Love and Glory: The Coltrane Saga, Book 3 (45 page)

He thought of the letters he had received from the lawyer handling the operation of his silver mine. It was doing well, damn well. He was on the way to being rich. Sadness descended as he reflected on the irony of it. Being so poor and struggling so hard might have contributed to his getting the wanderlust. Had it not been for that, Kitty would not have plotted to get him to go to Haiti with Sam. And Luke Tate would never have taken her away. He never would have gone to Nevada and never become a rich man because of an inherited silver mine. He wished he were behind that goddamn plow again…poor, weary, anything as long as Kitty was alive.

John was all he had left of their love. He wanted to do right by the boy. John was better off where he was, with Mattie Glass. Later, when he got older, Travis could make a home for him.

He pulled back on the reins, slowing the mighty stallion to a walk. A quarter moon, peering down from behind golden-edged clouds, lit the first rising slopes of Blueberry Ridge. Travis knew where Munroe was hiding. Israel had told him about the old shack near a creek. Travis recalled how hard he had tried to convince Israel to get his son to leave Kentucky, or at least leave the area, but Munroe had refused.

Travis rode as far as he dared. Several hundred yards ahead, the ridge would peak. Just beyond, the land would start to slope once again, leading to the creek and the cabin He dismounted, tied his horse inside a tight clump of hickory trees, then took his rifle and began to move very quietly through the woods.

After about twenty minutes of careful walking, the cabin came into sight. It was dilapidated, leaning precariously to one side as though a good, strong wind would send it into the oblivion it seemed to long for. How anyone had used that for shelter for any length of time was amazing.

Squeezing down on his stomach between two close trees, Travis positioned his rifle, pointing straight at the cabin door. The stupid Klan, he smiled derisively. White sheets would make them perfect targets in the moonlight. All he had to, do was wait.

There was no warning.

He was lying there watching the glimmer of moonlight on the grotesque shack when a twig snapped behind him, to his right. He rolled over quickly onto his back, gun pointed, cocked, ready.

But it was too late. He found himself staring up at the leering faces of Stewart Mason and a man whose face he knew.

“Well, we got you, Marshal,” Mason crowed. “And you know what? It wasn’t hard at all. We just had to watch and wait, let you settle down all comfy thinking you had us by the balls, and then make our move. Won’t half as hard as we thought it’d be. I guess you aren’t as smart as I gave you credit for.”

Travis felt the fire of fury flow through himself. Goddamn it, this was his own fault. He had walked right into a setup, and had helped things along by being so damned cocky.

They each held a gun on him. He was trapped. Mason’s partner snatched his rifle away.

“Don’t try anything,” Mason warned, reaching to take Travis’ gun from his holster and toss it into the bushes. “Now get up off your ass real slow. No sudden moves, or you’re dead.”

Travis’ mind was whirling as he slowly obliged. There had to be a way out. There was no reason to think others were around. Why weren’t Mason or his partner wearing their Klan outfits?

Mason snapped, “Now turn around.” He gave Travis a nudge with his gun.

Travis grinned. “Well, at least now you’re not hiding behind a robe and hood. Where’s the rest of your cowardly friends? Am I going to be treated to seeing them face-to-face, too, before you shoot me in the back?”

The other man gave him a rough shove and snarled, “It ain’t gonna make no difference, you bastard. Just shut up.”

“I’ll handle things, Bruce,” Mason spoke quickly, angrily. “Shut up and do as I tell you.”

To Travis, Mason said, “Turn around and start walking toward the shack, or I’ll shoot you right here.”

Travis began to walk slowly down the ridge, talking all the while.

“It would seem I’ve been set up.”

“Yeah, and it’s worked out just fine. See, me and Lonnie Bruce here, we came out earlier while Lloyd Perkins was in town telling you a story.”

“Where is the rest of the Klan?”

“We didn’t need them for this. The less who know about this, the better off we are.” Mason put a firm hand on Travis’ shoulder and stopped him, then stepped to the door ahead of him and pushed it open. Walking a few steps inside, he looked at something Travis could not see and grinned. Reaching for a lantern, Mason pulled a match from his pocket, struck it on the seat of his pants, and in a few seconds the room was filled with a soft, mellow glow. Holding the lantern high, he beckoned Travis inside the shack.

Travis’ heart skipped a beat when he saw Israel lying on the floor, wrists and ankles bound tightly together. His yellowed eyes were wide with fear, silently pleading for help. A rag was stuffed in his mouth.

Munroe lay beside his father, also bound and gagged, but there was no terror in his eyes, only rebellious rage. Mumbling against his gag, he struggled frantically. Mason saw what he was doing and gave him a swift kick in the back of his neck. “Stop that, nigger!” he ordered. “We don’t need no rope burns to make folks ask questions.”

Munroe moaned, dazed by the kick.

Mason turned to Travis. “You see, Marshal, this is what has happened here. This boy”—he pointed to Munroe—“is a known troublemaker. The whole town knows that. Well, he robbed Lloyd Perkins’ chicken house tonight. Stole some of his best hens. Lloyd didn’t get out there in time to stop him, but he did get a chance to see who it was. He would’ve shot him, but his old musket misfired.”

Mason grinned slowly, evilly. “What happened next was that Perkins rode into town to get you. He, like a lot of other good, God-fearing citizens in these parts, wanted to put a stop to this worthless nigger’s stealing. So you rode out here to the shack, where Perkins told you he thought Munroe was holed up. You tried to arrest him, but there was a fight, and you got killed. He was about to get away when Perkins came riding in with some of the neighbors. Good citizen that he is, he got to worrying that Munroe might have other niggers up here, and you’d be riding into an ambush.”

He paused to smile down triumphantly at Munroe, who had opened his eyes to stare about dazedly. “Poor Munroe. He was trying to get across the creek and escape. Perkins and the others yelled out for him to stop, give himself up, but he kept on going. They had to shoot him, and he drowned.”

Travis knew he must stall for time. “What about Sam? You think he’ll believe that?”

Mason and Burnham exchanged snickers, then Mason said, “Sam should be on his way here now. Of course, we had to handle that part carefully. We have someone bringing him in a wagon. It will look like Munroe got him, too. By now, he ought to be dead already.”

Mason’s words hit him full force, and Travis reacted blindly, lunging for him. Mason anticipated the attack and leaped to one side as Lonnie Bruce slammed his shotgun butt down onto the back of Travis’ head. Travis fell to his knees, groaning as needles of fire shot through the base of his skull and down his back. He struggled to stay conscious.
Sam.

“Now, before I kill you,” Mason said calmly, “it would help a whole lot if you told us just how much you know about the Klan.”

“Go to hell!” Travis murmured, swaying as he struggled to stand. “No one is going to believe your story. There’s someone who knows the truth…who knows Perkins told me the Klan was about to get Munroe and never said a word about stealing chickens. One person heard what really happened.”

Mason looked at his partner nervously, holding tightly to his gloating smile. “You’re lying, Coltrane. Nobody was with you when Perkins talked to you. He’s got better sense than that.”

It was Travis’ turn and he forced a grin, even though the pain across the back of his head was excruciating. “Perkins didn’t think about the back room. He didn’t know I had…a woman back there.”

Mason’s eyes narrowed and the smile disappeared. “What woman? I still think you’re lying.” He took a step toward Travis. “You start talking, goddamn you, or I’m going to start chopping up that old nigger over there, bit by bit.” He slowly slipped a knife from inside his left boot and held it poised menacingly over Israel’s face.

Travis kept his calm appearance. “Tell me, Mason”—he flashed another arrogant grin—“what was the problem between you and Alaina?
I
never had any problem satisfying her. She sure kept coming back for more, just like she did this evening.”

Mason’s face twisted with rage. “You lying sonofabitch! She wasn’t there. Barbeau put a stop to your hounding her.”

“She was there, all right,” Travis said quietly. “Frankly, I always make it a rule never to talk about my ladies of pleasure, but I couldn’t resist letting you know that the one person you can count on not to lie for you if you kill me was listening all the while Perkins was spinning his web.”

“Hey, if he is telling the truth,” Lonnie Bruce interrupted worriedly, “then we got problems. Everybody knows she’s got quite a yen for him, and when she finds out he’s dead and hears the story going around, she’s gonna scream to high heaven. You said we wouldn’t get the blame for this, Mason. Killing a nigger is one thing, but if somebody fingers me for killing a U.S. marshal—”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” Mason screamed. “He’s probably lying. If he isn’t, then I’ll have to deal with Alaina in my own way.”

Travis gave him a big smile. “It looks like your way of dealing with Alaina sent her straight to my bed.”

“I’ll worry about her later,” Mason retorted. “I still think you’re lying.”

Lonnie Bruce waved his gun and cried, “Come on. Let’s get it over with. Go on and kill the nigger.”

Mason smiled slowly. “Yeah, let’s get on with it. I can’t wait to pull the trigger and blast him straight to hell. Keep an eye on him while I drag this nigger outside.”

He stepped toward Munroe and Travis said quickly, looking at Israel, “What about him? What’s your story going to be when he’s found dead, too?”

Mason cracked, “He got in the way of the bullets. Don’t you worry about it, Coltrane. You just be thinking about how much you’re going to tell me before I finally kill you. I can make it quick and easy, or I can drag it out and let you suffer. It’s up to you.”

He put the lantern down and reached to cut the rope around Munroe’s ankles. Grasping his shoulders, he pulled the Negro to his feet. “Outside,” he snarled, giving him a hard shove toward the door.

Munroe stumbled, falling to his knees, and Mason kicked him, cursing. “Get up, damn you,” he yelled, “or I’m going to shoot your black ass right here and now.”

“Hold it, Mason!” Lonnie Bruce cried, leaping forward to stomp down on Munroe’s head, forcing him to lie still. He stared out into the darkness. “Listen! You hear it? Somebody’s coming.”

Travis saw his chance. He lunged for them both at once, throwing his arms out wide, catching their heads in the crook of his elbows and bringing them crashing together. He drew them apart to slam their heads together one more time. They crumpled to the floor.

Grabbing Mason’s knife, he quickly slashed at the rope around Munroe’s wrists, freeing him. Travis nodded toward Israel as Munroe jerked the gag from his mouth. “Untie him,” Travis said quickly. “Then you two get the hell out of here.”

“But what ’bout you, Marshal? They gonna get you fo’ sho’,” Munroe cried as he hurried to untie his father.

Travis reached for Lonnie Bruce’s gun. “Not without a fight, they won’t.”

“Ain’t gonna be no fight!”

Travis froze at the sight of Sam framed in the doorway, Lloyd Perkins beside him, holding a shotgun pressed into Sam’s stomach. Lloyd grinned. “Naw, there ain’t gonna be no fight. It’s a damn good thing I decided to ride on out here and watch the fun. Caught this big bastard tryin’ to make it through the woods on a busted leg. Just drop that gun, Marshal.”

Travis did. “And you, nigger.” He waved his shotgun at Munroe. “You just drop that knife and back up against that wall yonder. Ain’t nobody goin’ nowhere. Soon as they come around, we’re gonna get on with it.”

At Perkins’ feet, Mason moaned, stirred, and lifted his head a few inches from the floor.

“Come on, Mason,” Lloyd said. “Get up.”

Travis did not fail to notice the frenzy in his voice. Lloyd Perkins was an old man and not at all confident that he could handle the situation alone. Good.

Travis looked at Sam, who barely met his gaze. Sam was ashamed. He thought he had failed. “How’d you know what was going on?” Travis asked him quietly.

“Alaina,” Sam answered dully. “I saw you ride out of town, and she passed by, and I asked her where you were going. Damn it, I knew I wasn’t going to be much help with this damn leg, but I had to try.”

“You didn’t know anyone would be hanging around watching. Don’t blame yourself. I’m the one who walked into a trap, and it’s no one’s fault but my own that they slipped up behind me.”

As he spoke, Travis was trying to send Sam messages with his eyes, darting his glance to Lloyd, who was slowly letting his guard down as he focused his attention on trying to wake Mason.

Quickly, Sam understood what Travis had in mind. Sam was supporting himself on a crooked stick, holding his weight off his broken leg. It was an awkward position, as old Perkins was balancing on the side of his makeshift crutch.