Authors: Donis Casey
All Men Fear Me (10 page)
“Yet will I be avenged of you.”
âJudges 15:7
Scott's first order of business that morning was to arrest Win Avey for putting a dent in the head of Rose Lovelock's bouncer, Dave. He would be glad to have Avey behind bars before the Liberty Sing, anyway. Especially now that he knew there were socialists and draft-dodgers in town. Win had no tolerance for liberal thinkers. In fact Win was altogether too free with his fistsâand whatever else he could pick upâto mix peacefully with anyone who held an opinion that differed from his own.
Scott backed his automobile out of the shed behind his house that he used for a garage. The auto was a 1913 model Paige touring car that he had bought used from Hattie's cousin's husband, who owned a dealership in Muskogee. He had been petitioning the town council for years to buy an auto for the use of anyone on official business. But the council had turned deaf ears for so long that he finally broke down and bought one for himself. He was proud of his shiny vehicle with its convertible top, and glad that it would remain in his possession after he was no longer in the employ of the town of Boynton. He didn't drive it much. A horse was usually more practical in his line of work. But in this case Scott was pretty sure that it would be easier to transport Win if he was trussed up hand and foot and tossed into the backseat. If he was lucky, Win's accomplice Victor Hayes had gone home with him, and Scott could pick them both up at once.
Avey rented one of the little cabins owned by Frank Ober, the manager of the brick plant just north of town. Ober had created a small company camp outside the plant for workers who had no families and no homes of their own. The cabins were one-room affairs, but decent, and Ober didn't charge much in the way of rent. As he drove the quarter-mile out of town, Scott wondered if Win would even remember much of the events of the night before. He might have to be reminded. He had been pretty drunk. However, he had managed to give a good account of himself in the fight. If he had his wits about him enough to realize that Scott wasn't going to let it go, Win may very well have legged it out of the county last night.
Most of the renters had left for church or to spend Sunday with kin, so the camp was fairly deserted. Scott thought nothing of it when he saw that the front door of Win's cabin was standing wide open. People often left their doors and windows open on hot nights, and considering how much Win had imbibed the night before, Scott would have been surprised if he was up and about at this early hour.
He parked the Paige and sat there for a moment, watching the open door for activity inside. He stepped out of the car and walked up onto the low stoop where he stopped outside the door.
“Win Avey,” he called. “You in there?”
Scott took a moment to listen for movement before he tried again. “Win, I aim to take you in for brawling, and Victor too, if he's in there. Come on out peaceable, now, and don't make me come in there after you.”
No answer. He could see part of the interior of the cabin. A table with no chairs, and the foot of a camp bed. No human legs at the end of the bed. Win had likely gotten smart and taken off. Scott frowned and drew his sidearm before he stepped inside. He had been ambushed before and he didn't fancy a repeat of the experience.
Win was there, all right, hanging by his feet at the end of a rope slung over a ceiling beam. His throat had been cut, and he had bled all over the floor like a slaughtered animal. Scott recognized the bulky body and dark hair, and the clothes that Pip James had slashed up with a razor the night before. He wouldn't have been able to identify the face. It had been beaten to an unrecognizable pulp.
Scott breathed an oath and made a cursory search of the room before sliding his pistol back into the holster. Victor was not there. Scott put his hands on his hips and gazed at the floor, thinking. Pip James hadn't done it. He had been behind bars when Win met his maker. Victor Hayes? But why? They were compatriots. Which didn't mean Scott wasn't going to haul Victor in for questioning.
Even so, Scott knew the reason Win Avey had died, as plain as if God himself had whispered the answer into his ear. Win's brutal form of patriotism had outraged the wrong person.
“Woe be to the man or group of men
that seeks to stand in our way.”
âWoodrow Wilson, June 1917
Scott cut down Win Avey's body, laid it on the bed, and covered it with a blanket before driving to the brick plant and informing Eric Bent, the Sunday shift supervisor, of what had happened. Bent sent his nephew Henry Blackwood to the cottage to stand watch outside while Scott drove back into town. He rousted Mr. Lee, the undertaker, to retrieve Win's earthly remains. then sent Trenton Calder to relieve Henry and secure the scene of the crime.
His next order of business was to call on the newly elected mayor, Mr. Jehu H. Ogle. Since it was Sunday, he went by the mayor's home, but Mrs. Ogle told him that her husband had had an early visitor and the two had gone to the office rather than discuss business at home.
Mr. Ogle's office was located on Main Street above the Elliot and Ober Theater, where he practiced law with his partner Abner Meriwether when he wasn't engaged in the affairs of the town. Scott climbed the stairs and walked into Mr. Ogle's private chambers without announcement.
Scott sighed when he saw Ogle's visitor. Emmanuel Clover stood up from his chair in front of Ogle's desk. A look of relief passed over the mayor's face when he recognized Scott. Scott wasn't sure how long the relief would last when he gave the mayor his news.
Ogle gestured toward the chair that Clover had just vacated. “Have a seat, Scott. Mr. Clover was just on his way out.”
Clover turned to leave, but Scott held up a hand. “That won't be necessary, J.H. I reckon he'd better hear what I have to say. I found Win Avey hanging from a rafter at his house this morning. He's been murdered. Throat cut.” There was no use to beat around the bush.
Both men made surprised noises, and Clover sank back into his chair. Scott continued before the questions started. “I don't know what happened yet. I just found him not an hour ago. But he was involved in a scuffle with a W.C.U. member last night. I arrested the Red last night, so he didn't do it, but I fear he's come to town with some of his cronies to make trouble over the draft lottery. I don't know who all the rest of them are, but I'll try to root them out before the lottery. I can't guarantee to get them all, though. So I'm here toâ¦strongly suggestâ¦that the town cancel the Liberty Sing. Win has pals of his own, you know. And after what happened, I expect if those two packs of troublemakers get together there will be a right old hullabaloo. And I'd just as soon⦔
Clover interrupted. “Oh, no, Sheriff. We can't let anything deter us from a patriotic demonstration. That's just what the enemy wants!”
Ogle agreed. “I can't call it off now, Scott. It's too durn late. The whole west half of the county is planning to show up. It's been in the paper and everything.”
Mr. Clover was too zealous to be persuaded, so Scott directed his argument to the mayor. “Don't make it so hard, then, J.H. Let me lock up the hall and put a sign on the door. The boys can get their draft notices in the mail or read the newspaper to see if their numbers come up, like everybody else.”
“But Mr. Tucker⦔ Clover attempted.
Ogle spoke over him. “Scott, deputize as many men as you need to patrol the Liberty Sing. I'm sure you can keep the peace. I'm afraid if we called it off we really would have a riot on our hands. Folks will come to town anyway to hear from the reporter if their numbers were picked, whether they can get into the hall or not. Better to have everyone in one place where you can keep an eye on things.”
Scott bit his lip. Maybe the mayor was right, but that didn't mean he liked it. He shot Mr. Clover a sideways glance. “Emmanuel, I have no idea yet who killed Avey. He was a rowdy in the best of times, so his death may have nothing to do with the fact that he was one of our Council of Defense members. But maybe it does. So if I was you I'd consider laying low for a spell until I can get this thing figured out.”
Poor Clover. He already saw enemies around every corner. The mere suggestion that he could personally be a target caused the blood to drain out of his face. He swallowed and leaned back. But Scott was mistaken if he expected that Clover's fear would get the better of him. Clover stood up, shaky but determined. “I'll not hide from adversity, Mr. Tucker. I shall proudly be in the forefront at the Liberty Sing and never give in to traitors and foreign spies and fifth-columnists. No act of terror must ever cause us to alter our American way of life by one jot.”
Scott gave Clover a wordless once-over before turning back to the mayor. “If you insist on going through with this assembly, J.H., I'm telling you right now that I can't guarantee there won't be trouble. But I'll try to forestall as many agitators as I can beforehand and if all goes well we'll have a peaceful night.” In truth, Scott was anxious to hear about his own son's status as soon as the numbers were drawn. Even if it did mean he may have to bust a few heads during the course of the evening.
Emmanuel Clover's countenance lifted at Scott's surrender. “I'll do my best to keep an eye on things around town, Sheriff, and immediately report any worrisome activity to you or one of your deputies.”
“That would be most helpful, Emmanuel.”
“Then I shall take my leave, Mr. Tucker, Mr. Mayor. Until Friday.”
Clover closed the office door behind him, and Scott looked back at Ogle. “What was he doing here?”
“Oh, he's speaking at the meeting next week. As the head Council of Defense man in the town he gets to read out all the new war rules and regulations. After what happened to Avey, though, I'm surprised he still wants to go through with it. It seems like since his wife was killed in that accident he's gotten afraid of his own shadow.”
“Well, that's a hard thing to bear.” Scott's tone was thoughtful. “It'll shake a man to his core when he first realizes that trouble and injustice happens to the innocent and guilty alike. Stillâ¦he's a man of true conviction and he does plow ahead no matter what.” An ironic smile flitted over his lips. “I kind of admire the little pecker.”
“Resistance in horses is often a mark of strength and vigor, and proceeds from high spirits; but punishment would turn it into vice.”
âNolan's System For Training
Cavalry Horses, 1862
The white-maned roan was a fine, smooth ride when he took a notion to be, but if he wasn't in the mood, Charlie could no more make him cooperate than he could rope the moon. The horse would behave like the high-class mount he was for days on end, lulling the boy into a state of discaution. Then out of the blue, just when Charlie least expected it, the horse would go to bucking like he had burrs under his saddle. Charlie halfway thought that the roan was making a perverse game out of tossing his unwary rider into the dirt. Aside from throwing Charlie onto his rump with unsettling regularity, the roan had never tried to hurt more than the boy's pride. It was a good thing. The animal suffered from a nervous affliction from having survived a tornado, and Shaw had made it very clear to Charlie from the beginning that if the horse tried to injure anyone he'd have to be put down. No reprieve. Charlie expected that the roan knew that, for he never misbehaved enough to get himself shot.
The horse generally behaved better with Shaw or Gee Dub, which was all right. Charlie had grown up in the saddle and was a good rider, but both his elders had enjoyed years more practice with horses than Charlie had. But the awful thing was that when the roan got so riled up that none of the Tucker men could do anything with him, the very sight of Charlie's eleven-year-old sister Sophronia would calm him right down.
The roan was the finest, most valuable, and manliest horse Charlie had ever seen. He never expected to own such a wonderful, fiery creature, especially at the tender age of sixteen. The fact that the horse loved his little sister more than him only added to the boy's general discontentment with his lot in life.
Charlie was in the roan's stall, lovingly brushing the lustrous coat, when the object of his disgruntlement appeared. She climbed up the slats of the stall and hung her arms over the top rail, grinning at him, all a mess of frizzy reddish hair, freckles, and big white teeth.
“Hey, Charlie Boy. You give this horse a name yet?”
He tried to ignore her, but she didn't take the hint.
“Gee Dub said that now you're calling him Lightning Bolt. Does he like that any better than Devil Dancer? Why'd you go with Lightning Bolt? Is it that white blaze on his nose? It's too fat to look like a bolt of lightning.”
How did she do that? Sophronia had a knack for knowing just which topic to broach to annoy Charlie the most. Ever since he had come into possession of the roan, Charlie had been trying out one name after another, but nothing seemed to stick. In fact, if he hadn't known better, he would have sworn that every name he tried on the horse thus far just irritated him. He first called the roan Tornado, since it was due to the tornado that tore through Boynton the year before that the horse lost his previous owner. But every time Charlie called him Tornado, the horse tried to buck him off. “Tornado” obviously brought up too many unfortunate memories. So he changed the name to Hercules, but that just got him scraped out of the saddle when the roan decided to run his rider under a low tree branch. Six Shooter earned him a bite on the butt. Devil Dancer shied away every time Charlie tried to mount.
Charlie figured he hadn't come up with a name that properly conveyed the horse's strength, pride, and spirit. The horse would let him know when he did.
He had intended to ignore his sister until she went away, but her question had goaded him. “If you've just got to know, I'm calling him Lightning Bolt 'cause he's fast.”
Lightning Bolt snorted and tried to step on Charlie's foot, but the boy skipped out of the way.
“So how's he liking it?”
“He likes it fine.” The roan snorted again and knocked Charlie into the rails with his shoulder.
Sophronia chucked. “Yeah, looks like it.”
“What do you want, you little flea? Or did you come out here just to get me riled up?”
“Mama says it's about time to go to church and you should come on.”
Charlie went back to his brushing. “Tell Mama I'll be there directly.”
Sophronia didn't move from her perch on the slats. “You know, you're going about it all wrong.”
“I reckon I know how to groom a horse.”
“Not that. I mean naming that horse. You keep coming up with hard names, and yonder horse has been through enough hard times to do him. He don't like tough names. You ought to try something peaceful. Something sweet.”
This was too much. Charlie glared at her. “Sweet! Now, that takes the cake! This ain't no lady's palfrey. This here is a steed. A war horse. He wants a manly name.”
“Pshaw. You're the one wants a manly name for him.”
He turned his back on her. “You don't know what you're talking about. Now get out of here before I whop you.”
She wasn't bothered. She hopped down off the fence with a chuckle. He could no longer see her, but he could hear her plain enough. “I'm telling you, Charlie Boy. He wants to be called something like Sugarplum.”
Charlie rolled his eyes. Sophronia reappeared over the top of the gate, her bare toes curled over a low slat. “Hello, Sugar-
plum,” she cooed. The horse pricked up his ears. Sophronia reached one hand toward the animal's nose. “Come over here and let me love on you.”
Charlie gasped, half expecting the horse to bite the girl's hand off. Instead he nodded his big head up and down a couple of times and moved up close enough for her to rub his forehead. “Why, you're just a cuddle pie, aren't you? Yes, you are, you sweetie. You've had enough manliness to last you, haven't you? Well, don't you worry, I'll come by every day and hug you and bring you sweet potatoes and carrots and, and, and, an apple. How about that, mother's little darling?”
Charlie's mouth flopped open as the gelding leaned in to Sophronia's petting and gave a contented huff. For an instant he was dumbfounded, but his amazement transformed in a blink to wild indignation. The finest horse he ever had or was likely to have loved a freckle-faced, frizzy-haired eleven-year-old girl with big teeth better than it did him. Charlie had lavished all his attention and care on that beast for more than a year and Sophronia had never done a thing in the world for him but talk to him in baby-talk. Was there no justice in the world? Was there no reward for devotion? It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.
He emitted a bellow that encompassed all his rage and heartbreak and flung the curry brush at the gate, not really intending to hit his sister, but determined to drive her off. The brush hit the gate hard enough to ricochet and smack him in the shoulder. The horse shied and Sophronia dropped out of sight again. Her laughter taunted him. The sound of her voice receded as she ran out of the stable. “I'll be back, Sweet Honey Baby!”