Rough Justice by Lyle Brandt Read Free Book Online Page B

group of men entered the Southern Cross, disheveled, dusty, some of them with fresh scrapes on their faces, bruises darkening. For having been defeated, though, they seemed in rare good spirits as they crowded up against the bar and ordered drinks. Some spoke to Truscott, one clapping him on the back, while others cut suspicious eyes toward Ryder.
    â€œWish you coulda stayed and seen the windup, Mr. Truscott,” said a man easily six or seven inches taller than the rest.
    â€œWere they defeated?” Truscott asked. “The bluebellies?”
    â€œWell . . . no,” the big man said. “They took some losses, though. I seen two a their nigras bite the dust.”
    â€œThat’s progress,” Truscott said, raising a twenty-dollar bill to get the bartender’s attention. “One round for the house, on me.”
    Ryder saw the twenty was a U.S. gold certificate issued in 1862, showing an eagle vignette on the front. It disappeared into the barkeep’s hairy paw before he started setting glasses on the bar and filling them with whiskey. The talk was all of fighting, some raising comparisons to battles from the recent war that told him they had never witnessed any of the action they described.
    Funny,
he thought,
how liars always tell the best war stories.
    Ryder finished off his whiskey, sipped his beer, and watched Truscott working the room. He had the quality of leadership, there could be no disputing that, but he was using it to keep a wounded land divided, sowing hate and rage in place of healing. That was not a crime, as far as Ryder knew, unless he carried it too far and blood was shed—as it had been that night.
    There were two sides to every story, Ryder knew, as there had been during the dark years of the war. Truscott’s adherents would proclaim that Yanks had sparked the violence at La Retama Park, conveniently forgetting that the first shot came from their side. Why split hairs, when they were the aggrieved side, with their homeland occupied by hated enemies? Aggression could be cast as self-defense, if you kept one eye shut and squinted through the other.
    It was easy. People did it all the time.
    Ryder was wondering if he should slip away and meet Truscott tomorrow when a new arrival pushed up to the bar and leaned in close, half whispering in Truscott’s ear. Ryder was close enough to catch the words “Hubbard” and “nigger town,” but lost the rest.
    It was enough. Somehow, he realized, the KRS had found the Hubbards.
    â€œHow many are going?” Truscott asked the man who’d spoken to him.
    â€œTwenty, twenty-five. Enough to get it done.”
    â€œThat’s what you said last night,” Hubbard replied. “Make sure it gets done properly this time.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    The new arrival left, and Ryder was about to follow him, when Truscott turned and caught his arm. “Leaving so soon?”
    â€œI’ve got some early rounds to make,” Ryder replied.
    Truscott produced a business card and slipped it into Ryder’s hand. “My office address. Come to see me around noon, if you can make it.”
    â€œDo my best,” Ryder agreed and drained his beer for show before he left the Southern Star. It was a challenge, walking normally until he’d cleared the bat-wing doors and passed the windows facing on the street, before he broke into a run.
    *   *   *
    T he Hubbards and Miss Emma were just sitting down to supper when a tall man burst into the house and blurted out, “Dey’s comin!”
    Thomas didn’t have to ask who “they” were. He could hear the guards outside Miss Emma’s house preparing for a fight and, with the windows open to a cool night, heard the tramp of many feet approaching from the north, along the unpaved street. A rising grumble-growl from voices of the mob reminded Hubbard of the recent battle and the home that he had lost.
    Josey