Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel (9 page)

Edson was still in a glow as Mitchell Marsten walked the short distance back to where Mobley and Edson stood. He took Edson’s hand in his, crossed his left over them both, and squeezed them tight. The beginning of a tear sparkled in Marsten’s eye.

“Edson, you’ve been like a son to me these past years, but I know all sons eventually have to strike out on their own. I’ve wondered for some time why you had not already done so. I guess you were just waiting for the right opportunity. This job is made for your talents. I know you will succeed.”

Marsten broke his grasp on Edson’s hand, reached out and gave him a big bear hug, then stepped back. “You have my blessin’ and anything else you may want from me to help you along, including that fine horse you’ve been riding. I’ve only got the few hundred dollars I brought along on this trip, but you’re welcome to it. Pay time is long overdue. I’ll get the rest to you as soon as I can sell off some more stock. I’ll wire it in care of Judge Meadows in Austin. Is that acceptable?”

Edson came to attention. He saluted crisply. “Yes sir, Cap’m.”

“Thank you, Edson.”

Turning to the other wranglers, Marsten yelled, “We’re burning daylight, boys. Saddle up. Let’s get ‘em on home.”

The wranglers whooped and hollered as they ran off to their horses, mounted and rode wildly off to the East toward the Brazos River where the Arabians were grazing. They raced each other hard, legs and quirts flailing. Marsten, ever the leader in control, stepped gracefully onto his horse and loped perfectly away for several hundred yards. He stopped, turned, waved his hat in a wide circle and bellowed to the three lawmen watching them depart
. “Mobley Meadows, Jack Anthony Lopes ... you’re welcome at my fire anytime. If you need help, just get on the telegraph. We’ll be there before you can spit twice.”

Mobley waved his hat back and watched as the wranglers rode off, admiring their reckless skill. Strangely, he felt both a sense of loss and of foreboding as they disappeared over the horizon. Had he just taken sides in a game he knew very little to nothing about?

CHAPTER 10

Governor Edmund Jackson Davis stared at the floor as he nervously paced the length of his spacious, wood paneled office. Shaggy gray clouds hung low over the city of Austin as one more in a series of nasty storms passed on its way to the swamps of Louisiana, leaving a cold drizzle in its wake. It was a dismal day.

That was the way it was this time of the year and much of the rest. Beautiful one day and the next a rash-inducing humid heat followed by wet, miserable rain, all ending in the awful frost and biting cold of winter.

Of medium height, Davis prided himself on standing straight as a string when in the public eye, in keeping with his cavalry tradition, and his slender build gave him an illusion of additional height. He kept himself meticulously dressed at all times in finely tailored suits, his now straight and lengthy beard well groomed. He’d kept it wild and raggedy during the war years, but felt now as the governor and father figure to his people; he must appear more mature in public. He wished the beard had more of his natural curl to it, but his wife liked it straight, and that was that.

Davis usually exuded confidence, and thought of himself as tall among a race of midgets. Today, he felt small and insignificant. His practiced haughty bearing and aristocratic manner had given way to that of a slump-shouldered servant. When in this mood, his staff stayed as far from him as they could. It made him angry. If he had to suffer, so should they.

Covering the room with long strides, Davis tried to think. His mind failed him. There seemed no resolution to the never ending problems posed by his opposition. Now, Grant,
the drunken swine,
was on the verge of abandoning him. There had been no action on his request to cancel the upcoming election and vicious rumors of defection raged among his most trusted supporters. It was one fire after another, one meeting after another. Trying to keep up with it had given him a blinding headache.

He stopped in front of the liquor cabinet beside his desk. The gentle odor of aged whiskey called to him. Should he indulge this early in the day?
No
, he thought
. That would make him no better than Grant.
He turned away from the bar. Normally, he would not drink until well into the afternoon, but today his problems seemed worse than ever.

Looking up at the paneled wall beyond his desk, Davis found himself admiring the photograph of himself and two of his cavalry officers in New Orleans many years before. He’d been so proud then, in charge of his own unit, young and eager. Ready to help smash the traitors who had stolen Texas from the Union.

Ultimately, he’d been disappointed with his military service. Though he’d risen to absolute power in Texas after the war, he could not forget the humiliation of being captured by rangers. Nor had he lived down the defeat at Laredo. His only consolation had been revenge. His enemies had suffered. So had the rangers. But the damned rebels kept coming. More streamed out of the devastated southern states every day, complicating everything.

Many powerful Texans, who might have helped, refused to do so. They met in secret cliques, formed terrorist organizations, and generally fought him every step of the way. But he’d finally found the answer. He’d fought fire with fire, terrorist act for terrorist act. With all of the violence being blamed on the rebels, he believed the president had no choice but to intervene. But Grant was notorious for dragging his feet. It never ceased to amaze Davis how a man so decisive in war could be so weak a leader in peace.

Davis knew he had to do
something
, …
something outrageous.
The state must be saved from itself. Ferdie Lance, murderous snake that he was, might be the only answer.

Giving in to his urge, he walked back to the bar and picked up a half-full decanter of whiskey. At least it wasn’t the rotgut Grant was rumored to prefer. He poured two fingers worth into a fine crystal glass, loosened his collar and returned to his desk. The burgundy leather tufted wingback chair gave comfort as he placed his spatted shoes on the matching ottoman and sipped his whiskey. Having to deal with Ferdie Lance was a task he did not relish. The man was as unpredictable as he was necessary.

Where the hell is that damned corporal?

Davis finished his drink and threw his empty glass at the closed door. “Corporal Books, get in here,
damn it all
.”

The door cracked open. A smallish black face appeared, eyes wide with fright. “Yes, Sir?”

“Where the hell is Yancy Potts? Get him in here …
Now
!”

“Yes Sir, Governor. Right away, Sir.” The face of Corporal Books disappeared. He would, Davis knew, scurry down the spiral staircase, out the entrance to the governor’s mansion. Yancy’s office was on the top floor of the old capitol administration building less than a block away, as befitted the governor’s chief of staff. Yancy would be standing in front of Davis in less than five minutes.
Time for one more drink.

The election mandated by the new constitution was less than six months away. Davis knew he had to start his campaign with its necessary tours of the state, but it was the last thing he wanted to do. Having been virtually handed the position originally, he had never had to expose himself to the rigors of a down and dirty election battle. And leaving the confines of Austin while the legislature was screaming bloody murder over his judicial appointments would place him at a disadvantage. Now, one of the local newspapers was snooping into land dealings over at Fredericksburg and people all over were demonstrating against his property reassessment decree.

The one ray of light had been his campaign of terror. He’d arranged for the Texas State Police to arrest 6000 of the worst of the rebel agitators, guilty or not, and that had seemed to quiet many of the others down. Ferdie had been doing well keeping things stirred up out in the hinterlands, but now some federal judge—a
judge
of all things—had wiped out the entire Dallas area raiding force. There was going to be real trouble. All these rebels needed was a hero to worship.

Yancy Potts quietly entered Governor Davis’s office. He stood waiting for Davis to look up. Reaching for his handkerchief, Yancy wiped an accumulation of moisture from his balding head, silently cursing whatever crisis the governor considered important enough to call him out in the cold rain.

Yancy had been Davis’s chief of staff for more than four years, but still felt uneasy in his presence. As the election neared, Yancy knew Davis would have more need for his talents. Skullduggery was Yancy’s forte, the subtle blending of truth with fiction. His unique ability to cajole, corrupt, or blackmail a political enemy was well known and respected among his peers. Governor Davis, however, had been far too sparing in his praise or reward for Yancy’s assistance. That would have to change.

Yancy was nothing if not practical. He knew having the governor’s ear and confidence would be of little value if the man was thrown out of office. As disaster after disaster came and went, Yancy toyed with the idea of looking elsewhere for employment. As a well paid, but appointed government bureaucrat, Yancy would not only be out of a job but out of prospects for a job if Davis lost. The thought frightened him.

Being close to power, exercising power behind the scene was addictive. Yancy would be considered a traitor if he did anything to help the governor’s opponent, Richard Coke, but, unless something drastic happened soon; Coke would be in the governor’s mansion in January.

Yancy visualized himself blacking shoes on a New Orleans street corner, his wife Dixie selling her body just to stay alive. He shuddered.
She’d probably love it, the slut.

“Oh, Yancy,” Governor Davis said as he recognized his chief’s presence. “I need to talk to Judge Hooks. Is he still in town?”

Yancy stepped forward to stand in front of the ornate desk. “Yes sir, I’m sure he is. Whether he’s sober or not, I don’t know.”

In fact, Yancy did know. Judge Aubrey Hooks was always drunk. He’d been drunk since the day his wife died four years ago. The day she was found raped, horribly mutilated by massive knife wounds to her abdomen, and sprawled on the front steps of the federal courthouse. How Hooks carried on with his duties, no one knew. But Governor Davis would allow no one to speak ill of the man. He might be a drunk, but he was on occasion a powerful tool.

“Just get him up here. I think we may have a problem with one of his colleagues. See that Hooks is sober enough to follow directions, and let me know when he’s coming. When you’ve done that, see if you can find Ferdie Lance. That bunch he sent up to Dallas has been completely destroyed.”

Yancy stiffened, but attempted to maintain his normal composure. It did not pay to allow others to think you were upset.

“Destroyed?”
How could that be? Those bastards had been armed to the teeth, paid more than they could have earned in a year. Damn! That crazy Ferdie should have made them wait for their money.

“Yes. Some fellow named Meadows, a newly appointed federal judge. He and a deputy marshal named Jack Lopes ambushed them north of Waco. Have you ever heard of these two?”

Ambushed? Fifteen outlaws ambushed and killed by two men, one a judge?
“No, I haven’t. But I think we’d better find out who they are. This kind of thing could get out of hand.”

“I agree. See what you can dig up and let me know. Start with the appointments committee in Washington. The judge had to be confirmed by the Senate, so they’ll know all about him. While you’re at it, find out why Grant would make a judicial appointment in my state without checking with me first. It’s insulting. We may have to do some serious complaining in Washington.”

Yancy nodded.
It was more than an insult. Grant was trying to tell Davis something.
“Is that all, sir?”

The governor looked at Yancy, half expecting him to offer some comment or potential solution, but saw he was in one of his detached moods.
His boyfriend was probably fooling around on him again. Jesus Jones, and him with the best looking wife in Austin.

“For now. Say hello to Dixie for me.”

“I will. Thank you, Governor.”

* * *

Having completed his tasks for the day, Yancy found himself alone in his office, staring blankly out the small third floor window overlooking the city. He was always the last to leave, but he made sure everyone left on schedule. It was a matter of pride with him. After a moment, he turned and sagged into his soft leather chair. His office was well appointed, but not ostentatious. He wanted no attention focused upon himself. His style of management involved quiet diplomacy, diligent homework and a strong investigative staff. There was little he did not know, less he could not find out.

Truth is, Yancy thought, if he could make a deal with Richard Coke, his ticket to the future would be secure. He’d remain in power no matter who won the election. But how to go about it? How do you play both sides in a fight like this? If he were caught, both would have him shot on sight.

He had painstakingly gathered inside information, gossip and hard evidence of all of Governor Davis’s misdeeds for the past six years. If Coke was willing to provide Yancy with a position in the new administration, he would be able to provide the man with power over more people than Coke had ever dreamed possible. But, timing was critical. There was the outside chance Davis might manage to stay in power. That, of course, would be preferable. Yancy intended to be prepared for either eventuality.

But it was late, time to go home. Every day at six o’clock in the evening, Yancy Potts walked home to his wife. Today was no different. He carefully maintained a specific image. Those who noticed such things saw a thin, balding, waif of a man, dressed meticulously in a black pin-striped suit. He always wore a Lincolnesque stove pipe hat that made him look taller than he was, carried a walking stick or umbrella, depending on the weather, and smiled very little. His neighbors knew him to be of some import, but few knew the true nature of his power. None knew of his ambitions or of his true character.

Dixie Lee knew and supported him fully.
For a price
. She’d found out about him and would have filed for divorce had he not been prepared to expose her own petty affairs. She had her loves, no less bizarre on occasion, and he had his.

Yancy’s home, not unlike a New York brownstone, was as solid as it was plain. Constructed of granite block, brick and concrete, it resembled nothing less than a fort in the midst of a full block of similar buildings. Yancy felt secure and comfortable in his house. A feeling he experienced nowhere else in Austin. A short red brick stairway led to a wide railed landing and a solid oak double doorway. As he stepped up on the landing, fumbling for his key, his wife opened the door.

Yancy looked up. Dixie Lee Potts was stunningly beautiful. Raven black hair hung to her shoulders and curled carelessly about her slender neck. Alabaster skin, flawless and soft, contrasted perfectly with her hair and the light pink blush of her lips. Brown eyes, dark eyebrows and incredibly long lashes, attracted men like flies. Her nose was perfectly shaped, straight to the tip, turned up and aristocratic in profile. She was as perfect a disguise as Yancy could have hoped for. Today, Dixie wore a plain white linen dress with high neck bodice and a small bustle. A short brimmed white straw hat was pinned to her hair, and she carried a white parasol. In all, she looked the classic virgin.