Sheriff Owens' ill-fitting rubber poncho seemed designed to funnel the cold rain down his back. He did his best to ignore the discomfort as he stood in the muddy field in front of Maude Wright's home. He held a lantern in his right hand. The rain sizzled as it struck the hot glass on the lamp. After escorting Maude and her child back home, Owens had decided to take a look around to make sure it was safe. He was still fuming from the way Captain Cooper had spoken to him. Owens may not have had the northerner's fancy education, but he knew his job and tried his best to keep the peace. So what if a few coloreds went missing now and then, he thought to himself. It was a small price to pay to keep things quiet, besides he knew that's the way most of the people in town liked it.
Behind him, his horse neighed and shook its head. It was enjoying standing out in the rain as much as he was.
"Easy does it, girl," said Owens. "We'll be leaving soon enough."
"That you will, Tom Owens," said a voice in the dark.
Owens spun about and raised his lantern high above his head. If he still had two hands, he would have gone for his pistol. A second later, two men on horseback emerged out of the gloom. Owens shook his head when he recognized the men as Alexander Maclean, the leader of the Maclean Gang, and Moses Payne, the mayor's young son. Both men held shotguns in their hands.
"Come to finish what you started, Alex?" said Owens to Maclean.
"We had nothing to do with Darcy Wright's disappearance," replied Maclean, "You have my word on it, Tom."
"You'll forgive me if I don't believe you."
Moses pointed his shotgun at Owens and pulled back on the twin hammers with his thumb. "You take that back, Sheriff, or I'll blow yer head clean off yer shoulders!"
"Go ahead, you half-wit. If you kill me, the Yankees will send a regiment of coloreds up here to run you and your friends out of the parish."
"Moses, put your damn gun away," ordered Maclean.
"But he insulted you," whined the youth.
"Do it, boy, or there'll be hell to pay when we get back to camp."
Moses hesitated.
"Jesus, boy, do you want a whipping or not?"
Moses released the hammers on his shotgun and slid it back into a leather holster on his saddle. The only son of Elias Payne, he had been nothing but trouble his entire life. Shunned by his father because of his inability to learn how to read and write, Moses had been too young to enlist in the war and had gravitated to Alexander Maclean when he returned to Williamstown. Moses was easily confused and almost always solved his problems with his fists.
"What are you doing out here, Tom?" asked Maclean.
"He's sniffing around Maude, that's what he's doing," said Moses.
"Be quiet, boy!" snapped Maclean.
"Hell, her husband ain't been gone more than a couple of days and he's already looking to crawl into her warm bed."
Maclean turned his weapon on his young accomplice. "Not another word, Moses."
The boy shut his mouth and looked down at the wet ground.
"Leave us. Ride back and join the others on the road."
Maclean waited until Moses was out of earshot before continuing. "I asked you a question, Tom. Why are you out here on a night like this instead of drinking yourself to sleep in your office?"
"I'm doing my job. What brings you out in the rain?"
"I heard there were a couple of blue-bellies poking their noses around these parts. Is that true?"
Owens nodded. "This time you've gone too far, Alex. You never should have killed Stone's nephew and his colored girlfriend the way you did."
"We had nothing to do with their deaths. I ain't gonna lie to you, we've strung up a couple of colored runaways over the past few weeks, but we didn't lay a hand on that boy or his black Jezebel. Hell, the good Lord knows he deserved to die for his carnal sins. But we didn't do it."
"Alex, you'll have to forgive me, but after all you have done since coming back home, I'm having a hard time taking you at your word."
"Believe what you want, Sheriff. I've told you the truth. As God is my witness, I had nothing to do with Darcy Wright's disappearance or them young 'uns from Mercy Planation either."
"Roy Stone is hell-bent on having you hung, that's why them two Yankees are here. He's probably trying to convince them to come after you in the morning. It doesn't matter anymore if you laid a hand on those two kids or not, Roy believes you did and he wants you and all your men to face the gallows."
Maclean spat on the ground. "Let him try. As for his nephew, he was a sinner and all sinners need to be punished. Why don't you head back home, Tom, and get a good night's sleep? Come the morning, all of your troubles will be behind you and we can go on living the way we ought to in these parts."
Owens walked forward until he was next to Maclean's horse. "Alex, if you're planning on doing what I think you are, you're a bigger fool than I ever thought you were."
"I should strike you down for speaking to me like that, but the good book tells us to turn the other cheek. Good night, Tom."
Owens hated Maclean's pious moralizing. It had driven him to distraction during the war. He walked back to his horse, blew out his lantern, and climbed up onto his saddle. As he rode out onto the road leading back toward town, he passed Moses and six other riders.
"Bye, Sheriff," taunted Moses.
Owens ignored the boy and rode on in silence. Whatever was about to happen was not going to end well, why Maclean couldn't see that confounded Owens. Once, they had been close friends, now the gulf between them was insurmountable.
Alexander Maclean waited a minute before joining up with his men.
"What do you want to do about the sheriff?" asked Moses.
"For now, nothing."
"And the Yankees?"
Maclean turned his head and looked over at a couple of his riders. "John, Samuel, I want you to ride out to Mercy Plantation and hide in the woods. When the two blue-bellies show themselves in the morning, I want you to kill them."
Samuel said, "They're soldiers, ain't they? Shouldn't we take a couple more men with us?"
"No," replied Maclean, shaking his head. "Wait until they ride by and then shoot them in the back. How hard can that be?"
"We'll kill 'em, Maclean," said John. "I hear one of them Yankees is a colored soldier wearing sergeant stripes no less. I'm gonna shoot him in the gut and let him bleed out. The last thing that boy will ever see will be me cutting them stripes from his shirt."
"Just make sure you don't miss," stressed Maclean.
The two groups split apart. John and Samuel rode toward the plantation while Maclean led the rest of his men back to the woods and home.
Toward midnight, the rain stopped and the clouds parted. A nearly full moon shone down, bathing the woods in a bright silvery light. John sat on a fallen tree while he wiped the water from his rifle. Samuel had built a small fire and was brewing a pot of coffee over the open flame.
"How come we always get picked to do the dirty work?" griped Samuel. "You never see that idiot, Moses, doing anything like this."
"Keep your voice down," admonished his friend. "You know Maclean has a soft spot in his heart for Moses. He told the mayor he'd look after his boy if he didn't make a fuss about us stringing up the odd Negro or stealing food from those who have more than they need."
"Yeah, but there's more than just you and me who could be doing this. That's all I'm saying."
"The others rode with Maclean during the war. We didn't, that's why we always get the shitty end of the stick. Now quit yer bellyaching. Is the coffee ready?"
Samuel shook his head. "A few more minutes yet and she'll be good and hot." The murderer stood up and looked at the darkened forest all around them. "Keep an eye on the coffee. I'm gonna take a piss."
"Don't get lost," chuckled John as he loaded a round into his pistol.
After five minutes, John was becoming worried for his friend. He stepped back from the fire and looked in the direction Samuel had taken into the woods. He called out, "Hey
, Samuel, I told you not to get lost. Are you okay?"
Aside from the sound of insects buzzing and chirping all around him, the forest was silent.
John felt his heart begin to beat faster. "This ain't funny, Sam. Quit screwing around and come out of there right now!"
With his pistol held tight in his trembling right hand, John walked into the woods. A cloud moved across the night sky blocking the light of the moon. John's mouth became dry with fear. He wanted to turn around and run back to the fire, but he forced himself to keep going. He had to find his friend.
"Samuel Walker, quit being an ass. Stand up and show yourself?"
As before, his call wasn't answered. This time, however, the forest grew deathly silent; not even the insects made a noise.
John broke out in a cold sweat. His guts felt like jelly. He'd had enough and spun about to run when his feet got tangled up in a tree root. With a cry on his lips, he fell to the damp ground. His gun flew from his hands and landed in a bush a few feet away. He lay there for a few seconds before rolling over and sitting up.
"You idiot," he said to himself as he wiped the mud from his hands onto his pants. He looked over his shoulder for his pistol and nearly screamed in fright when he saw a tall, dark shape next to a tree looking down at him.
"Jesus, Sam, you almost made me crap my pants."
His friend didn't answer him.
John got up on his feet and took a step toward Samuel. Only at the last second did he realize it wasn't his friend standing there. His bladder let go when a dirty fur-covered hand reached out and grabbed him by the throat. In an instant, the hand constricted, crushing John's throat and snapping his neck like a dry twig. The last thing he saw before his miserable life ended were a pair of eyes staring deep into his soul as if devouring it. Then he was gone.
11