Ride the Panther (28 page)

“It’s still a free country,” Albert Teel said. “And it will remain so long after the Confederacy lies in ruins.”

“Long live Jefferson Davis and Stand Watie. Down with Mr. Lincoln!”

“The devil take Johnny Reb!”

A group of men from either faction stood and glared across the room at one another, their hands curled into fists.

“Go ahead. Don’t stop. Grab for your guns. Kill yourselves. If what’s what you want to do, then get on with it!” Jesse shouted above the din. Both sides turned to watch him.

“And when the gunsmoke clears, what will you have left? Widows and orphans struggling to make a go of the little they have?”

“You’re a Yankee. Why should they listen to you?”

Jesse recognized the voice. It belonged to Hud Pardee. The gunman had slipped unnoticed into the room. He was flanked by Snug Jones and Dobie Johnson. Pardee hooked his thumbs in his waist sash. People shifted in their seats to watch him. Jesse also spied Lucius Minley in the shadows near the door. The banker seemed anxious to keep from calling attention to himself. And there was Enos Clem, a most disconcerting participant.

“It’s true I am a captain in the Union army. I’ve also been appointed territorial ranger. But I’m here now as Jesse McQueen, the son of Ben McQueen. I am here as one of you.” Jesse looked around the room, making eye contact with as many of the townspeople as he could.

“I’ll hear what Jesse has to say,” Henri Medicine Fox said, rising to his feet. With his wife and children back at the hotel, safe behind locked doors, Henri felt free to stand and make his presence known.

“Ever since Kit McQueen married the daughter of Chief Iron Hand, his family has bound its fortune to the Choctaw Nation. We are brothers here.” Henri studied the faces of those around him. “All of us, brothers, sisters—we are one with each other. Let us listen to what one of our own has come to tell us.”

The gathering quieted. Henri turned and nodded to Jesse as if to say “I owed you that,” and then he returned to his seat.

“My friends—” Jesse said. For all the eloquence that might have been his, he got no further. Once again someone interrupted him, this time a friend. Carmichael Ross stepped inside the meetinghouse, her features pale and eyes wide with alarm.

“Jesse!”

The tone of her voice galvanized him into action. He excused himself and hurried along the side aisle as the rest of his audience stood and began to amble toward the door. They were curious to see what had alarmed the newspaperwoman. The gathering emerged in twos and threes, spilling out into Main Street. Jesse had to shoulder his way through the crowd until at last he reached the boardwalk. He gulped a lungful of cool north breeze and made his way to the front of the throng that was gathering around Carmichael Ross and the three new arrivals. Parson Marshal T. Alan Booth appeared at Jesse’s side. His features were pale and serious. Like Jesse, he figured something bad had happened. He was unprepared for just how bad.

Cap Featherstone sat astride a chestnut stallion. His frock coat was dusty and the knees of his trousers were mud-soaked. He spied Jesse and motioned for him to come forward. The other horseman was Sawyer Truett, sitting motionless astride his mount. The overseer’s eyes narrowed as he watched Jesse, and his gun hand trembled, not from fear but from his efforts to restrain himself. He wanted to draw his revolver and avenge his earlier humiliations at McQueen’s expense. Common sense held his anger in check—not to mention the Colt revolving shotgun cradled in the parson marshal’s left arm.

Between the two horsemen, Tullock Roberts was perched on the bench seat of a buckboard. He stared straight ahead, as if focused on that which was beyond the comprehension of the townspeople gathered around him.

“You better see this,” Cap said, indicating the wagonbed. Jesse walked up to the wheel and peered over the side and looked down at the remains of Samuel Roberts. He looked like a broken doll, his limbs lifeless and his eyes closed. Three black bulletholes dotted the front of the dead man’s shirt, which was caked with dried blood.

“His riderless horse showed up at Honey Ridge,” Sawyer Truett solemnly explained. “Mr. Roberts and me checked at the Medicine Wagon and then backtracked looking for him. Cap was kind enough to join us. It was him that found Sam.”

“I was sorely grieved to make the discovery,” Cap interjected. “He was stretched out by the banks of the Kimishi not far from town.” He reached in his coat and brought out a bottle of elixir, uncorked it, and took a long pull. By now, T. Alan Booth had seen the dead man, as had several others, and word was quickly spreading through the crowd of onlookers.

“You’ll take me out there,” the parson marshal told Cap. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Roberts, I’ll find whoever did this.”

“I already know who killed Samuel,” Tullock said in a distant voice as if he were trying to remove himself from this tragedy. His powerful frame shifted on the seat and the metal leaf spring creaked beneath him. He held up a small white sheet of paper, a little larger than a playing card. He saw Carmichael Ross standing close-by and handed her the note.

“You read it. You’re a woman of many words. Read these. They were pinned to my boy’s chest by his killer.” His voice was bleak as gray mist, cold as an open grave. When she wavered he repeated, “Read it!”

Carmichael flinched, glanced at the faces of the people surrounding her. It was obvious they waited to hear. She proceeded, haltingly at first, then in a loud, clear voice.

“Thus shall perish all enemies of the Union. Beware, you Knights, Rebels, and Enslavers, your hour of reckoning is at hand.”

Jesse walked along the wagon and took the note from Carmichael, read it to himself, then shook his head.

“Tullock, this note proves nothing.”

“It does to me,” Tullock retorted, the anger rising in him. “It proves you killed him,” he said to Jesse. “And you.” He looked at Carmichael. “And any of you that sides with these Federals. All of you killed my boy, the same as if you pulled the trigger!”

“Now see here, Tullock,” Booth said, approaching the front of the wagon. Here was dangerous talk that needed to be immediately curtailed.

“No. You see! Take a good look!” Tullock’s volume increased and his tone grew harsh, and the hatred that welled in him was all-consuming and as endless as death. “I shall go among my wife’s people, the Cherokee and the Creek, and they will gather with those Choctaw I call friend and together we will avenge my son. Chahta Creek, the Kimishi River, Buffalo Creek will flow red with blood before I’m through.”

Tullock stood and, with whip in hand, looked over the gathering. Then hauling on the reins he cracked the whip and turned his team of horses, circled his wagon, and headed back the way he came. Sawyer Truett rode proudly at his side.

The crowd of spectators began to disperse. Several men headed for their horses. Tullock Roberts was their man; they shared his outrage and would support his hunger for revenge.

Jesse watched helplessly as the plantation owner departed with more than half the people who had come to the council. They might have held together for Ben McQueen, but his son…that was another matter.

“Looks like your luck’s played out this time,” a voice said.

Jesse turned and faced Enos Clem. The gambler’s lip curled in a smug sneer as he stood behind the Union captain. He lifted his coat flaps to show he wasn’t armed. Then he walked back up the street and was joined after a few paces by Dobie Johnson and Hud Pardee. The one-eyed gunman from Natchez licked his fingertips, flashed Jesse a contemptuous smile, and joined the others.

“Don’t take it so hard, younker,” Cap said, leaning down from horseback to clap Jesse on the shoulder. “You tried. I doubt your father could have done any better, God rest his soul.” Cap started his horse toward the north end of town. “Stop by and have a drink later, on the house.”

Jesse nodded, but he didn’t mean it. He looked at the Council House, empty now.

“What will you do?” Carmichael asked.

“My orders were to try and forge a bond of peace between the tribal nations. Failing that, I am to lead these abolitionists north into Union-controlled Kansas where they’ll be safe from Confederate harassment.”

The north wind gathered the leaves and sent them swarming down Main Street in a sudden gust like an attacking army. They swirled about the legs of the townspeople then rushed onward, given life by the wind, charging blind and dashing themselves against the battlements of night.

It was nature’s own foreshadowing of the battle to come.

“So be it,” said Jesse McQueen. Despite his efforts, the Choctaw Nation was at war.

T
ULLOCK ROBERTS HAD BEEN
gone for over a week, and Sawyer Truett was anxious for the master of Honey Ridge to return with his promised reinforcements. Sawyer wasn’t the kind of man who took lightly to waiting. But he didn’t see that he had any choice. Although the Knights were willing to confront the Federal loyalists now that many of the families had gathered for protection out at Buffalo Creek, Sawyer and his compatriots were reticent about attempting any sort of raid. The odds were none too favorable. At the present, the forces were approximately equal. However, Tullock promised to return with forty or fifty men, and with such a force added to the Choctaw Knights, Sawyer could envision them sweeping over McQueen’s column of abolitionists. Sawyer had never been close to Jesse, but Pacer Wolf was another matter, and it pained him that the Choctaw Kid had not joined his brothers of the Golden Circle. He continued to hope the youngest McQueen would see the error of his ways.

It was a damp and drizzly night and Sawyer was anxious to be out of the elements. However, as overseer his duty was to make the rounds of the plantation to ensure that everything was properly in order and the men he posted as sentries were awake and at their posts. As far as Sawyer was concerned, this corner of the Indian Territory was at war and he wasn’t taking any chances.

He approached the darkened smokehouse to the rear of the manor and called out in a hoarse whisper. “Chris…Chris…get on to the kitchen and send Buck out here.”

A caped figure detached itself from the darkness of the smokehouse. Sawyer nodded, satisfied that Chris could still be trusted to remain alert. Buck Langdon was something else entirely. The hungry rascal couldn’t stay out of the kitchen, especially whenever Willow Reaves was about. Buck made no secret of his growing interest in the sweet-natured mulatto, and with Tullock gone from the plantation Buck felt freer than ever to press his advances. Sawyer generally tried to ignore the whole situation. The mulatto was on her own. Sawyer’s chief concern was that Buck pulled his share of sentry duty, and that meant the watch from midnight to daybreak.

“You tell Buck to move his fat ass along. I want to get on around to the front to see if Johnny’s awake,” Sawyer explained as the sentry continued on to him. Chris had yet to make any reply.

“Everything clear along the back road? Did you see anyone?” Sawyer asked as his friend drew close and threw back his cape, tilted the brim of his hat, and poked a gun in the overseer’s ribs.

“He didn’t see a thing,” Jesse said.

“Son of a bitch!” Sawyer reached for his gun, then felt the iron muzzle of Jesse’s Dragoon Colt press against his Adam’s apple. He froze. Someone grabbed his wrists and bound them at the small of his back, slipped a gag around his head, and then led him over to the smokehouse where he was forced to lie down alongside the bound and gagged form of Chris Foot. Chris was a full-blood. It should have been impossible for anyone to sneak up on the Choctaw and get the drop on him. But Jesse McQueen had done it. Sawyer cursed himself for underestimating his adversary. He stared malevolently at Jesse as someone securely tied his feet together and left him on his belly. Jesse knelt by the overseer’s side.

“If you try to escape or cause any commotion, I’ll come back and crack your skull. Do you understand?”

Sawyer nodded. Jesse McQueen had the upper hand for now. Sawyer burned with anger and shame and swore that one day…one day…

“Hey, darlin’,” Buck said, elbows on the long wooden kitchen table. He was watching Willow trim a pie. It was foolish to be making apple pies at midnight, but Arbitha had told her to have one prepared by morning because Arbitha was certain, simply certain, that Tullock would be home sometime during the morning. Willow didn’t ask the poor woman how she knew. Arbitha Roberts was out of her head with grief over the death of her son. Willow, despite her years of servitude at the hand of this family, could not bring herself to hate Arbitha. In truth, she was moved to pity for the matriarch of Honey Ridge. If Arbitha needed a pie for morning, then so be it.

“Darlin’, why don’t you come on over here and sit on my lap? It’d be a sight more comfortable than standin’. And my lap is mighty warm. You could shuck that apron and all them clothes and still be plenty warm.”

“Mr. Langdon, how you carry on,” Willow said, hoping to make light of the situation.

“Girl, I’m serious.” Buck finished his coffee, set the cup aside, and patted his lap. “C’mon over here and sit a spell.”

“No sir.” Willow glanced toward the door to the dining room, then to the back door which was closer to her.

Buck glanced over his shoulder to see if Mrs. Roberts had entered the dining room. He saw no one. He was between her and the rest of the house.

“Yes, ma’am, I know what you’re thinkin’. But Mrs. Roberts is upstairs. She ain’t gonna be any help at all. I reckon you could run outside, but it’s cold and damp, and why chance catchin’ your death of the croup when you got a warm cozy spot right here?” He patted his thighs and tried his most winning smile. When that didn’t work, he sighed and his gaze hardened.

“You know, I can take what I want or you can give it.”

“Leave me alone,” Willow told him. She held up the paring knife with which she had been trimming the pie crust. The weapon looked pitifully small.

Buck shook his head and rose from the table. “Now, that ain’t a proper way for a lady to act. Of course, you ain’t no lady. Just some nigra’s woman and even he run out on you. How long has it been? Me and Sam used to ruminate on just how ripe you were.”