He snatched it and disappeared into the stalks with Lyle. Brendan figured Toby could shoot at them, but the chances of hitting them diminished as they hugged the inside line of the field, making sure they could see grassy terrain to their right as they ran.

Not one bullet had been fired from Toby's house or barn. Brendan and Lyle returned to the weeping willow where they originally devised the plan of attack.

Once they stopped panting, and when Lyle felt secure, he slapped Brendan upside the head. “Why the hell'd you shoot me?”

“Way to say ‘thank you!' asshole!” Brendan slapped him back. “I could've left your ass on that porch and hightailed it out of here like I'm assuming that big oaf did. Speaking of which, that numbskull shot
me
, or ain't you seen my shoulder?!”

Lyle lit the lantern he had left by the tree and saw Brendan's blood, which appeared black, glistening in the moonlight.

“No. I didn't,” Lyle said. “It hurt?”

“Yeah—something fierce now that I can think about it. I need to get to a doctor and I expect you do too.”

“That's just what my bullet-riddled ass needs right now: to be bouncing in a saddle.”

“Would you rather wait
here
for the doctor?”

“Sort of. It means I'll get more time to think of how to explain all this to Mister Diggs.”

“I ain't worried about him right now, Lyle. That freedman just made us look like circus clowns. I shot that bastard three times. I know I hit him at least once—
I know it
. And he didn't even so much as flinch. I have a feeling he could've killed us all but he didn't. Why?”

Lyle stared at the house. “Let's get out of here.”

“
Finally
.” Brendan started walking.

“Ain't you noticed it?”

“Noticed
what
?”

“Look down yonder.” Lyle pointed toward the homestead.

The barn doors were closed, and the farmhouse's windows no longer glowed with candlelight.

Chapter Two

“Wake up, Deputy Chandler, you don't want to be late for your first day of work and upset the sheriff.”

Natalie Chandler watched her groggy, naked husband stir in their small upstairs loft. Natalie, eight months pregnant, had slept downstairs on the sofa Noah Chandler purchased after finding out he'd be a daddy. He did the math—the last three months of her pregnancy fell in the summer.

“I miss you,” he croaked. “Sleeping downstairs with open windows sure does beat baking up here.”

“You know, I can get naked too. You got time for a quick roll in the hay?”

“Honey, you're about to pop, and it's already ninety degrees at—what time is it?”

“Eight in the morning,” she said.

“It's shit hot at eight in the morning. And don't be offended, but it just feels weird making love to a woman as pregnant as you.”

“Oh, so you've made love to a pregnant woman before me?” she chided.

He propped up his muscular body and butt-scooted to sit against the bed frame. “Didn't I tell you? I bedded Rebecca Taylor when she was nine months pregnant a few months back. The little spud inside smacked my peter. I must've been getting to close for comfort.”

“That's gross!” Natalie, a petite woman who tied her blonde hair in a ponytail, playfully whacked his shoulder.

“Hell yeah, it is!” He chuckled. “We'll get back to business after our little one's out and you're, well, uh, decent enough for duty.”

“Don't blame me! Pregnant women get the itch more often than not—all those hormones runnin' through me.”

“I recall. I didn't mind it a few months back when you weren't showin' as much, but now? Your tummy's almost splitting apart your nightgown.” He leaned in and caressed her belly. “Hello, little fella.” Her skin thumped against his hand.

“It's a boy, I know it!” he said. “Strong kick like that? It's gotta be a boy.”

“I know it's what you want.”

“I want whatever pops out of you, just so long as it's healthy. It could be a bobcat and I'd love it all the same.”

“Me, too. Only I'd prefer a human being.” She smiled at him.

Noah rose, stretched his long arms and, as if by habit, slid his fingers along the scar that ran from his left nipple to his belly button. It served as a persistent, depressing reminder of how his older brother, Benjamin, died on the same battlefield moments after Noah had sustained the wound, and how it could've been worse. Southern-born Noah moved to Massachusetts in 1858 to attend Harvard—and fought for the North
against
his brother at Fort Sumter. It made for awkward moments during family dinners. Still, he
was
family, and his late brother's home stood unoccupied after the War. Noah received his parents' blessing to live there with the woman he met in grade school.

Now thirty-two, and derisively known as a carpetbagger and scalawag due to his Northern allegiance, Noah Chandler returned to his hometown two years prior with a law degree and to re-ingratiate himself with his family—getting married and fathering a first grandchild might do the trick—and to help with the Reconstruction effort in which he so deeply believed.

The newest deputy of Henderson County donned cotton underwear, brown pants and a white shirt he'd laid out the previous night. He rolled up his sleeves and left the collar open.

“I got your neckerchief downstairs, next to a bowl of water on the kitchen table,” Natalie said. “I already fixed you some oats so you can get going. Sound okay?”

“Oats would be lovely. Thanks, honey.”

She descended the loft's ladder.

“What time's your mother gonna be here?” he called to her.

“About nine, don't worry.”

Natalie's mother, Helen, agreed to stay with her daughter when Noah was out just in case the baby came early.

“What's happening to the deputy you're replacing?”

“He's in a jail somewhere awaiting trial. Much as some of the folks around here might like it, you can't be a deputy by day and a Grand Wizard by night. Sort of throws into question your objectivity. I'm thankful Sheriff Cole recommended I take his place.”

“I am too. You aren't much of a farmer, honey,” she said while looking through the open window at a small patch of land meant for corn and assorted vegetables. Only a small swath of it bore tomatoes.

“You know I tried,” Noah barked. “General Canby felt my time would be more useful establishing local governments, helping draft charters and the like. It helps that the freedmen overwhelmingly voted in Republicans, makes our jobs easier.”

He opened a small wooden cabinet next to the bed and retrieved his gun belt. He slid six bullets into his Colt's cylinder and holstered it, and then inserted bullets into loops along the belt before fastening it to his waist.

“Those Democrats don't hesitate to kill freedmen and the white folks who help them, Noah.”

“I'm aware.” Noah climbed downstairs and sat at the small table. He placed aside the blue kerchief and bowl of water to make room for breakfast.

“I believe Sheriff Cole and the mayor signed off on me because I'm local, so to speak,” he said. “The Chandler name carries some respect around town.”

“
Some
respect.” Natalie placed a bowl of warm oats in front of him and sat across the table to eat a dish of her own. The Chandler family, one of the most prominent in town, made its fortune by way of cotton fields. “Not everybody takes kindly to you.”

“I know,” he said through a mouthful of cereal. “I survived the war. I can survive its aftermath.”

“So it's just you and the sheriff?”

“'Course not. Some of my fellow dastardly carpetbaggers are deputized.”

“But it doesn't have to be forever, right? I mean, you never set out to be a lawman.”

“Nah, but it's what's best for the town right now. That's the way the mayor sees it. We're less than three months away from the election—Democrats'll do anything to keep the freedmen from voting. That's why he's trying to find deputies left and right to help try to stop it. I'm not looking forward to that first Tuesday in November.”

“Klan's killing elected representatives, honey—state senators even,” she said. “They'll shoot a county deputy between the eyes just as soon as look at him. You know that.”

“You worry about nursing the little one and getting back to teaching.” He shoveled in the last bits of oats. “Let me worry about the town, and me.”

“They could come
here
, Noah, when you're
in
town.” Her tone bordered on desperate. “I know how to use that rifle above the fireplace to handle an intruder—but a mob?”

“They won't attack a pregnant woman or a woman with a baby.”

“That's bullshit and you know it.” She slapped her palm on the table, jiggling the bowls. “The Klan'll do anything to get power. You've read the newspapers. You've seen the stories about what they're doing in Georgia—burning down houses with families inside, all because they support the freedmen. You don't have to be black to be lynched by the Klan. I make sure that gun's loaded when I go to bed just so I can be ready quick if I hear anything outside.”

Noah pushed the empty bowl aside and dipped the bandana in the water. He squeezed out excess fluid before tying the wet cloth around his neck to help keep him cool during the horse ride into town.

“I know you're scared.” He stood and retrieved his tan Stetson from a hook on the front door. “But someone's got to do this. We deserve better than what's out there now.”

He spotted the double-barreled shotgun, both its hammers cocked, mounted above the fireplace.

“You want me to stay until your mom gets here?”

“No. Just go.” She pushed away her half-eaten oats, her appetite sapped.

He knew she meant it more out of frustration than anger.

“I'm glad you know how to use that,” he said. “We're targets whether I'm a deputy, or a lawyer, or an adviser, or whatever.”

“I know, but that metal star they're gonna pin on you makes you a shinier target.”

“I love you.” He left to saddle up his black Arabian stallion, Wilbur, and circled the property to make sure nothing seemed out of place before galloping down the dirt road to his new job.