Lords of an Empty Land Read Online Free Page B

rest, but the overcrowded planks and boat ride, as always, robbed his attention. He had spent hours on the bow unable to break away from the intoxicating scenery. The cool breeze on his face, the dense smell of the water, the natives waving from the shore, and the endless, untamed arcane landscape rolling by with its own sort of beauty were irresistible, almost romantic. The river served as the corridor to see this land, where almost all waters east met the ocean. There always seemed to be something to see: whitetail deer, exquisite sandbars, the captain working the boilers to run a rapid, a treacherous curve, or avoid a stump, or just the murky red water splashing in the paddlewheel. The craft itself never ceased to amaze Douglas, gliding over the water, a testament to mankind’s ingenuity.
    The steamer bumped into the bank, and Douglas felt its gentle careening stop. A half-dozen men on the craft’s port caught ropes and promptly secured them to the boat’s large iron trunnions. He turned to the pilot house. The captain studied the dock, maneuvering the bulky boat. The boilers howled, belching white steam from the stacks. Whistles and bells filled the air. The paddle dug in, turning the water to foam, and the deck vibrated. He reached up and brushed his mount’s mane, the animal as uncomfortable on the shaky footing as he.
    A woman on the deck, paying no attention to Douglas, jerked on a squalling toddler. “If you don’t stop crying, the Yankees are going to get you.”
    Douglas chuckled and turned to Huff, standing beside him holding his horse’s bridle. Everything about Huff’s face was round: his chin, his accentuated cheekbones, even his nose. Private Smith wore his long, regal blue army frock coat, its gold buttons polished. Unlike Douglas, he showed off the uniform proudly with his single chevron affixed to his upper sleeves.
    In his early fifties, Huff was over six-feet-two-inches tall, a sculptured statue as black as midnight and constructed of thick bone and muscle, bred and honed for heavy labor under the tropical sun.
    Douglas searched for the right words. He knew this man well. Huff had genuine intentions, but also a short temper and a streak of incurable anger burning in his inner depths that had festered for a lifetime. This was a bad combination for someone backed by the authority and power of a uniform. His skin color made him a lightning rod, the onetime slave now the master.
    Douglas extended his hand to Huff, gently poking his index finger into his chest. “Huff, you’re going to do whatever I tell you. Is that clear? If you don’t, there’s not going to be any court-martial. I’m going to shoot you dead and leave you for the buzzards. That’ll save me a lot of paperwork. It’s going to be all we can do just to get through this with our hides.”
    â€œYes, massa,” Huff said, his tone deep. He smiled and exposed a large gap between his front teeth.
    â€œThat’s yes, sir. This is the army. Act like a damned soldier.” Douglas turned to Basil, asleep on the deck. He walked over and stood directly over him. The pistol slinger had spent most of the trip either in the steamer’s small bar or in his current position. The local inhabitant had not found the scenery very interesting.
    â€œTime to earn your pay,” Douglas said.
    Basil gradually opened his eyes and looked around quickly. “Reckon we should go see the sheriff,” he mumbled.
    â€œWe won’t make Winnfield today,” Douglas said.
    â€œWinnfield may be the parish seat,” Basil countered, “but the sheriff spends most of his time in Atkins. Don’t know why, the little hamlet is about the most miserable place in these hills. But we should make it before dark.”
    â€œIt’s a useless exercise,” Douglas continued. “He won’t help us a lick. Even if he did know something, he wouldn’t tell