Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel Page 9

  The wranglers jumped up and hooted, as if they’d just won a big race. Several of them hooked arms at the elbow and began to perform an odd mountain stomp dance that reminded Mobley of the jigs he’d seen sailors dance on board ship. Dust flew. Marsten stood and extended his hand. Mobley accepted it warmly. Marsten held the hand shake firmly as a smile grew on his face.

  “Now I know for sure. You’re not one of Governor Davis’s toadies.”

  Mitchell Marsten then turned to Jack, nodded and extended his hand. “You are one dang fine shot, Jack Anthony Lopes. I certainly hope I never find myself on the opposite side of that big ol’ rifle of yours again, nor on the other side of your bench.”

  Jack accepted the hand. The look on his face one of contrition. He was clearly sorry he had been so rough on Marsten. “I take your hand, sir, out of respect. You have shown great control under less than ideal circumstances. I apologize for my inappropriate actions. It will not happen again.”

  Mobley looked around. “Court is adjourned, boys. Anyone care for a tortilla? Old Jack, here, he sets a pretty mean table. No need to hurry off. Let’s get to know one another. What say?”

  The foreman stepped forward. “Tortilla? What’s a tortilla? If it’s hot food, I’m game. We haven’t eaten on the ground for more than two days.”

  Jack turned to the man, a frown on his face. “What is your name, son?”

  The man hesitated. “My name is Edson Rabb, Marshal. Sometimes people call me Red.”

  “Why, Mr. Red Rabb,” Jack said as he placed his arm around the wrangler’s shoulder and led him toward the old fire pit, “—a tortilla is about the finest tasting thing the Lord in his all encompassing wisdom ever put on this planet. Add a couple of chili peppers and a spot of peppered beef, and you have heaven itself. Furthermore, I have been informed by no less a source than my own mother, the Lady Madelein Smythe, bless her soul, that this bit of heaven is an exotic dish, developed in foreign lands by royal cooks, forbidden to any but royal palates upon pain of death.”

  Edson smiled. “You sure talk funny. Where’re you from?”

  CHAPTER 9

  Mobley was totally relaxed. Being in fine company was much preferred over the loneliness of the prairie. Now, the late morning air was filled with the warm aroma of fresh tortillas and the mouth watering smell of beef roasting over an open fire. Mobley and Captain Marsten shared a drink and a cigar as they sat Indian style slightly back from the group of men fussing about the rekindled campfire. Both were amused as they watched and listened to the excited wranglers. Wild stories were being exchanged, lies, whoppers, and outrageous lies, of great battles fought and won, of honor and dishonor. Throughout it all, Jack made one tortilla after the other until his hands could pat no more.

  Marsten talked of the Comanchero chase and its outcome, of how happy he was that none of his men had been killed. Mobley noted that his face became dark and his movements animated as he expressed his opinion on the problems of law and order. Marsten was well versed in Texas politics and did not hold back his feelings. He babbled some, but his was an opinion Mobley now respected. Mobley paid close attention.

  “You might as well face it, son. We won’t have any peace in this country until men like Governor Davis are run out of Austin on a rail.”

  Mobley reached into his shirt pocket for a match. “That seems a bit harsh. What’s the Governor to do with peace on the prairie?”

  Marsten cleared his throat and in a voice dripping with sarcasm and disgust, vented his feelings. “Ol’ King Edmund, our beloved Governor, has taken the power upon himself to make every appointment in this state, from the lowest clerks to Supreme Court justices. Not just in Austin, but everywhere. He doesn’t trust the people to elect their own public servants, so the people don’t trust him or his.

  He’s declared war on the people because he knows they will never elect him to another term. Shucks, he wouldn’t have won the first time back in ’70 if he’d allowed confederate veterans to vote, which was most of the men in the state. Even then he had to have the backing of the federal occupation army to guarantee his victory. It was truly pitiful, but the next election should put an end to his shenanigans.”

  Mobley perked up. This was the kind of information he might need if he was to be of any help to President Grant. Further, it might be of use in helping him avoid conflict with state officials. That was the thing his grandfather had warned him about. Do your job, but stay out of politics. Involvement in state politics could be a trap, something that could undermine all of his other efforts.

  “How do you mean that, about the election? What shenanigans?”

  Marsten shifted slightly and spit a loose piece of tobacco from his tongue. He rolled the cigar about in his mouth, wetting it thoroughly as he obviously and carefully considered his response.

  “Texas just ain’t the same as it was four years ago. It’s been completely readmitted to the Union and every citizen will be allowed to vote regardless of service or side during the war. Not only that, but a lot of southerners from Alabama and Georgia have pushed out here looking for a new life, and the population makeup is a whole lot different than it was. During the war, the state was split badly, but there was a solid core of Union people afterward to support the new government.”

  Mobley nodded as Marsten poured himself another drink. He hadn’t given much thought to the population make-up of Texas or its affect on the vote. To him people were people, but he could see how it might upset a man like Davis.

  Marsten sniffed the whiskey in his tin cup, and then took a small sip. “Davis has tried hard to stop the migration, but it’s done him no good. He can’t win unless he steals the ballot box, and there are too many people looking over his shoulder for that sort of thing to be successful. I think he’ll try to get the election canceled. Failing that, there’s no tellin’ what he might do. He’s already got his state police out intimidating people. They arrested over six thousand people during the past two years, supposedly because they were members of various secret societies he considers traitorous, including the Ku Klux Klan, but the real reason was that most of them were just outspoken against the things Governor Davis was doing, especially the power he has given to his black militia groups.

  Mobley looked hard at Marsten. Grant had told him of Davis’s request to have the election canceled, but he’d heard nothing of such widespread arrests or uncontrolled militias. “Are you serious? How could Davis hope to justify something like that?”

  “It’s simple. He doesn’t think the war’s over. That, in his mind, justifies it all. He commands the Texas State Police. The people call them, Blue-Bellies. A nasty bunch, made up about 50/50 of hard case blacks and white criminals. But he also has a militia of black freedmen, many of whom served with him in the 1st U.S. Texas Cavalry. He also has temporary command of a company of the 10th Cavalry, a strong battle-tested black unit he uses to guard state facilities in the capitol. Davis thinks it makes a good show for the Negro vote, which you’d better believe is quite sizable these days.

  If push came to shove, Davis could muster a sufficient military force to put down almost any opposition, or to start the war all over again. I think he’ll do it if his back is to the wall.”

  Mobley felt his mood sink. “Lordy. You know, I’ve heard him referred to as, King Edmund, but I figured that was just fat talk, nothing more. So, there’s a good reason for it then?”

  “That’s for sure right; although I’m not convinced the people wouldn’t call anyone in Davis’s place the same. You know how it is, if things don’t go well for someone, they will always blame the man in charge. Davis’s real name is, of course, Edmund Jackson Davis. Until the war, he was well respected, but when he was turned down as head of the convention on secession, he got mad and formed his own cavalry outfit on the side of the Union. He didn’t do much fightin’ during the war, just hung around down in Mexico threatening Laredo. He even managed to get himself captured by Texas Rangers across the border at Matamoros. The Mex
ican Government got all hot about it and demanded he be released, and he was. The last thing the South needed was war with Mexico, which would have caught them in a pincers.”

  Several of the wranglers picked up on Marsten’s speech and grumbled among themselves. One allowed as how they ought to stomp off down to Austin and hang Davis, but quieted quickly at a hard stare from Marsten.

  Mobley watched the wranglers’ reaction closely, trying to absorb the meaning of it all. He wasn’t good at reading evil, but these wranglers did not need to be read. They were the salt of the earth; their words were truth as they knew it. If they felt this way about the governor, it was probable that a lot of others felt the same. But there were a thousand questions going through Mobley’s mind.

  “I hear what you’ve been saying, Captain Marsten, but it seems a little strange to me. Davis is a Union man who fought to free the slaves, and so are you, judging by that uniform you have on. Why is it you find yourself so opposed to him and his attempt to guarantee the rights of all the freedmen?”

  Marsten lowered his head, his lips working in small circles. When he looked up, his face was a mixed bag of anger and pain. “The Union is one thing, Texas is another. I never fought against Texas, but Davis did. He’s not trying to reconcile the people or allow them to run Texas democratically. He’s trying to subjugate them to his will, whether they’re willing to be loyal or not, and that is not what this country is supposed to be about. As far as I am concerned, he’s nothing but a petty dictator, and it galls me that we wear the same uniform. I’ll tell you this, though. When the time comes, if it comes, and if it has to be, I’ll fight him just as hard as I did the Johnny Rebs.”

  Mobley nodded, thinking he understood, but could not keep from wondering what would happen to the freed slaves if Davis was defeated in the election. It was unlikely they would fare well, especially now that they had so brazenly joined forces with Davis.

  Finally, tired of hunching over in the crossed legged style, Mobley scooted back a few feet to lean against one of the large boulders at the mouth of the creek. His cigar was down to a stub, but he ignored it as he considered what he had learned. Clarity of purpose meant much to him, but here that clarity was not available in a finely drawn picture. Edmund Jackson Davis was not just the governor carrying out the wishes of a victorious populace. He was more the focus of hatred for many people in the state, no matter what side they took in the war, and he was not about to share power in a democratic fashion. The man had all the military power he needed to crush his opposition and, apparently, the will to do it if he thought it necessary.

  With every other judge in the state having been appointed by Davis, Mobley and Chief Judge Aubrey Hooks would be the only ones not subject to the governor’s bidding. Hooks would be his only ally. It was a good thing he’d decided to head for Austin to meet the man.

  “You know, of course,” Marsten continued, “—you are going to have to face Davis sooner or later. My guess is it won’t be long. He can’t afford to have you running around like a loose cannon, conducting trials any old place you choose. Pretty soon he’ll get the idea you are a threat to him. The next thing you know, you’ll be buzzard bait. You’re going to need help.”

  Marsten looked around at his men as he took another sip of his drink. Mobley waited. Marsten was obviously considering something extraordinary.

  Marsten stood up and motioned for Mobley to walk with him. Mobley stood and stretched, then followed Marsten several yards away from the campfire. Once out of earshot of the wranglers, Marsten leaned close and lowered his voice. “I know you’ve got Marshal Jack Lopes, but even if he is the best shot in the world, you’ll still need more back-up. I’ve got a man here, Edson Rabb—you’ve met him—who can track a cockroach through a wall and sniff out trouble like no other man alive. He’s Cherokee. Full blood. I’m the only one around here who knows it, though, so I’d be obliged if you’d keep it under your hat until he decides to tell you himself. I think you’d be wise to offer him a job as marshal.”

  Marsten shifted slightly, as if hesitating to continue. “He behaves a little strange now and then. Claims to talk to his dead grandfather. Says the man warns him about things and keeps him on the right path. I don’t buy it, but it’s a fact he always manages to be in the right spot at the right time. He’s also quite a hand with the women.”

  Mobley looked back at the handsome wrangler, the one with the deep black eyes. Rabb was waving his arms, regaling the others with a wild story. No question Marsten was right. Mobley and Jack would need more help sooner or later. He nodded.

  Marsten looked at Rabb, paused, and then walked back to his men. The talk was over. Marsten issued crisp orders to his men in preparation for their return to Dallas.

  Mobley followed Marsten back, and then called out to Edson Rabb, inviting him to take a short walk. Rabb looked puzzled, but nodded and followed Mobley out on to the grass until they were well out of earshot of the others.

  Mobley took off his hat and whacked it against his knee. He noticed that in looking at Rabb, he did not have to drop his head too much. Good, the man was no shrimp who might venture to ask him about the weather up there and find out it was raining spit.

  “Captain Marsten says you might be willin’ to come along with Jack and me for awhile, Mr. Rabb. What say? I surely do need another deputy.”

  Edson looked stunned. “Well, I … Cap’m Marsten said that?”

  “He did, and I’ve come to respect his opinion. He says your talents may be useful to us, and I agree. What do you say?”

  Edson looked back at Mitchell Marsten, who smiled and waved. This was exactly what Edson had been hoping for. His life had been stagnating. But would Judge Meadows accept him if he knew of his heritage? He knew the answer immediately.

  “Judge Mobley F. Meadows, you have just hired yourself one genuine Cherokee Indian, name of Red Sky, who can pass for white, best dang tracker in Texas, former sergeant in the United States Cavalry, and one very fine and extraordinarily good lookin’ man.”

  Mobley slapped his hat against his thigh once more.

  “Heh, heh. Well, we’ll just reserve judgment on that last statement until I can see you in some new marshalin’ duds in Austin, if and when we ever get there. If I remember correctly, a man with a powerful name like Red Sky should be capable of handling just about any situation that might come up, good lookin’ or not. Thank you for coming along, Deputy Marshal Edson Rabb. I look forward to enjoyin’ your service.”

  Edson lifted his head with pride. Few people knew exactly how powerful his name was. In Cherokee tradition, the world was divided into four segments, each identified by its own color. East was associated with the color red because it was the direction of the sun in the morning sky, the sun being the most powerful of all Cherokee deities. Red was also the color of sacred fire, directly connected with the sun, with blood, with life. It was the color of power and success.

  When Edson’s father had named him, the entire tribe had known he was destined for greatness, for the name carried with it all of the hopes and prayers of the people. Edson’s life was dedicated to the use of this power for the good of his tribe, and he was bound never to forget that goal. He had vowed he would attain recognition in the world of the white man and return to help raise his people from the depths of repression. He saw now the path he must take to achieve that goal.

  Edson was still in a glow as Mitchell Marsten walked the short distance back to where Mobley and Edson stood. He took Edson’s hand in his, crossed his left over them both, and squeezed them tight. The beginning of a tear sparkled in Marsten’s eye.

  “Edson, you’ve been like a son to me these past years, but I know all sons eventually have to strike out on their own. I’ve wondered for some time why you had not already done so. I guess you were just waiting for the right opportunity. This job is made for your talents. I know you will succeed.”

  Marsten broke his grasp on Edson’s hand, reached out and gave him a big bear hug, then
stepped back. “You have my blessin’ and anything else you may want from me to help you along, including that fine horse you’ve been riding. I’ve only got the few hundred dollars I brought along on this trip, but you’re welcome to it. Pay time is long overdue. I’ll get the rest to you as soon as I can sell off some more stock. I’ll wire it in care of Judge Meadows in Austin. Is that acceptable?”

  Edson came to attention. He saluted crisply. “Yes sir, Cap’m.”

  “Thank you, Edson.”

  Turning to the other wranglers, Marsten yelled, “We’re burning daylight, boys. Saddle up. Let’s get ‘em on home.”

  The wranglers whooped and hollered as they ran off to their horses, mounted and rode wildly off to the East toward the Brazos River where the Arabians were grazing. They raced each other hard, legs and quirts flailing. Marsten, ever the leader in control, stepped gracefully onto his horse and loped perfectly away for several hundred yards. He stopped, turned, waved his hat in a wide circle and bellowed to the three lawmen watching them depart. “Mobley Meadows, Jack Anthony Lopes ... you’re welcome at my fire anytime. If you need help, just get on the telegraph. We’ll be there before you can spit twice.”

  Mobley waved his hat back and watched as the wranglers rode off, admiring their reckless skill. Strangely, he felt both a sense of loss and of foreboding as they disappeared over the horizon. Had he just taken sides in a game he knew very little to nothing about?

  CHAPTER 10

  Governor Edmund Jackson Davis stared at the floor as he nervously paced the length of his spacious, wood paneled office. Shaggy gray clouds hung low over the city of Austin as one more in a series of nasty storms passed on its way to the swamps of Louisiana, leaving a cold drizzle in its wake. It was a dismal day.

  That was the way it was this time of the year and much of the rest. Beautiful one day and the next a rash-inducing humid heat followed by wet, miserable rain, all ending in the awful frost and biting cold of winter.