Lords of an Empty Land (6 page)

The defense attorney turned and faced the judge, raising both his hands in the air. “I have no further questions for this witness.”

Douglas stood, looking at the jurors as he stepped down from the witness box. Staring into their eyes, he knew there'd be no conviction. A few of the jurors might have some doubts about the defense's reasoning, but in their eyes, he saw nothing that would likely lead to the unanimous consent required to convict Mr. Johnson. Constable Garrett's words before he'd been gunned down by Basil rang in his ears: “You'll never convict me.”

His anger rose. He only felt an urge to get back to Natchitoches and pursue the night riders. There, he would have all the government's resources. And there, he could do something to make a difference.

The air in the dark room was thick and pungent with the sweet smell of opium and hemp. Candles flickered, sending a strange yellow light through the hazy air. The aroma lingered in Douglas's nose, slightly dizzying his senses as he looked over at Basil, sitting at a table in a back room of the Cotton Palace, a rough hotel, brothel, saloon, and gambling house a few miles outside of Natchitoches at a small river port named Grand Ecore, where a ferry spanned the Red River.

Basil's eyes were bloodshot and foggy. Standing above him, a beautiful blonde, probably in her late twenties, had her silky ivory arms draped around the gunfighter's neck. She looked at Douglas with eyes as wasted as Basil's.

“What time did you get back last night?” Basil said.

“The steamer got back here about ten,” Douglas replied.

“This is Nancy,” Basil mumbled. He turned to the fair-skinned and dainty woman. “Go on upstairs. I've got business.”

The whore stood up straight and looked at Douglas, blinking her deep brown eyes in an almost irresistible fashion. The slight daze induced from the drugs floating through the room accentuated her lustful stare. “Mister, I have someone here who can remove you from your uncompromising mood.” The courtesan kissed Basil on top of the head. “I'll be upstairs when you're through.”

Douglas sat down as the girl started to walk out of the room. “It's going to be hard for you to earn your money, whoring and wallowing in opium all the time.”

Basil lit a thin cigar and offered one to Douglas.

“It's never agreed with me,” Douglas said.

“I'm working now.” Basil took a long puff and stared at the red glow on the cigar's tip. “This place is a trove of information. My first two nights here were quite a learning experience.”

“Don't think the army's going to pay for your run of the house.”

“Don't need the house. I'll just take up with Nancy. She's more than enough woman for me.”

Douglas sat up straight, resting his elbows on the table. “Share all your new knowledge.”

Basil reclined in the chair, bumping the cigar in an ashtray. “Nobody knows who these masked raiders are, maybe white militia. They call them the night riders. What I do know is that when something valuable, or somebody carrying something valuable, moves from here to Natchez, or the other way around, word gets passed to the highwaymen, probably from here or Natchez or one of the ferries. Then the unfortunate souls are never seen again. These are just thieves who kill to cover their trails. A lot of the community is scared silly. Been going on for years, but it's gotten much worse lately.”

Douglas let the words sink in, not sure what they meant, or if they even helped. He already knew most of this. “Well, let's go,” he said and stood. “We've got some things we need to take care of before we go back across the river. You can come back here and continue your snooping after hours, on your own time.” Douglas took a few steps to the door that led to the saloon and then back outside. He opened it and waited on Basil. As he led the gun hand through the door, the late-morning light filtering through the windows lit the vast barroom, its twenty or so tables and two roulette wheels empty. At the bar stood two men partaking from a bottle of whiskey and conversing with the lone barkeep, an elderly man dressed in a black suit.

One of the men twisted to look at Douglas. It was Sheriff Thaxton. The man beside him turned up a shot glass, downing his whiskey. He threw the glass on the floor, shattering it and pointing his finger at Basil. “You gunned down my brother in cold blood, you son of a bitch.”

Douglas stopped in his tracks, a queasy feeling gripping his belly. He again spied the big, almost vacant room. Not a sound echoed off its wood walls. The short burly brute packed a six-shooter on his hip. The man had a bald, shiny scalp, slightly pockmarked face, and roving, intense turquoise eyes, like none Douglas had ever seen before. He appeared wound tight, moving with a quick, aggressive nature, his denim pants adhering tightly to his legs.

“I told you boys not to go stirring up any trouble,” the sheriff said as he squared his shoulders to Basil and Douglas. “Moses Garrett is not at all happy about what happened to his little brother. He just wants the man responsible to get what's coming to him.”

“Constable Garrett should have come in with us instead of resisting arrest,” Douglas said. “And I don't believe either of you have any jurisdiction over the actions of the Fourth Cavalry. Surely, you're not picking a fight with the army.”

Moses Garrett jerked his pistol from his holster, pointing it at Basil. “We'll end all this right now!”

Douglas pulled his own pistol, but before he ever got Moses in his sights, Basil had drawn a steady bead on the man.

“Do it!” Basil screamed, his words echoing loudly off the walls. “You'll be in hell in less than a minute.”

Feet rapidly shuffled on the wood floor. The saloon's swinging doors squeaked. Slowly, Douglas glanced left. The two Dallon boys whom he had met at the sheriff's office came to sliding stops just inside the bar, their hands dangling over the pistols on their hips. Basil calmly readjusted his stance, squaring his shoulders between the men so he could easily eye all four.

The squeaking doors opened again. Huff stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders almost spanning the opening and holding his Henry in front of his chest with both hands. Douglas heard his own heavy breath, his heart pattering fast. He wiped the wet palm of his free hand on his trousers. He stole a glance at the bartender, his jaw hanging open with disbelief as he waited for the earsplitting eruption of flying lead.

Sheriff Thaxton slowly lifted a hand, placing it on Moses's extended arm. “Let's all settle down,” he said softly, pulling the arm down.

Douglas slowly lowered his pistol and nodded to Basil to do the same, but his partner kept his steady weapon locked on the constable's brother's chest.

“
Lower
the pistol,” Douglas said, irritated with Basil. Basil did not react, and Douglas followed the sheriff's lead and reached over himself and pulled down Basil's arm.

“I'll see you again, soon,” Garrett said to Basil, turning for the door. He stopped and pointed at Douglas. “You too. We're going to run you and your godless soldiers out of this country, once and for all. Damn bloodthirsty swines. I'm hoping you come after me. We have ways of making these problems go away around here.”

Garrett marched toward the door, the sheriff and the two Dallon boys behind him.

“If you break the laws of the republic,” Douglas yelled, “I'm going to haul you in, to stand in front of a Federal jury!”

“I suspect we won't have to worry about you, one way or the other, before long,” Garrett said as he walked out of the room.

The morning had all but ended. The searing sun now commanded the day. Douglas walked down the street, chewing on that morning's melee with Moses Garrett as he went through his stash of mail that he had just retrieved from the post office. He looked ahead to his office. Over the door, the weathered wooden sign read: Freedmen's Bureau and US Army Post, 4th Cavalry Regiment, Troop A. Above the building, on a long wooden pole, the Stars and Stripes, weathered and frayed, hung flat in the dead air. To Douglas's knowledge, it was the only American flag in the parish.

The Freedmen's Bureau had been closed for almost a year, and he had a new sign made, but had yet to get around to installing it. Uneven, unpainted boards covered the spacious building. Though only he, Huff, and Basil currently resided here, the building contained his office, a mess room, quarters capable of housing a squad of cavalry, and a small detention cell constructed of iron bars. Local businesses catered to almost all of his and his men's needs. Most of the citizens would have preferred not to pitch in, but the army paid cash, Federal script, a rare commodity that few refused.

The building's appearance didn't please Douglas. He wanted it to look more like his vision of a post he commanded. It needed a fresh coat of paint and some carpentry work. He reminded himself of the repairs he planned to initiate after the harvest when labor would be plentiful.

He unfolded the letter he had scribbled out this morning and planned to send by telegram this afternoon, reading again.

When Douglas entered his office, a large room with a desk, several chairs, and a mess table, he found Hannah, her left hand toting a small picnic basket. Judge Butler stood beside her, and Private O'Neal sat at the table.

“Private O'Neal,” Douglas said in a loud, professional tone.

The eighteen-year-old freckle-faced and redheaded Irishman jumped up and turned to face the officer, his long hair waving as he snapped his stance stiff.

Douglas made a quick inspection of the private's uniform, covering his short, stocky frame. “Run over to the corral and fetch Basil and Huff.”

“Yes, sir,” the private said and quickly departed.

“Good morning,” Hannah said, putting the basket on the table. She opened it and began to place its contents on the wooden table. “Uncle John and I brought you and your men some lunch.”

Douglas stepped forward to inspect the grilled beef, string beans, bread, and blackberry pie.

“You look tired,” the judge said to Douglas. “Have you been out on any more nighttime missions to escort citizens home safely?”

Douglas quickly glanced at Hannah trying not to be noticed, then turned back to the judge. “How I spend my nights is the least of my worries. It's not even noon, and I already damn near got in a shoot-out with Sheriff Thaxton and that psychopath, Moses Garrett . . . down at the Cotton Palace.”

The door rattled open as Private O'Neal led Huff and Basil inside.

“You men eat up,” Hannah said, continuing to arrange the food.

As the four soldiers sat at the table, Judge Butler turned to his niece. “Hannah, can you excuse us? I need to discuss some things in private with Captain Owens and his men.”

“But, Uncle,” Hannah said, “can't it wait until after lunch? I'd like to visit also. I'm not domestic help.”

“Go along,” the judge insisted. “You can visit later. You know how politics stimulates your free spirit. It gave your poor father endless hours of grief. There's nothing more worrisome than that from a young, respectable lady.”

Douglas looked at Hannah and then the judge. “Judge Butler, I hear you're a very fair man. How can it be acceptable for your niece to ride home late at night with a stranger, but not have a mind of her own?”

The judge flashed his focused eyes at Douglas, crinkling his forehead as he moved over a few feet to make room for Hannah at the table. Douglas spent a few seconds relishing Hannah's complimentary gaze.

“I'll say grace,” Hannah said, and everyone bowed their heads in silence.

“Captain Owens,” the judge said in a sincere voice when Hannah finished the quick prayer. He put his hands on the table and quickly glanced at the other three men. “I am a little disturbed about the shooting of Constable Garrett. Not that he didn't deserve what he got, but we have to bring these outlaws in front of a jury. We can't just gun them down. That will do no good. We have to demonstrate to the population that there is law and order around here, and that we're above this violence, that we follow the rules. This is the only way to subjugate the masses. Shoot-outs might get rid of the immediate problem, but only the rule of law can keep the peace.”