Lords of an Empty Land (8 page)

He didn't recognize the sturdy, middle-aged face. He slowly turned and walked to the wagons. But before he got more than a few steps, he saw the two bloody corpses sprawled out on the ground and three more already loaded in the wagons. He saw the teenage boy first, then two young girls, just toddlers. All had been shot in the head and thrown in the wagon. On the ground, the parents lay flat where they had been executed, their bodies perforated with bullet holes, the anxiety and fear still on their faces and almost making their grisly wounds unnoticeable.

Douglas struggled to get some air. He poured water from his canteen down his throat then turned to look at Private O'Neal, now pale white. The private bent over and vomited. Douglas felt his skin go cold. His mind went dizzy. He had never seen anything like this, civilians murdered for the few valuables in the wagon, maybe a few hundred dollars in gold. Despite all the death he'd seen during the war, he'd never seen civilians, much less women and children, simply murdered.

He looked to Basil, standing over the man he had shot. Basil held the murderer's burlap mask in his hand.

“It's one of those Dallon boys we saw at the sheriff's office the other day,” Basil said.

Douglas turned to the captive. Where earlier he saw only a man, an outlaw, an opponent, now he saw utter evil. He walked over, stopping a few paces short of him, fighting off an urge to pistol-whip the man across his head. “You're going to trial. What's your name?”

The captive just gritted his teeth in silence, his muscles tensing up as he worked them against the coarse rope tied tightly around his wrists.

“We've got bigger problems,” Basil said, approaching. “The others may be back. It's still six hours till daylight.” He stopped walking and struck a match to light his cigar. The night hung so quiet, the scratch of the match on his leather belt drifted over the land.

Douglas looked around, thinking and calculating. It appeared that the outlaws had been hitching up the horse teams to the wagons and loading the slain when the army patrol arrived.

To the west, the moon crept below the trees. Even so, he easily saw the ridges of the surrounding hills, none further than a quarter-mile away. “We sleep here. Secure the prisoner's legs and gag his mouth. Let's put out the fire and post a guard.” He turned to Basil. “How far to Winnfield from here?”

“If we leave at dawn, we can make it by noon,” Basil replied, mincing off a piece of jerky with his knife. He offered a chunk to Douglas.

Douglas declined, his stomach still jumping and thoughts racing. He looked around again, sharpening his gaze. The Louisiana nights were always alive, filled with all sorts of critters moving and flying that made it impossible to tell if anything else was wayward. Was there anyone out there? He feared nothing more than squatting here at night for six hours. “We'll tidy up the dead in the morning. Let's cut the horses loose for grazing. I'll take the first watch.”

The land was calm. The red dust dangled in the damp air. It was very hot under the midday sun. Douglas led the patrol into the outskirts of Winnfield past a large chicken coop. Only a half-mile ahead, down the dirt road, sat the town's center, twenty or so wood structures around the tree-dotted parish square. On the edge of town, most of the houses were unpainted and surrounded by small gardens. In the road, a few un-penned cows mingled around a water trough and salt lick.

Behind Douglas rode the outlaw, his hands bound at his lap, his horse tethered to Douglas's saddle. Basil rode behind the outlaw holding Douglas's shotgun, its butt resting on his thigh, as he whistled “The Bonnie Blue Flag.”

Behind Basil, the lifeless Dallon boy lay sprawled crossways, belly-down over a saddled horse, a rope securing him to the saddle and his arms and legs hanging from each side of the horse. The bright rays of the sun clearly illuminated the dark bloodstains and open wounds on the dead man's body. Farther back, Private O'Neal and Huff drove the wagons leading the spare horses. The murdered family, stowed in the wagons, had been covered so as to conceal their bodies.

As the small cavalcade moved farther into town, the residents all stopped whatever they were doing to watch. Odd among the buildings, horses, carriages, and bystanders, all stood quiet, so quiet he heard the horses' footsteps. The curious, strange eyes of the townsfolk moved between the dead Dallon boy and the soldiers' eyes, shaded by the big brims of their hats. The citizens, about thirty, didn't look shocked, interested, mad, or happy, just entranced. All wore dumb stares.

His tired horse walked slowly. Douglas nodded ahead to the Parish Square and a large single-storied wood structure. “The courthouse. The sheriff's office is across the square, just around the corner. Be a good day for you, Mr. Dubose. Looks like you'll make all the papers tomorrow. You'll like that.”

Basil gave a slight smirk as Douglas pulled up on his reins in front of the sheriff's office. Under an awning in front of the office stood a tall, slender man with long blond hair and clad in brown trousers and a blue cotton shirt. Douglas looked at the shiny badge pinned on the man's chest.

“Sheriff Thaxton here?” Douglas asked.

“No,” the man replied flatly. “Down in Montgomery, I 'spec.”

Douglas grabbed his pommel and swung a foot over the saddle, easing to the ground. “What's your name?”

“Weaver.”

“Deputy Weaver,” Douglas continued, “we've got a man in custody. And we've got jurisdiction to hold him in your jail.” As Douglas stepped up on the pine planks, he turned to look at Basil, who was getting down from his horse and instructing the outlaw in custody to do likewise. “You know this man?”

The deputy nodded to the man whom Basil led to the jail. “Francis Garrett.”

Douglas turned to the short, wiry man with simple gray eyes and a steely, square face. “Any relation to Moses and Elisha?”

“Their youngest brother,” the deputy said.

“Since you've hired me,” Basil commented, pointing the shotgun at Garrett to instruct him to walk over to the sheriff's office, “we've 'bout put the Garretts out of business.” Basil removed a big chew of tobacco from his mouth and threw it into Garrett's face.

Douglas stepped down off the porch and grabbed a handful of the dead outlaw's hair. He lifted his head to inspect the man, his skin now gray, his lips and eyes turning ebony.

“I'm sure you know this one,” Basil uttered to the deputy.

Douglas walked inside the sheriff's office. He commandeered a set of keys hanging against the wall and walked over to the single cell in the little office. Placing the key in the iron door's lock, he opened the cell and waited and watched as Garrett was escorted into the holding pen. Douglas slammed the door shut, generating a loud clank, and turned to the deputy, now wearing an anxious and disgruntled face. “You can have the murderer, the abomination, draped over the horse outside. Do with him what you want.”

Deputy Weaver walked out of the office, bumping into Huff and Private O'Neal as they entered. Douglas reached into his pocket and retrieved three gold coins. “Huff, take the family and find the undertaker. Make sure they get a proper grave. O'Neal, find somebody to tend to the horses, get a few hours' rest, then I want you to go to Natchitoches and get Judge Butler. Bring him here. We're going to try Garrett here. I'll send him a telegraph this afternoon.”

“Here in
Winnfield
?” Basil said. “You think that's a good idea?”

“Yes, I do,” Douglas replied, walking out of the office.

As Basil followed him outside, Douglas nodded to the courthouse across the square, partially visible through the lofty oaks. Unlike many in Louisiana, it wasn't an epic structure carved of stone towering above its surroundings. It was built solidly with white walls fronted by big, conical windows and topped with a rough cupola.

“There, I want to try him where the entire parish can witness the law taking hold, see the consequences of outlawery up close and personal.... Basil, after we get settled in, I want to cut that bandit horse loose, the one we brought with us from last night. Want you to follow him this afternoon. See where he goes.”

Above the wood roofs lay the emerald hills. Across the square, a few people standing in front of the blacksmith's and shoemaker's shops still looked at the jail and the strangers in town. This area was at complete odds with the delta. It had in fact been the only parish in Louisiana that had voted against secession—due to the fact that the yeomen here didn't care to spill blood for the benefit of the wealthy plantation owners. That said, these people didn't care for Yankee rule any more than the rest of the state. When the men in these hills had been called to task, they had been some of the ablest soldiers in the Southern cause, among the few that had never been defeated.

Douglas still held the vivid memories of the 28th Louisiana Regiment, raised here, and their spectacular attack at Mansfield. The brave boys from these cotton fields and tall trees had breached the bluecoats' formidable lines and sent the Northerners and their army not only in retreat, but completely out of this area, all despite being outnumbered almost three to one and supposedly fighting with scant supplies.

This area now harbored hundreds of ex-Confederate soldiers, mostly French and Scotch-Irish. Douglas was now in the belly of the beast, as isolated from the world as possible. A telegraph line stretched to Winnfield but could easily be cut. Douglas took in a deep breath. To the west, above the Louisiana horizon, the sky flashed in an uncanny mix of dark indigo, white, and crimson as some beautiful but ominous heat lightning danced over the hills.

 

 

The air hung thick in the little jail. Only two large candles lit the room, their flames completely vertical and casting a small, steady halo of light. Outside the window, darkness prevailed. Douglas stretched his weary arms, then unfurled his bedroll on the hardwood floor as he looked at the prisoner, sound asleep in the cell. Basil lay on his back on the floor, snoring loudly. He looked at his watch, ten minutes short of midnight. He bumped Huff, also dozing on the floor, with his boot.

“Your watch. Wake Basil up in three hours. He can take it to daylight,” Douglas said, sitting on the floor and removing his boots.

“Did you get a telegraph back from the judge?” Huff asked, wiping the sleep out of his eyes.

“Yes, he's departing early in the morning. Probably be here by late afternoon tomorrow.”

“What's about that bandit horse?” Huff continued, yawning. “Where'd he go?”

“Right to Moses Garrett's place.”

“Well, that confirms that.” Huff chuckled and slowly stood. He pulled on his boots and grabbed his rifle before walking over to sit at the office's small desk.

“It's good to know, but following a horse won't hardly stand up to a jury.” Douglas scratched his chin with a forefinger. “We need dead bodies and witnesses, and we've got both. It'd be better if we had some witnesses not on the army payroll. But we've got a sympathetic judge. Should be enough to get a conviction of some sort.... That damn Basil's not so smooth when he's sleeping. He's rattling the rafters in this place.”

Douglas leaned back on the hardwood floor, balling his blanket under his head. As he did, he looked over at Basil, his earsplitting breaths almost vibrating the floor. The pistol fighter, in his all-consuming vanity, didn't look that intrepid now as he placed his hat over his head, covering his face. He closed his eyes and began to think blissfully about the only thing that got his mind off his daily routine: Hannah. He almost couldn't wait to get back to Natchitoches and feel her touch. He thought of her zeal, her wit, her optimism and compassion, all of her that he cherished. They were the perfect match, her fair, delicate urbane appearance beside his rigorous, tan athletic figure dressed in his bold, gallant uniform. In her arms, he lost all of his worries. The thoughts seemed to comfort his aching, tired bones.

In only an instant, his eyes having barely closed, he felt Huff over him, shaking him and imploring him to get up off the floor. In his sleepy haze, he couldn't understand Huff's broken, heavily accented slang. Disoriented, Douglas shook his head, gradually opening his eyes. He grabbed his watch, and turned it so the glare of one of the candles brightened its hands, indicating two in the morning. “What is it?” he grumbled.

“Come look, a fire.”

Douglas jumped to his feet. He looked out the window. Outside, he heard a few desperate voices, chaotic, busy movement. He grabbed his rifle and rushed out the door, Huff behind him. From the porch, he saw the orange flames licking at the sky. The courthouse across the square was now a raging inferno. There was no saving the structure. The local pine contained thick layers of sap, a fuel rarely extinguished even with ample men and material. The amazing, gigantic blaze now reached the cupola and grew exponentially by the second. He felt the pulses of heat as the flickering red glow illuminated the tall trees in the courtyard.

“What you's thinking?” Huff said.

“Don't know. Doesn't look like we'll be having a trial here day after tomorrow. . . . Doubt this is an accident. Good thing the courthouse is surrounded by a square. It won't get any other buildings. That's pretty bold, and desperate, much more so than I ever imagined. They're taking the gloves off, as the Irish would say. We've sure's hell got a war on our hands now.” Douglas paused, thinking for almost a minute. He looked again at his watch and sighed deeply. “That fire will be out in an hour. It'll take another hour or so for everything to settle down and the town to go back to sleep. I want to get out of here well before daylight. I don't want us riding out of town tomorrow in front of everybody. We'll look like we've been defeated, run out. We leave here at 4:30, with the prisoner. We'll catch up with the judge and O'Neal on the road to Natchitoches. Turn them around and have the trial there. We'll look like we've outwitted these malcontent hoodlums. Let's just lay low until then.”