Billy took another sip of the whiskey, waiting.
Charlie added, “You know about the Dutchies down ’round Fredericksburg? Large community. Most had Union loyalty. Lot of Texas Rebels had it out for them. You heard about the ‘Butcher of Fredericksburg,’ the People’s Court?”
“Yep. Local justice looking for traitors and deserters. If’n they’da caught Danny and me, and we’d Injuned away from the conscription, they’da been the ones in Texas to judge and hang us by our scrawny necks.”
“A friend of mine is a Dutchy. His sons were hung by a People’s Court. All four of them. For treason. Funny thing is, the judge of that People’s Court now claims title to my friend’s land and holdings. All of it.”
“Sounds like this judge is a lying and thievin’ bastard, but he ain’t my bastard to worry about. So why would I care?”
“What if I told you two hundred dollars in gold could be yours if that judge was found dead some morning.”
Billy took another swig of the whiskey. “That’s a lot of money.”
“My friend is willing to pay for justice. His youngest boy was just thirteen. Only reason my friend didn’t swing with them is because his wife’s sister over in Burnet took sick the afternoon before the riders arrived. So he wasn’t home.”
Two hundred dollars? Billy rocked his jaw back and forth. Just to kill a thief? Of course, the judge would be an important man, somebody with local connections to county or state. But the time to get him would be now, before the Yankees marched in and declared martial law. And as soon as they did, there’d be confusion everywhere.
“Where do I have to go?”
“Lampasas.”
“Why don’t your friend do it hisself?”
“And swing for the murder of the man who hung his boys? No, he’s got to be somewhere else. Austin. San Antonio. Someplace where he can prove he didn’t do it.”
Billy felt the devil warm the area around his heart. It would be hunting, just like he’d done with Dewley’s bastards. And it was still justice, doing right by bringing down the evildoers.
“How do I get paid?”
“If you’re right, and the war’s about over, I’d meet you at Eulalia’s first of April.” Charlie took the whiskey flask and drank from it. Swallowing he added, “And the money will be there, Billy Hancock. Not only do you got my word, but you’re the last person on earth I want to spend my life running from, you spooky bastard.”
Billy grinned at that, clasping his arms around the knees of his high-topped boots. “Better tell your friend to spend the rest of the month in San Antonio. Tell Danny I’ll meet him at Eulalia’s that same night.”
He liked Eulalia’s. There was a whore there who never made fun of him if his pizzle stayed limp. That seemed to happen more often these days, especially if he’d had one of the nightmares recently.
52
March 22, 1865
The man’s name was Anson Hartlee. True to Billy’s instincts, Hartlee was everything Billy had figured he’d be. Hartlee was active in the Texas Democratic Party—one of the most prominent men in both Lampasas and Burnet Counties, with connections in Austin. He was the director of two local banks, and one of the biggest landholders in the county. During the war, his empire had grown to include quite a bit of land confiscated from the Germans down around Fredericksburg.
Hartlee’s ranch lay five miles south of Lampasas on the Burnet Road and consisted of a two-story stone house, large barn, cotton, corn, and tobacco fields, and several outbuildings.
For three days, Billy applied his skills as he scouted around the Hartlee ranch, learning the lay of the land. Watching the comings and goings. The five hunting dogs might have been a problem, but Billy began sneaking close from downwind and leaving treats for the dogs. These he’d carry under his armpit to ensure they were doused with his scent, and he’d urinate close by to ensure the dogs were accustomed to his presence.
By the fourth day, the dogs didn’t react when he approached the house from upwind.
Hartlee lived alone, his wife having died of the typhoid three years earlier. Of his three sons, one had died at Shiloh, another at Chancellorsville, and the third was reportedly convalescing in Chimborazo hospital in Richmond after losing his left leg.
The banker had four Negro slaves who worked the fields and retired at sunset. A fifth, a male house servant, prepared the meals and saw to the domestic duties.
Each morning Hartlee had ridden off on his big black horse at just before seven. Each evening he returned home a little after six. When he did, he rode the black into the barn, stripped the saddle and bridle, curried the animal, watered it, and locked it into a stall for the night. Only then did he walk to the slave quarters for a report on the day’s activities. That done, he retired to the house and a supper laid on the dining room table.
The only difference on the night of March 22 was that Billy stood in the shadows behind the saddle racks where they stuck out from the wall.
What would Maw say?
Billy cocked his head, unsure. Hartlee had abused his authority to hang four of Billy’s unnamed employer’s sons. A fate that, in another time, could have been Billy’s own. Over the years, more than one envious rival of Paw’s had desired the farm. And say that Paw hadn’t sided with Arkansas. Say he’d remained loyal to the Union. Any of the bushwhackers like Dewley would have shot, burned, or hung Philip, Butler, and Billy in a hot second if it had meant getting the farm.
There but for the grace of God.
Come to think of it, what he was doing now wasn’t any damn different than what he’d done
