Free Lords of an Empty Land by Randy Denmon

killed in the area by blacks the day before. The army was clearly unable to protect all the citizens of Bossier Parish, black or white. Everyone in this area knows that if they are not prepared to defend themselves, no one else will do it. As awful as it is, these are the simple facts: Mr. Johnson was in a place where rampant murder was taking place, and he acted like any citizen would. When his life was in jeopardy, he defended himself. Mr. Hank Johnson has lived in Bossier Parish all his life, and I have found not a single incident where he acted outside the law and have heard nothing here today to suggest anything otherwise except your testimony, which should be taken in the context of your documented record.”
    The defense attorney paused and walked over to his desk, where he grabbed a stack of papers and raised it above his head. “Over a dozen men, all of lengthy good standing in his community, have testified in writing to this jury that Mr. Johnson is a hardworking, peaceful citizen. The fact that he should even be brought before this court is a travesty.”
    The defense attorney turned and faced the judge, raising both his hands in the air. “I have no further questions for this witness.”
    Douglas stood, looking at the jurors as he stepped down from the witness box. Staring into their eyes, he knew there’d be no conviction. A few of the jurors might have some doubts about the defense’s reasoning, but in their eyes, he saw nothing that would likely lead to the unanimous consent required to convict Mr. Johnson. Constable Garrett’s words before he’d been gunned down by Basil rang in his ears: “You’ll never convict me.”
    His anger rose. He only felt an urge to get back to Natchitoches and pursue the night riders. There, he would have all the government’s resources. And there, he could do something to make a difference.

8
    The air in the dark room was thick and pungent with the sweet smell of opium and hemp. Candles flickered, sending a strange yellow light through the hazy air. The aroma lingered in Douglas’s nose, slightly dizzying his senses as he looked over at Basil, sitting at a table in a back room of the Cotton Palace, a rough hotel, brothel, saloon, and gambling house a few miles outside of Natchitoches at a small river port named Grand Ecore, where a ferry spanned the Red River.
    Basil’s eyes were bloodshot and foggy. Standing above him, a beautiful blonde, probably in her late twenties, had her silky ivory arms draped around the gunfighter’s neck. She looked at Douglas with eyes as wasted as Basil’s.
    â€œWhat time did you get back last night?” Basil said.
    â€œThe steamer got back here about ten,” Douglas replied.
    â€œThis is Nancy,” Basil mumbled. He turned to the fair-skinned and dainty woman. “Go on upstairs. I’ve got business.”
    The whore stood up straight and looked at Douglas, blinking her deep brown eyes in an almost irresistible fashion. The slight daze induced from the drugs floating through the room accentuated her lustful stare. “Mister, I have someone here who can remove you from your uncompromising mood.” The courtesan kissed Basil on top of the head. “I’ll be upstairs when you’re through.”
    Douglas sat down as the girl started to walk out of the room. “It’s going to be hard for you to earn your money, whoring and wallowing in opium all the time.”
    Basil lit a thin cigar and offered one to Douglas.
    â€œIt’s never agreed with me,” Douglas said.
    â€œI’m working now.” Basil took a long puff and stared at the red glow on the cigar’s tip. “This place is a trove of information. My first two nights here were quite a learning experience.”
    â€œDon’t think the army’s going to pay for your run of the house.”
    â€œDon’t need the house. I’ll just take up with Nancy. She’s more