Free Ride With the Devil by Robert Vaughan Page B

who the men were, but try as she might, she couldn’t see their faces.
    By now the animals in the barn were screaming in terror. The horses were kicking at the sides of their stalls, underscoring the snapping and popping of the fire.
    “Why is it you didn’t try to stop your boy from joining up with the Yankees?” the man asked.
    “What? What are you talking about? We don’t have time for all this. Listen to those poor animals,” Flaire’s father said. “Help us get them out of there!”
    “Help you? Why, you damn fool, we started the fire,” the man said.
    “Why would you do something like that?” Delaney asked angrily.
    The animals continued to scream, though there weren’t as many screams now, as some of them had already succumbed to the flames.
    “Papa, listen to them! The poor animals are dying!” Flaire cried.
    “We’ve got to get to them,” Delaney said, stepping down from the porch.
    They were interrupted by a gunshot, then the one who had been doing all the talking yelled at Delaney.
    “Delaney, the people’s court of Platte County has tried you, found you guilty of treason against the South, and sentenced you to die.”
    “No!” Flaire’s mother said.
    By now the animals were silent. The barn was a roaring inferno and Flaire could feel the intense heat, even from where she stood.
    “You and the boy have thirty seconds to say your prayers. Then the sentence will be carried out.”
    “The boy? Wait a minute! He’s only thirteen!” Delaney said. The defiance was gone now, replaced by concern for his son.
    “Your thirty seconds are up.”
    “No!” Flaire’s mother screamed again, and grabbing her son, she pulled him to her and stepped in front of her husband, trying to shield the two of them with her own body.
    Her action did nothing to prevent what happened next. The riders began firing. Flaire heard the bullets whizzing by her, saw them tear into the flesh of her mother, father, and younger brother. She screamed, and was still screaming, even when the firing stopped and the reports of the gunshots were but distant echoes.

Chapter 8
    HAWKE ACCEPTED AN INVITATION FROM TITUS Culpepper to join him for lunch in the private dining room of the Ranchers’ Hotel. The two-story edifice was not only Salcedo’s only hotel, it was also the town’s only brick building. It had been built in anticipation of a railroad spur line that never developed.
    The hotel clerk recognized Hawke as soon as he came in the lobby, and he smiled broadly at him.
    “You would be Mr. Hawke?” he asked, affecting what he was certain was a cultured accent.
    “Yes.”
    “Colonel Culpepper is waiting for you in the private dining room. If you’ll come this way, sir, I’ll take you there.”
    “Thanks.”
    The lobby of the hotel was covered with a deep wine carpet; the wainscoting was light blue with gold trim, and the wallpaper featured huge baskets of flowers. The oak stairway was broad and only partially covered with a narrow runner of the same color as the carpet in the lobby. The polished wood of the steps was exposed on either side of the runner.
    The clerk led Hawke across the lobby to a hallway that went behind the stairs. At the end of the hallway he opened adoor and made a grand gesture with his hand, inviting Hawke to enter.
    Culpepper was standing near the window in the back of the room, smoking a cigar. He turned when Hawke entered.
    “Hawke,” he said warmly. He chuckled. “I would thank you for dressing for dinner, but you are always well-dressed.” Culpepper picked up a silver box, opened it, and extended it to Hawke. “Would you like a cigar?”
    “Yes, thank you,” Hawke said, taking one from the box.
    Culpepper lit the cigar for him.
    “I want to thank you for returning my men’s guns and boots the other day,” Culpepper said. He laughed. “You should’ve seen them limping around all day long. I tell you, they were mad as wet hens.”
    Hawke took several puffs, waiting until the cigar