Nan Ryan - Naughty Marietta

When the war began, Cole and Keller—friends since their Texas childhood—made a solemn vow. Should one survive and the other die, the survivor would take care of his deceased comrade’s family.

Cole swallowed hard as he recalled that terrible moment just before Keller died. “You’ll look after Ma and little Leslie, won’t you, Cole?” Keller had managed to say weakly, clutching Cole’s shirtfront as his lifeblood flowed out of him.

“You know I will,” Cole assured him as he cradled Keller in his arms and cried like a baby.

Now Cole ground his teeth in frustration. He hadn’t kept his promise to Keller. He had failed his friend, hadn’t been able to look after Keller’s widowed mother and baby sister. Cole closed his eyes and grimaced, a muscle clenching in his lean jaw.

Before the war Cole had been a young, struggling attorney. But he couldn’t practice law when the war ended. A fugitive with a price on his head, he’d had to lie low. Had to constantly keep on the move in an effort to elude the occupation troops and avoid being caught and hanged for burning Hadleyville.

Finally, in desperation, he had attempted a bank robbery to get money to help Keller’s mother and sister. He had been caught. An alert captain on the provost marshall’s staff had matched the captured felon’s face to the old federal death warrant.

What would have been five years in Huntsville State Prison for the failed bank robbery became a federal death sentence. He would hang for the burning of Hadleyville and the destitute Longley women would be left to struggle on alone.

The hammer of the ancient clock in the town square struck the hour. The jailer’s booming voice drew the reclining prisoner from his painful reverie.

“It’s time, Heflin,” the jailer said as the heavy cell door swung open and he held out a pair of silver handcuffs.

Cole slowly turned his head, nodded and agilely rolled up and off his bunk. Rising to his full, imposing height of six foot two inches, he extended his wrists and said, “Crowd forming?”

“A big one,” said the burly jailer with a broad smile.

“Well, let’s go give them what they came here for,” said Cole calmly.

Flanked by two armed federal marshals, Cole Heflin walked out of the Galveston City Jail and into the sun-splashed square where the newly built gallows dominated the cloudless blue skyline.

“Here he comes!” The excited declaration swiftly swept through the gathering as the throng parted to let the prisoner through.

“The bastard’s getting what he deserves!” exclaimed a well-dressed, transplanted Easterner who spat contemptuously at him as Cole passed.

The expression on Cole’s face never changed.

“I don’t care what he’s done, he’s too handsome to die!” shouted a brazen young woman and, elbowing her way through the crowd, she stepped right up to Cole and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him soundly.

A mixture of whistles and boos rose from the shocked spectators. Other less forward young ladies threw bouquets at the tall, dark Southerner, while a majority of the men, Confederate veterans who considered Cole a hero, shouted admiringly, “Hurrah for the brave Johnny Reb! The man who burned Hadleyville!”

Cole climbed the gallows’ steps to the wooden platform where a new rope hung down in an ominous loop from the sturdy overhead beam. There stood an old robed padre and the hangman, dressed all in black.

The jailer cautiously uncuffed Cole. Cole gave him no trouble. Instead, he stepped into place directly below the looped lariat and atop the trapdoor.

The rope was lowered, the loop slipped down around Cole’s neck. The hangman produced a black hood. Cole declined.

The hangman asked, “Any last words, Heflin?”

“No,” said Cole as the priest stepped closer and began to read passages of scripture.

The hangman was tightening the noose around Cole’s neck when an out-of-breath gentleman, soon identified as Marcus Weathers, forced his way through the crowd, shouting, “Stop! Don’t do it! I have signed orders from Colonel Patten of the Federal Occupation Forces for you to cease and desist!”

The shout drew everyone’s attention to the well-known attorney. In his raised hand was a blue legal document. Marcus Weathers rushed up onto the platform and handed the papers to the executioner. The document was read and then, frowning, the executioner announced, “Take the rope from the prisoner’s neck. The hanging’s off!”

A low moan went through the crowd.

Amid rising jeers and cheers, Cole stood stunned and totally still as the jailer roughly removed the noose from around his neck.

“You’re free to go, Heflin,” the big lawman said, clearly disappointed.

Marcus Weathers stepped forward, smiled at Cole and said, “Come with me, Mr. Heflin. The carriage is waiting.”

“Where are we going?” Cole asked.

“You’ll see,” replied Weathers as he took Cole’s arm and slowly guided him down the gallows steps, through the buzzing mob and toward the black carriage.

Cole was driven a short distance to the city’s waterfront. The carriage soon turned into a long palm-bordered avenue that led to an opulent seaside mansion. The white two-story building was located at the center of a great expanse of well-manicured acreage. It gleamed in the late-morning sun and Cole quickly realized its inhabitants were afforded an unobstructed view of the Gulf of Mexico.

Cole was ushered into the imposing mansion and immediately directed to a large, darkly paneled library where an old man sat in a wheelchair.

Maxwell Lacey smiled when Cole entered the room and said, “Welcome to my humble abode, Mr. Heflin. Won’t you have a seat.”

Cole continued to stand. “I’m afraid you have the advantage, sir.”

“I usually do. Or, at least, I try to,” Maxwell Lacey said with a chuckle.

Cole didn’t share his amusement. “Who are you? What’s this all about?”

“You’ll know soon enough what it’s about, Mr. Heflin. But allow me to introduce myself. I’m Maxwell Lacey. You may have heard of me.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“No matter. Would you like a drink?”

Cole accepted. An unobtrusive servant immediately handed him a bourbon. Cole turned the heavy shot glass up to his lips and drank thirstily.

Maxwell Lacey dismissed the servant with a wave of his hand and said, “Please, sit down, Mr. Heflin. Let’s have a little talk.”

Cole drained the glass, set it aside and folded his long body down onto a comfortable sofa. Lacey wheeled his chair out from behind his desk and moved closer. He continued to smile as he sized up the lean, darkly bearded man.

The man he had chosen to do his bidding.

Maxwell laced his fingers together in his robe covered lap, leaned forward and said, “I know all about you, Heflin. You’re the man who singlehandedly burned Hadleyville during the war and—”

“Ancient history,” Cole interrupted with a dismissive shake of his head.

“Not ancient history to the occupying federal forces,” Maxwell Lacey reminded him. His eyes flashed when he added, “You were tried and convicted in absentia years ago and sentenced to hang! Took them seven years to catch you.”

Cole shrugged his wide shoulders. “What’s that got to do with you?”

“Everything, Heflin. I saved your life. Had the federal commander order you taken down from the gallows. I am a very powerful man in Galveston. And a rich one. I greased the necessary palms, pulled the necessary strings to have your life spared.”

Cole raised one well-arched eyebrow, looked Maxwell Lacey in the eye and said, “My sincere thanks. But again, why?”

With an ominous laugh, the old man ignored Cole’s question and stated, “I expect to be repaid for your deliverance. You will do exactly as I ask, Mr. Heflin.”