Lords of an Empty Land

by Randy Denmon

Overview

In the days of reconstruction after the Civil War, a wild strip of land in northern Louisiana remained unconquered by troops and untamed by the law. This is the story of the fearless veterans--Union and Confederate--who dared to enter this beautiful but hellish valley. . .and finish what the war started.

Lords Of An Empty Land

Red River Valley, 1869. Hoardes of ex-Confederate soldiers have emerged from the piney hills and mosquito infested swamps of Lousiana backcountry in a final, bloody show of defiance. After a series of violent raids on carpetbaggers, freed slaves, and northern cargo ships, Captain Douglas Owens of the 4th Calvary is given orders to reclaim this God-forsaken land from its murderous outlaw gangs. By Owens' side is Huff, a former slave, and Basil Dubose, an ex-Rebel gunslinger for hire who answers to no man but his paymaster. With each deadly encounter, it becomes clear to Owens that neither the Army nor the public is willing to spill blood for the sake of freed slaves. With his options dwindling, the Captain takes a squad of soldiers under his command--in a last desperate bid for freedom and justice that would change the course of history. . .

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780786035373
Publisher:	Kensington
Publication date:	03/31/2015
Sold by:	Penguin Random House Publisher Services
Format:	eBook
Pages:	352
Sales rank:	148,053
File size:	798 KB

Read an Excerpt

Lords of an Empty Land

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By Randy Denmon

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

Copyright © 2015 Randy Denmon
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-3537-3

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CHAPTER 1

Winn Parish, Louisiana

September 1869

Captain Douglas Owens stared up at the eerie white ring surrounding the moon. He looked down at the Red River, then across the fertile, flat plain to the gentle hills juxtaposed against the horizon a few miles distant. The miles of unpicked cotton in all directions almost turned night to day and looked like a fresh snow on the Ohio fields of Douglas's childhood. Overhead, the ageless thick pines cast slight shadows. From the forest came the incessant sounds of insects buzzing, bullfrogs belching, and an owl hooting.

Douglas turned to the river below, where it sliced through a tight gap in the two-hundred-foot-high hills. The moonlight flickered off the two smut-covered smokestacks and top deck of the small steamboat Anna Bell, now partially underwater. Its bow rested firmly on the river's bottom, but its two upper decks were still dry. He flashed his gaze to the two men beside him. One was Sergeant Red Simmons, his longtime subordinate. The second had just enlisted, a young private from Illinois named O'Neal.

"What time you think it is?" Sergeant Simmons whispered.

"Probably after midnight." Douglas wanted to remove his pocket watch and check the time, but doubted he could read it in the dark. The soldiers had been here maybe two hours. Just before dusk, Douglas had gotten word that the steamboat had sunk. The three soldiers had been in Natchitoches, a trading post twenty miles upriver, when the Anna Bell's crew had arrived, having caught a ride back to Natchitoches on a passing northbound steamer.

Douglas immediately became suspicious. He knew that the Anna Bell's valuable cargo would be a prize for the gangs and clans, the vigilantes who ruled this ungoverned area after dark. He had been trying to quell them for months. He and his two subordinates had galloped here without hesitation, half expecting to fight their way to the luckless vessel. Seeing the fifty or so cotton bales on the steamer's stern, Douglas wondered what loot lay unseen. There was certainly a strongbox somewhere holding the gold used to buy the bales along the river.

But Douglas and the army troopers weren't here to protect the ship's cargo. They were trying to set a trap, knowing word of the disabled vessel would travel fast. Maybe the steamer had even been sabotaged? Whatever the story, he could not pass up an opportunity to catch up with the cutthroats who roamed the north Louisiana nights. Their names and faces were unknown to all, even the rare, lucky souls who survived an encounter with these bandits. They all wore cloth masks while engaged in their dirty, deadly trade.

"Look," Sergeant Simmons whispered.

Douglas squinted at the steamer, forty feet below and a hundred paces away. Two distant images moved through the water to the steamer, maybe twenty yards from the riverbank. Shortly, the hazy figures, only a blur of movement in the shadows, emerged on the steamer's stern.

"Let's go get them," Sergeant Simmons said, pulling on Douglas's sleeve.

"No," Douglas answered. He took a minute to inspect his subordinates. All three men were dressed in their dark blue army frock coats adorned with insignia and gold buttons, but they had long quit the powder blue trousers on night escapes. "They haven't done anything yet. We'll wait a few minutes, then go down and catch them with the loot. Let's just move down to the riverbank, stay concealed. I want them alive. Bring that lantern."

Douglas looked back up the hill to where they had hobbled their horses. He stood and grabbed his shotgun, then motioned with a hand. As Sergeant Simmons slowly stepped into the darkness, Douglas followed, feeling his way through the trees as Private O'Neal followed. In less than a minute, the three men knelt behind some bushes at the river's edge.

The rippling water sloshed around the steamer, now only twenty paces away. He reached down and checked the location of his pistol, a Colt .44, holstered on his hip. Slowly, he cocked the two hammers on his 16-gauge shotgun and checked to make sure the two shells' firing pins were aligned with the hammers. He made a quick inspection of the two other soldiers, armed similarly. Douglas had a fifteen-shot, lever-action .44 Henry slung to his horse, but it would probably be of little use now. Nothing dished out more devastation than a shotgun, especially in tight quarters or at night.

He turned again to Sergeant Simmons and Private O'Neal. They both understood not to do anything until he did. He looked back over his shoulder and scanned the thick hills. Were there other men out there somewhere? He cupped his ear with a hand and listened, but still only heard the natural sounds of the verdant land. The seconds passed slowly with Douglas's anxiety growing, his body perspiring. "Wonder where their horses are."

"Probably over that hill," Sergeant Simmons said. "Haven't heard or seen anything. Maybe they're alone."

Footsteps clomped on the steamer as the two men surfaced on the deck. One of the men carried a watermelon-sized box.

Heart racing, Douglas fought an urge to stand and draw his weapons. He put his hand on Sergeant Simmons's knee to restrain him.

The two men disembarked the steamer and waded to the bank.

Douglas slowly stood and put the butt of his shotgun to his shoulder. "Fourth Cavalry, you're now in our custody."

The two men froze. Douglas shuffled forward a few paces, gripping his shotgun firmly.

"What do you want? We're unarmed!" one of the men yelled, very loudly.

Douglas looked down the double barrels. He still saw none of the men's characteristics. He stepped forward a few more paces, ten steps from the suspects. He saw the eye slits in the burlap masks and pointed his shotgun at one of the men. "Off with that mask."

The outlaw stood completely still, the evil slits in his disguise staring directly at Douglas.

Keeping his barrels leveled at the man, Douglas stepped forward, reached out, and jerked off his mask. A shot pierced the night.

Douglas flinched, swung his shotgun away from the man, and pointed it to the hills behind him. Three more shots rang out. He turned back to the unmasked man to get another look and recognized him, a provincial constable named Garrett he had met a few times in the bush towns. Douglas turned back to the hills, where he saw more orange blasts and the faint image of four horses coming down the hill in their direction at a full gallop.

Sergeant Simmons fired, sending a ball of buckshot toward the horses. The loud burst from Simmons's shotgun woke the night.

More shots blazed out. The two men on the riverbank scurried for cover as Douglas emptied both his barrels at the charging horses.

"Let's go!" Douglas shouted, plunging into the thick bushes.

As he disappeared into the pines, more shots erupted. Sergeant Simmons plummeted to the ground. The horses closed in. Douglas rushed up the hill with Private O'Neal. He dove over a little ridge, tasting the dirt as he landed on his stomach. Private O'Neal fell in beside him. Douglas pulled his pistol from his hip and crawled a few feet to peek over the ridge. A half-dozen more shots filled the dark night as Douglas hugged the ground.

Lungs heaving, vision foggy, Douglas lay silently for a few minutes. He had few options—two men against six. A few more shots erupted. A couple of screams sounded through the woods. The horses stampeded away. The night fell silent. Had the bushwhackers retreated? Exhaling, he turned to the private, the young man's eyes roving with terror. The two passed a few anxious minutes without hearing an unnatural sound.

Douglas let out a long breath and slowly stood. "Cover me—I'm going down there. See what I find. If I'm not back in five minutes, get out of here, best you can."

Douglas crept down to the riverbank. In the moonlight, the steamer rested peacefully on the river bottom. The water dribbled by. The sky sat plain over the now calm, ordinary night. Beneath his feet, Douglas saw the tracks of the fracas, horses and men. He also saw the distinctive trail where Sergeant Simmons's body had been dragged away.

He knelt and grabbed some of the sandy riverbank to let it filter through his hands and stared out into the peculiar land, listening. Did further danger lurk in the shadows? He heard only nature where a few minutes earlier he had seen the barrage of six-inch muzzle blasts, their echoing booms ringing in his ears. Now only darkness filled his vision. He dug into his brain trying to burn the image of the masked man into his mind. He would find him, somewhere. He exhaled a long breath, mixed emotions besieging him: frustration, bewilderment, and relief that he would probably survive this night.

He turned his voice back up the hill. "Private, go fetch our horses, and ... be quick about it."

CHAPTER 2

Douglas straightened his blue jacket and brushed the dirt off his trousers. He looked into the tall, thin mirror and adjusted his shoulder planks before combing his long brown hair. He then inspected his teeth, ensuring their cleanliness. He buttoned two of the gold breast buttons on his coat and donned his big-brimmed campaign hat, pulling it down firmly over his brow.

A week had passed since the shoot-out on the Red River. The bandits left him more befuddled than ever, with no clues to their origin other than the one face he had identified. Douglas had now been summoned to see the state provost in Shreveport.

He stepped outside the officers' barracks and onto the gravel sidewalk. Spotless Cotton Street was shaded with aged oaks and sided with gargantuan antebellum and Victorian homes, their thick grass and shrubs freshly cut. The ex-Confederate capital of Louisiana had not suffered so much as a scratch during the war. Here, the Southern way of life had hardly changed. It all seemed exotic, tropical, and foreign.

He headed for the large Fifth Military District's compound two blocks away, located in Shreveport's finest residential district. As he passed a timeless cemetery, he tipped his hat to two beautiful Southern debutantes, their long, wide skirts and perky, colorful bonnets bouncing with their graceful, aristocratic steps. Both women walked right by without even acknowledging his presence. This bothered but did not surprise Douglas. All things being commensurate, he should be one of the town's most eligible bachelors. He was twenty-six, healthy, handsome, from a good family of solid English stock, and educated at West Point. But Southern society and everything associated with it shunned him like a leper.

Douglas walked across the large parade ground at the army's headquarters, a onetime plantation house and grounds. A platoon of Negro soldiers drilled over the lawn. Freed slaves constituted most of the common ranks in the occupation army. Douglas didn't object to this in principle. He had on several occasions commanded colored platoons, but the sight of blacks in uniform still seemed a little queer. They made fine conscripts, tough as nails and accustomed to doing as ordered. He had no doubt about the fighting quality of these men. He had seen it in person, but still found himself not totally at ease with black ranks. Daily, he found himself somewhat ambivalent about the Federal government's current policy and the army's current role in the South: the protection of these freedmen's civil rights and their complete political and commercial incorporation into society. He had fought for the Union and believed in the war's goals. During his lonely hours over the years, he had read most of President Lincoln's speeches. Mr. Lincoln had sold the war to the public to save the Union, and later to eradicate slavery, both noble goals. But Congress's policy had recently evolved into much more. Mr. Lincoln had loathed the institution of slavery and thought Negroes had every right to fail and succeed as their abilities merited, but he had preached that Negroes couldn't and shouldn't ever assimilate into white society, and he had never promoted their full participation in the political system.

Unlike most of the Northern demagogues displaced from the realities on the ground, the army, and Douglas, were tasked with carrying out the government's new policy. Every day he moved through the foreign land trying to implement his orders. Douglas's emotions constantly ebbed from his stance as an advocate for the rights and protection of the Negroes to doubts about their viability as citizens, often even sympathizing with the South. Was he any different from the heathens he ruled? The thoughts perturbed him. Where and what would he be if he had been born five or six hundred miles to the south?

Douglas brushed aside the thoughts and looked at the impeccably clean and groomed lawn. The entire grounds exuded a sense of order, discipline, and control in complete contrast to everything outside town. The army complex, the shiny buildings, bright uniforms, and large flag hanging over the grounds beckoned Douglas's pride. He straightened his posture as he continued.

He had been in Louisiana since before the end of the war. Though many young officers zestfully volunteered for this occupation duty, Douglas considered it a dreadful, deadly, inglorious job filled with murky divisions where good and bad was not black and white, but decidedly gray. There were few amusements and little social society here, and the army's uniform mandates rarely provided space for local interpretation. Worse, his commanders and juniors spanned the gamut in their feelings about their current duties; some were fervent pursuers of President Grant's policies, others bordered on collaborating with the Southerners.

When Douglas finally stepped up on the porch of the provost's office, a huge brick abode fronted with a large porch and six forty-foot-tall Greek columns, he paused briefly, then knocked on the door. A feeling of pessimism fell over his soul. He had no idea why Colonel James wanted to see him. Most of their previous meetings had been a waste of time, standard military protocol or bureaucratic nonsense. The colonel had never shown any interest in Douglas's repeated requests for more men and matériel to tame Louisiana's hinterland.

"Come in."

As Douglas stepped over the threshold, he locked his gaze on the overweight colonel, reclining in a fine leather chair behind his desk, the only fixture in the grandiose room. The room felt cool and damp. A subtle breeze funneled through the six large windows and brushed across the formidable wood walls.

Douglas paused, snapped to attention, and saluted. "Good morning, Colonel James."

"At ease, Captain," the provost said, casually returning the salute before brushing one of the long fingers of his mustache. "Have a seat. I read your report on the riverboat incident. No sign of Sergeant Simmons's body?"

"No. There never is any trace of the victims."

He was in his fifties and in impeccable uniform, though the colonel's black hair had started to gray, and his chubby, almost boyish face had already turned sweaty with the humid morning.

Douglas looked into the colonel's lazy eyes, trying to gauge his mood and the reason for the formal summons.

The colonel sat up straight. "I'm sure you've heard, but in case you haven't, we've got a new commander, General Mower. Things are going to change. President Grant is serious about policing this state. I didn't make that four-day trek from New Orleans through that godforsaken wilderness because I wanted to. I was ordered here. We've had two army pay-runners killed in this area in the last two months, now Sergeant Simmons. We can't tolerate that. We're going to instill some law and order around here. Civilize these hillbillies. They're going to be part of the Union, whether we want them or they like it."

"With all due respect, sir, I'm a little confused," Douglas uttered. "It's been like this for years. The army usually doesn't do anything about these clans and gangs that terrorize the Negroes and unionists, but you want me to go get this specific group of outlaws."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Lords of an Empty Land by Randy Denmon. Copyright © 2015 Randy Denmon. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
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