It was breeding. Or rather, lack of breeding. These peasants were stupid and rebellious by nature. It was in their blood.
And Texans were the worst of them.
Sully had enjoyed his time with Father in New Orleans. The town was still reeling from the war, of course, but the wealthy always found a way, and well-to-do Louisianans smart enough not to involve themselves in the war had done a good job of maintaining a secret society that still insulated them from theouter suffering and afforded them all the things befitting their station: good food, good drink, beautiful women to use, and best of all, servants who knew their station, showing great men like Sully all due respect… the exact opposite of detestable men like this Texan peasant.
But now this old man had said something truly surprising. How did he know about…
“That’s right,” the old man said defiantly. “I know who you are. You’re Alistair Weatherspoon’s boy.”
Sully was shocked. How could this peasant possibly know his name?
“And you,” the old man said, pointing a bony finger at Gibbs, “Will taught you a lesson over by the mercantile a week or two back. Heard all about it. You came at him with brass knuckles. Didn’t do you much good, did they?”
“It was a lucky punch,” Gibbs growled.
“Yeah,” the old man laughed. “Sounds like it was a whole bunch of lucky punches. My wife’s cousin was there. Said it took them a good fifteen minutes to wake you up. And you.”
The old man turned to Chad Butler, who stared daggers back at him. “You’re Slim Butler’s kid, but I can’t say you got much of your daddy in you. From what I hear, you’re a cold-blooded killer and fast with that shooting iron of yours. But you ain’t no match for Will. He’s got the difference.”
“The only difference he had was a scattergun,” Butler said. “If he would have faced me like a man, he’d be dead.”
“Like a man, huh?” the old timer chuckled. “Let me tell you something. Will Bentley is twice the man as all three of you rolled together.”
“I don’t like your attitude, old man,” Butler said, dropping a hand to the butt of his Colt.
“No, Chad,” Sully said quickly. “As much as I would enjoy teaching this insolent old peasant a lesson, he’s not worth the time or trouble.”
“Old peasant, huh? You town boys come out here, stomp around, act important, think we’re stupid. Well, maybe we ain’t half so stupid as you think. Why do you think I wasted my time standing out here, talking with the likes of you? I was giving my boy time to get into position. You just look back behind me now. Look back there. Should be in the hay loft. Wait for it.”
Sully’s eyes went to the open door of the hay loft and saw nothing. This old man wasn’t just stupid. He was crazy, too.
But then the clouds shifted, and Sully saw sunlight winking off something metallic back there in the loft.
Butler removed his hand from his pistol. “He’s telling the truth, boss. Somebody up in that loft has a rifle on us.”
“I believe that concludes our business together, boys,” the old man said and spat again. “You do yourselves a favor, head on back to town, and stay there. You come out here looking for trouble, you might just find it. In spades.”
With that, the man showed them his back and stalked off.
“I’d like to punch that old man in the face,” Gibbs said.
“He had the drop on us today,” Butler said. “Next time, he won’t see me coming.”
“Forget that stupid old man,” Sully said. “We’re here to find Will Bentley.”
They rode from farm to farm, but no one would help them. Most of the peasants feigned ignorance, pretending to be clueless hayseeds.
Even though these people addressed Sully respectfully, he detected surly attitudes barely concealed under their polite words and empty smiles.
They knew where Bentley was. They just wouldn’t tell Sully.
And for some infuriating reason, they seemed to find the whole thing amusing. Seemed, even, to think that Will might somehow have the upper hand, which was ridiculous.
Things continued this way throughout the morning. The sun crept toward its apex. The day grew hot.
Sully was just about to quit when they came to the one place they knew Will Bentley wouldn’t be… his old family farm, which had, amusingly, been snatched up for back taxes by a Yankee carpetbagger.
“Yeah, I know where he is,” the carpetbagger said. “You men going to run him off? I don’t like him. And I don’t like the way he looks at me!”
