The Shadow Man (14 page)

The price went to nine hundred dollars and halted. Caverhill waited for a competing bid. None came. He called out, “One thousand dollars.”

The previous high bidder looked at Caverhill and smiled. “She's yours, senator. Have a pleasant trip back to Texas.”

“That ends the auction for today,” said Picotte. “All those who have made a purchase, please come inside and make your payment to my clerk.”

The men moved inside the Exchange. Caverhill stopped by Picotte.

“I understand you have some Negro men that are for sale but weren't part of this auction?” Caverhill said.

“You're correct,” replied Picotte. “I have six that I bought from a ship that came straight from Cameroon. They're mean ones culled from the three hundred that were on board. They've been whipped several times and are still troublesome. I wouldn't sell them for field work or house niggers. Also, they speak no English.”

“I'd think they would be cheap,” said Caverhill.

“For such ornery ones, I have a standing offer from the foundry. The owner will pay two hundred dollars for each slave I bring him. They cause no problems for him because he chains them to their machines until they learn to obey or they die.”

“Let's examine them.”

“Very well. Come with me. They're just a little distance from here.”

“Dockken, come with us,” Caverhill called to his foreman. “We may have one more Negro to get.”

Picotte led the way two blocks toward the river, crossing Decatur Street and entering a warehouse on Canal Street. Six Negroes, all extremely black and dressed only in tattered cotton trousers, stood chained to iron rings bolted to the thick wooden columns that supported the roof of the cavernous warehouse. With a rattle of iron the black men swung around to stare at the three approaching white men.

* * *

Trodo straightened to his full height. He recognized the smaller man, the one named Picotte. The other two were unknown. One of the white men was as big as Trodo. That man's eyes were like muddy water. Trodo sensed that below their surface some evil plan was forming, like slimy water bugs birthing.

Trodo believed the big man could be more dangerous than any pale-skinned man he had yet encountered, even those aboard the slave ship that enjoyed using their biting whips. Then Trodo smiled, a fleeting smile that came and went. He was already a dead man. He was merely waiting to be killed.

* * *

Caverhill saw the brief stretching of the black man's lips. He thought it was a twitch of fear. Yet when he moved close, he smelled no fear on any of the men. There was only a strong musty odor, like Caverhill had once encountered on the king stud of a band of wild horses.

One after another the Negro men dropped their stares as Caverhill walked past, inspecting them. He motioned with his hand for each to turn. He saw the fresh wounds, as well as the old ones that crisscrossed their backs. Indeed they had been whipped many times.

The large black eyes of the last man didn't waver but stared back, watching Caverhill keenly. Yet at the same time he seemed to be looking at some other scene, one entirely within his mind.

Insolent bastard, thought Caverhill. Without warning he balled a fist into a bony hammer and struck the man a powerful wallop to the side of the head. The Negro staggered under the force of the blow. Then he quickly caught himself and started to spring toward his attacker. Even as he moved toward the white man his step broke.

He halted, trembling, and his eyes raged as he fought to master and control the hot desire to strike back.

“This one will do,” said Caverhill. “I'll give you the foundry price of two hundred dollars.” He was greatly pleased with the Negro's reaction.

“Are you sure?” Picotte questioned. “Look at him. He is ready to kill you.”

“Exactly what I want,” said Caverhill. “Dockken, go get one of the other men to stand guard while you unlock this fellow and chain him to one of the wagons.”

“Here's the key to the lock,” Picotte said.

Trodo stared after the three white men as they walked toward the entrance of the warehouse. When he was sure they wouldn't see him, he spat out a mouthful of blood and two broken teeth.

* * *

Caverhill looked out from the camp fire at the West Indies Negroes, chained to each other between two trees. The big Negro that had come directly from Africa was fastened to a tree on the opposite side of the camp. In the darkness Caverhill could not always see his black form.

The three women sat within the light cast by the leaping flames of the fire. The evening meal had been prepared and eaten. Now the women awaited the call of the white men.

“You,” Caverhill said, pointing to the women, “go over there and sit.”

The slaves immediately rose and moved hastily off to the end of the farthest wagon. When the two other women began to talk, the mulatto hushed them. She cocked an ear back at the white men and listened intently.

Caverhill had waited long enough. For three days he had journeyed with his men and slaves northwest along a well-used road. At a village named Baton Rouge they had crossed the broad, brown flow of the Mississippi River on a ferryboat. Now they were a day west of the river, but still four hundred miles from Austin. Caverhill could travel that distance on horseback in ten days or less. The slaves and wagons would take twice that much time to reach the same destination. It was the right moment to teach the slaves obedience and then go on his way alone.

“What's on your mind, senator?” asked Dockken.

“I want to ride to Austin, and then on to the ranch as quickly as possible. But before I go, the Negroes must be taught to always obey. It has to be a tough lesson, one that will be told for generations of slaves.”

“What do you have in mind?” asked Dockken.

“I want to use him as an example.” Caverhill chucked a thumb at the Cameroon Negro in the darkness.

“I thought as much,” replied Dockken. “But he hasn't done anything to be punished for. He does whatever he's told. He's strong as an ox, can outwalk all the others, and could even beat the horses if he wanted to.”

“I know that. He must do something that the other slaves will know is wrong and deserving of strong discipline. Tomorrow we'll goad him into disobeying. Think of some method to do that. Then we'll finish with him.”

“All right,” replied Dockken. “We'll make it happen.”

“Good,” said Caverhill. He stood up, stretched, and walked toward the lead wagon where he would sleep.

* * *

Trodo heard the sound of an animal creeping closer through the tall marsh grass that grew around him beneath the tree. Was it one of the large swamp beasts that resembled the crocodile of his native land? Or some other animal he had never seen and whose appearance he could not imagine. He tensed, ready to defend himself.

“Are you there?” A whisper floated out of the darkness.

Trodo jerked with amazement. It was a woman's voice and it was speaking his language. The words came slow and haltingly, as if she were unsure of them.

“I am here,” Trodo said.

The yellow-skinned girl, crouched low, came up beside him. “I want to tell you something,” she said quickly.

“You should not be here. They would whip you if they knew.”

“I have no doubt of that, but you must know what I heard. They mean to kill you tomorrow.”

“I have known from the day the one called senator bought me what he intended. I have wondered why they have not done it before. How is it that you speak my tongue?”

The girl knelt beside Trodo. “My grandmother taught me her language before she died. She must have been of the same people as you.”

“That cannot be. Your skin is of the wrong color.”

“My mother's father was a white man. My father was also white. That is why my skin is different from yours.”

“Then you really are not one of us.”

“Yes, I am. I always will be.” She was silent for a moment. “Are you not afraid to die?”

Trodo looked at the girl in the faint light of the faraway stars. He saw in her face the torment that the thought of his death was causing.

“Death is not something to fear. It comes to all of us.” He wanted to lessen her anguish.

“But it comes with such terrible pain.”

“Let us think of other things,” said Trodo. He looked at the soft curves and hollows of her face. He reached out and touched her arm. “Would you make love with a man who is going to die soon?”

The girl's head dropped and she studied the dark ground. Then her eyes lifted. “For a brave man I would.” Her voice could barely be heard above the noises of the darkness. She lay down on the grass and positioned herself to receive him.

Trodo clasped the soft mounds of her breasts in his hands. “Your love must last me for all eternity,” he said.

Trodo lay down upon the yellow-skinned girl. He entered her body slowly. She caught hold of him and held him close.

* * *

Caverhill sensed the imminent attack of the Negro. He had come close to badgering the man for that very purpose, but the Negro was becoming the aggressor on his own volition.

The Negro hurled himself at Caverhill. The two big men crashed together.

Caverhill clamped a viselike hold on the black hands reaching for his throat. He felt the powerful muscles of his opponent. One mistake and the slave would crush his throat. He brought his knee up violently into the pit of the Negro's stomach.

Trodo bent forward under the force of the blow. Even as he fought the pain he threw all his weight upon Caverhill's hands and forced them down. He rammed forward, butting the white man in the chest. They fell together to the ground.

Caverhill wrenched both hands free and slugged the Negro with two hard, stiff punches to the head. Then he leapt erect and danced away beyond the reach of the slave's chains. Trodo regained his feet swiftly and stood poised for battle.

Caverhill called out to Dockken and the other men. “All of you fellows come and string this feisty Negro up to that tree. I'm going to give him the whip.”

The three men swarmed over Trodo and beat him to the ground with rifle butts. “Drag him over there beneath that tree,” Dockken ordered. “Throw a rope up over that limb. Tie it around his wrist. Now hoist him up.”

The task was quickly completed. Trodo hung from the tree, his toes barely touching the earth.

Caverhill swung the whip. There was a muted pop. A piece of skin and flesh half as wide as a thumb sprang from Trodo's back.

“That's for starters,” said the Texas senator.

The biting end of the whip marched up one side of the hanging black body, then across the shoulders to continue down the opposite side of the back and over the buttocks. Each time the metal tip struck, a gaping wound was left that ran blood.

Caverhill ceased the flogging and tossed the whip to Dockken. “This should teach all the Negro bastards never to threaten or disobey a white man. Those here today will not forget, and will tell those yet to come. Whip him for another quarter hour. If he's still alive after that, then cut his throat. Leave him to hang right on the tree.”

Dockken shook out the whip on the ground behind him. “It'll be done exactly as you say.”

“I'm riding to Austin now. You come with the others as fast as possible. There's a lot of work to be done at the ranch.”

“Yes, sir. We'll be along right sharp.”

“Do that.”

Caverhill tied his bedroll and a supply of food behind the saddle of his horse. Without looking at the black slave hanging from the tree, he mounted and rode west.

A quarter hour later Trodo was still alive and watching when the men came with a knife and cut his throat.

Only the yellow-skinned girl cried at Trodo's death.

Jacob entered the hacienda by the rear patio along the wide, cool passageway. He glanced into the
sala,
full of shadows in the corners, and kept going to the rear of the house, searching for Petra.

In the kitchen two sons of one of the vaqueros, tardy in returning from play, were eating a hardy meal of tortillas, mutton fried with onions, and boiled milk seasoned with nutmeg. The boys stopped devouring the food and looked up when Jacob came into the room.

Quietly the youngsters sat holding their spoons and watching the gringo who had married Señorita Petra. They had heard the men say the gringo was a great knife fighter. The boys hoped someday to see him kill many bad Apache.

“Have you seen Petra?” Jacob asked.

The older boy replied, “She is usually off in that part of the hacienda with
las viejas
.” He pointed in the direction of the main patio.

“Thanks,” said Jacob. “That food smells good. Save some for me.”

The boys laughed and again fell to wolfing down their food.

The patio had been enlarged by an adobe wall thirty feet in length. Two doorways stood open in the new structure. Each opening was flanked by a pair of small, single-paned windows. Tamarron smelled the damp clay odor of fresh adobe as he passed into the nearest room.

One of
las viejas
was stamping the earthen floor with the blunt end of a branch of cottonwood with short limbs left on as handles. As she worked forward the floor behind her was hard and flat.

She found a low spot. With an old hand, thin and blue-veined, she took damp soil from a pan and filled the depression. Then, with exquisite care, she leveled the place and pounded it solid.

Every wall was straight and plumb and recently plastered with mud. In the corners the plaster was still dark with moisture. Overhead, new cloth hung below the ceiling to keep the fine particles of the roof soil from falling into the room and onto the occupants.

“Do you know where Petra is?” Jacob asked the old woman.

She jerked, startled by Jacob's unexpected voice. She completed her downward stroke with a thump and turned.