Free Lords of an Empty Land by Randy Denmon Page A

than enough woman for me.”
    Douglas sat up straight, resting his elbows on the table. “Share all your new knowledge.”
    Basil reclined in the chair, bumping the cigar in an ashtray. “Nobody knows who these masked raiders are, maybe white militia. They call them the night riders. What I do know is that when something valuable, or somebody carrying something valuable, moves from here to Natchez, or the other way around, word gets passed to the highwaymen, probably from here or Natchez or one of the ferries. Then the unfortunate souls are never seen again. These are just thieves who kill to cover their trails. A lot of the community is scared silly. Been going on for years, but it’s gotten much worse lately.”
    Douglas let the words sink in, not sure what they meant, or if they even helped. He already knew most of this. “Well, let’s go,” he said and stood. “We’ve got some things we need to take care of before we go back across the river. You can come back here and continue your snooping after hours, on your own time.” Douglas took a few steps to the door that led to the saloon and then back outside. He opened it and waited on Basil. As he led the gun hand through the door, the late-morning light filtering through the windows lit the vast barroom, its twenty or so tables and two roulette wheels empty. At the bar stood two men partaking from a bottle of whiskey and conversing with the lone barkeep, an elderly man dressed in a black suit.
    One of the men twisted to look at Douglas. It was Sheriff Thaxton. The man beside him turned up a shot glass, downing his whiskey. He threw the glass on the floor, shattering it and pointing his finger at Basil. “You gunned down my brother in cold blood, you son of a bitch.”
    Douglas stopped in his tracks, a queasy feeling gripping his belly. He again spied the big, almost vacant room. Not a sound echoed off its wood walls. The short burly brute packed a six-shooter on his hip. The man had a bald, shiny scalp, slightly pockmarked face, and roving, intense turquoise eyes, like none Douglas had ever seen before. He appeared wound tight, moving with a quick, aggressive nature, his denim pants adhering tightly to his legs.
    â€œI told you boys not to go stirring up any trouble,” the sheriff said as he squared his shoulders to Basil and Douglas. “Moses Garrett is not at all happy about what happened to his little brother. He just wants the man responsible to get what’s coming to him.”
    â€œConstable Garrett should have come in with us instead of resisting arrest,” Douglas said. “And I don’t believe either of you have any jurisdiction over the actions of the Fourth Cavalry. Surely, you’re not picking a fight with the army.”
    Moses Garrett jerked his pistol from his holster, pointing it at Basil. “We’ll end all this right now!”
    Douglas pulled his own pistol, but before he ever got Moses in his sights, Basil had drawn a steady bead on the man.
    â€œDo it!” Basil screamed, his words echoing loudly off the walls. “You’ll be in hell in less than a minute.”
    Feet rapidly shuffled on the wood floor. The saloon’s swinging doors squeaked. Slowly, Douglas glanced left. The two Dallon boys whom he had met at the sheriff’s office came to sliding stops just inside the bar, their hands dangling over the pistols on their hips. Basil calmly readjusted his stance, squaring his shoulders between the men so he could easily eye all four.
    The squeaking doors opened again. Huff stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders almost spanning the opening and holding his Henry in front of his chest with both hands. Douglas heard his own heavy breath, his heart pattering fast. He wiped the wet palm of his free hand on his trousers. He stole a glance at the bartender, his jaw hanging open with disbelief as he waited for the earsplitting eruption of flying lead.
    Sheriff