Standing at the Scratch Line (65 page)

“It’s almost noon! Where’s my damn horse?” Booker demanded. “I told Cordel over an hour ago that I needed my horse immediately!”

Lightning Smith was bent over with a horse’s hoof between his legs, nailing on a shoe. He did not look up and, despite a mouthful of nails, he spoke fairly clearly. “You wasn’t the first in line. I gots other peoples befo’ you. I told Cordel not to saddle yo’ horse ’cause she got a shoe that’s crackin’. I needs to change it befo’ you takes her. Otherwise I can let you use Old Red. He got good shoes.”

“I wouldn’t ride that nag if it was the last horse on earth! I’ll take my own horse! I want Cordel to saddle her now!”

Lightning spit a nail into his hand and seated it with a few light taps of his hammer. He checked the fit all around the horseshoe, then tapped home all the nails with short powerful flicks of his wrist. He let go of the horse’s hoof and stood up. “You can take her. That be up to you. I recommends you stay off the pavement and rocky ground ’cause that shoe gon’ go soon. You could hurt yo’ horse bad. If you stays on dirt and grass, it might last ’til you get back here, dependin’ on how far you’s goin’.”

The mare had a nice ground-gobbling gallop. Booker guided her over rolling hills and through the underbrush of small gullies and ravines. He stayed off the traveled roads. He would rather have set out under cover of night to perform this particular mission instead of broad daylight, but he had no choice. As soon as he heard that Clara Nesbitt had been brought in alive, he knew something had gone wrong with the plan. She was supposed to have been killed. Frank had even boasted that he and his friends would have some fun with her first.

In the distance, the Ouachita Mountains raised their forested shoulders to the sky. The tops of the snow-capped peaks were indistinct in the afternoon haze. Booker was headed overland to the Ouachita Road that connected the towns of Clairborne and Idabel. It was also the road one traveled if the destination was Johnsonville. Booker was headed toward an abandoned mining camp that was about ten miles off the Ouachita Road but only a mile or so off the unpaved road that forked to Johnsonville. The trip would have been faster in a car, but the means of ingress and egress were restricted to the roads. Booker wanted full flexibility in case he had to leave the site in a hurry.

He reined the mare down into a dry riverbed and followed it uphill several miles through rising ridges until he came to Sardis Ridge, which curved fifteen miles southwest toward Pine Creek Lake. He crossed the ridge and traveled the length of Rattlesnake Canyon until he came upon the old mining camp. There were five dilapidated wooden buildings still standing in the camp, the largest of which was an old two-story saloon. Rather than boldly reveal himself, Booker alighted from his horse and led it to a stand of tall pines that overlooked the camp. He studied the five buildings, which consisted of several small houses, a saloon, and a barnlike general store. After that he studied the surrounding ruins and forest. There was no sign of life. He made his way cautiously into the camp, coming up behind the saloon. He stared into the darkness of its interior. This was the place they were supposed to leave Clara’s body.

It had been a marvelous plan. Booker had been quite proud of it. It got rid of one of the central figures in the group that was challenging his power, and the
Clarion
would die with her. It would throw his opponents into confusion. Her body would eventually be found, and even though there would be no evidence as to who killed her, it would nonetheless, send a message: don’t be foolish enough to mess with Booker Little. But somehow, somewhere the plan had not been carried through to fruition. It was like Big Daddy to change plans without warning, but Booker didn’t think Clara’s escape was a premeditated action on Big Daddy’s part. Something went wrong.

Booker could not afford to sit back and wait. His involvement required that he investigate for his own well-being. He pulled his .38 revolver from its holster and pushed open the back door of the saloon. The door swung open with a loud squeaking sound.

A raspy voice called out, “I ain’t dead yet, nigger! I still got my gun!”

Booker ducked immediately and wondered whether he had walked into a trap. The voice sounded like Frank Bolton’s. Booker’s mind began to click along. If it was a trap, he had too much open space to traverse to get safely to his horse. The other two men must be stationed in the buildings on either side of the saloon. Since Frank already knew he was there, Booker called out, “That you in there, Frank? You sound like you’re in a bad mood. What happened to the plan?”

There was a minute of silence, then the voice called out, “Booker? That you? Thank God! Thank God! I need help! I been shot! You got to get me to a doctor!”

“You in there by yourself, Frank? Where’s your two pals?”

“They’re dead. Some strange nigger killed them and he would’ve killed me too, but I escaped! He tried to hunt me down like I was an animal! He had some kind of machine gun! He sprayed the bushes with bullets lookin’ for me! The bastard got me a couple times too. I lost a lot of blood. I need a doctor. Get in here and help me!”

Booker did not change his position. “How did you know it was a colored man who was hunting you?” he asked in a conversational tone.

“Did you hear me, boy? I said I need a doctor! I need help!”

“You ought to be more polite, Frank. Seeing that no one knows you’re here but me. If I was a mean man, I might leave you here. You could die out here.” Frank did not answer. Booker checked the sun, then pulled his watch out of his pocket and flicked open the fourteen-carat-gold lid. It was nearly two o’clock and the sun was already dipping behind the western ridges of the Ouachitas. “It’s going to be cold tonight, Frank. Probably drop to the teens. Think you can live through another night of that, Frank?”

“I’ll give you anything! Please help me! Once I’m home, I’ll see that you get a reward!”

“How did you know the man who was hunting you was colored?” Booker holstered his gun and sat down on the steps by the door.

“Are you gon’ help me?”

“Of course, Frank. Just answer my question.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Frank answered, “He kept tauntin’ me, callin’ me a little white boy, sayin’ that the booga-man was looking for me to send me to hell.” Frank stopped to catch his breath. “Alright, I answered your question, now help me. Please.”

“Throw your gun out, Frank, and I’ll come in for you.”

The sound of a heavy metal object skidding across a wooden floor emanated from the darkness of the saloon. “There it is. Please come now and help me.”

Booker stood up and pushed the door open slowly. He stepped inside the doorway and closed it behind him. He stood against the wall. The room was in darkness for all the windows were shuttered. He stared into the shadows, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. “Where are you, Frank?”

“Over here by the staircase.”

Staying against the wall, Booker edged around the room to the left toward the stairs. As his eyes accommodated to the lack of light, he saw on the right the dim outline of a long wooden bar and the muted reflections of the cracked mirror behind it. Then he saw movement near the bottom of the stairs. It was Frank trying to sit up.

Booker threaded his way through some tables and chairs and assisted Frank to his feet. Frank groaned and leaned against him. Booker was positioning Frank to help him hobble out the door when Frank pulled the derringer on him.

“You’s a dead man if you try to run out on me now, nigger! I got two bullets with yo’ name on it. Take that waist gun you carry out slowly. Slowly! No quick moves. I want you to lift it out slowly by its butt and toss it over there.”

Booker did as directed and tossed the gun toward the front door of the saloon. He was frightened but he didn’t show it. “You wouldn’t shoot your own brother, would you, Frank?”

“Nigger, you ain’t my brother!” Frank jammed the derringer against the side of Booker’s face. “You’s just a half-breed, nigger bastard that my father had with yo’ nigger bitch mother! Just ’cause you got an education don’t change nothin’! You still just a nigger! Now, let’s go! If there any tricks, I’ll blow yo’ black ass away.” Frank held the gun in his left hand for he had been shot in his right shoulder. He slung his gun arm around Booker’s shoulders but kept the derringer pointed at Booker’s head. “Let’s get to the door. Then we’ll figure things from there.”

Dragging his injured left leg while leaning on Booker’s shoulder, Frank hopped toward the back door. They had to negotiate a difficult turn around one of the supporting posts. Frank lost his balance while twisting around on one foot, and Booker did not compensate—he allowed himself to be pulled off center. As a result, Frank fell heavily into the post, smacking it with his right shoulder. Frank cried out in pain and involuntarily dropped the small gun. Booker sprang away and left Frank clutching a piece of his lapel. Booker lost no time searching the shadows on the floor for the fallen derringer. He pushed tables and chairs out of his way seeking the weapon. It was now a matter of life and death. Booker had to kill Frank, otherwise Frank would kill him. There was no middle ground now. Booker was becoming distraught when he saw the small gun gleaming faintly under a distant chair. He dove under the table in pursuit of it.

Frank saw what Booker was doing and hopped in the direction in which the other gun had been thrown. Frank made one or two hops unassisted, then fell headlong to the floor. The landing nearly cost him his consciousness. He struggled against the pain to stay in the present. He shook his head to clear the red cobwebs and rolled over and looked for the revolver. He saw it on the other side of the table to his right. He crawled toward it, pushing chairs out of the way as he progressed. Booker’s voice stopped him just before he put his hand on the gun.

“Hold it right there, Frank! Don’t move a muscle. I don’t want to kill you unless I have to.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want some guarantee that you won’t come after me with the Klan or the law.”

“Okay, you got it! I swear I won’t go after you.”

“The problem is, Frank, I don’t believe you!”

“That’s your problem!” Frank reached and grabbed the revolver. As he turned to shoot, Booker fired both barrels of the derringer. One of the shots went wide but the other hit Frank in the stomach. He convulsed from the impact of the bullet, then raised the revolver and began firing into the shadows. “The Klan’s gon’ come down hard on Bodie for this! I won’t forget you neither!” he shouted. “Come on, you bastard, let’s finish this. Let’s shoot it out! We gon’ burn yo’ town to the ground! We gon’ cook a mess of niggers!” Frank’s shouts echoed through the saloon. He did not know he was alone.

Booker had slipped out of the saloon as soon as he saw that he had not killed Frank with either of his shots. He had no other weapon and he saw no reason to challenge Frank when there were at least three bullets left in the .38. Booker hurried up the hill to the stand of trees. Once he mounted his horse, he decided to go to Johnsonville and spend the night. It was only eight miles away and then he could return early in the morning and finish the job, if necessary.

It was two o’clock when King went over to the livery stables to get his big chestnut gelding. Cordel Witherspoon saddled King’s horse and tightened down the hackamore. King gave the chestnut a handful of sliced apples and stepped into the saddle. Marshal Bass met him outside the livery and they rode out of town together.

“Where we going?” King asked as they reached the edge of town and headed north toward the Ouachitas.

“I’d like to take a look at the scene where all this happened,” Bass answered. “We can’t afford to be loosey-goosey. The whole town could be in danger.”

“That’s about a two-and-a-half-hour ride. Why don’t we take a car?”

“ ’Cause I knows a back way and I don’t want nobody seein’ us drive away together. Then on the way back, I thought we’d drop by the Black Rose Saloon. I heard that Elmo Thomas is comin’ in with a couple of his buddies and I thought you might want to come along for that.”

King smiled. “Yeah, he stopped by for a visit while I was away. I want to see him.”

The two men rode through the rolling hills toward the rising foothills for thirty minutes without speaking before Bass asked, “How come you came to pick Bodie Wells?”

“I told you before, Bodie’s about the only colored town in Arkansas, Louisiana, Texas, and Oklahoma that got electricity. I didn’t want to give up electricity and indoor plumbing.”

“Yes, I guess there ain’t too many towns of our folks got electricity. We wouldn’t have it neither if Big Daddy hadn’t corralled a mess of people to vote on the Pine Creek Lake Dam Project. Bodie Wells still wouldn’t have got the electricity ’ceptin’ we was on the way between Clairborne and Idabel and Big Daddy owns the company that pumps the water into the two cisterns on the edge of town. It be the same water company that sells water to Clairborne. Yesiree, Big Daddy made a killin’ on the Pine Creek deal.”

“Colored folk around Bodie Wells look like they’s doin’ pretty good too,” King commented. “And they has good farmland. I was surprised to see colored folk with such good-quality bottomland.”

“That’s ’cause they diverted two rivers to flow past Clairborne into Pine Creek Lake. Them rivers used to flood this whole area every spring. It was sometimey tryin’ to plant a crop out here. Some years you could bring it in, others the water would take it.”

“I’s surprised the whites ain’t moved to reclaim this land,” King said. “ ’Cause once they see colored folk own somethin’ valuable, they try to get it.”

“They’s movin’ in alright. That’s what Booker Little’s all about. He frontin’ for Big Daddy, like he think Big Daddy is gon’ remember he’s his son. I can’t stand it. It’s what’s really makin’ me retire: colored folk don’t seem to want to work together. Once somebody get a little money, he like to forget where he came from. Like he ain’t colored no more, like he ain’t got to fight the same battles as the rest of us. I don’t understand colored folks. Even the church don’t seem to help.”