All Men Fear Me Read online

  All Men Fear Me

  An Alafair Tucker Mystery

  Donis Casey

  www.DonisCasey.com

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2015 by Donis Casey

  First E-book Edition 2015

  ISBN: 9781464204715 ebook

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

  Poisoned Pen Press

  6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103

  Scottsdale, AZ 85251

  www.poisonedpenpress.com

  [email protected]

  Contents

  All Men Fear Me

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  The Main Characters

  July 1917

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  The Liberty Sing

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-one

  Author’s Note

  Alafair’s Homefront Recipes

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Dedication

  For Don

  The Main Characters

  The Family

  Alafair Tucker, a worried mother of ten

  Shaw Tucker, her husband, just as worried, but determined not to show it

  Their children

  Martha, age 25

  Streeter McCoy, her husband

  Mary, age 24

  Kurt Lukenbach, her husband

  Judy, age 18 months, their daughter

  Alice, age 23

  Walter Kelley, her husband

  Linda, age 1, their daughter

  Phoebe, age 23 (Alice’s twin)

  John Lee Day, her husband

  Zeltha, age 2½, their daughter

  Tucker, age 1, their son

  Gee Dub, age 20, a college student

  Ruth, age 18, a music teacher

  Charlie, age 16, looking for action

  Blanche, age 12, a beauty

  Sophronia, age 11, a tomboy

  Grace, age 4, a handful

  The Relations

  Chase Kemp, age 7, Alafair’s nephew, whom she took to raise

  Rob Gunn, Alalfair’s brother, a union organizer, whom she aims to fatten up

  Sally McBride, Alafair’s mother-in-law, whose opinion matters

  Scott Tucker, the town sheriff and Alafair’s cousin-by-marriage

  Trenton Calder, Scott’s deputy, whom Alafair is planning to add to the family

  The Brick Workers

  Henry Blackwood, Charlie’s friend and protector

  Eric Bent, Henry’s uncle

  Win Avey, a hothead

  Billy Claude Walker, also a hothead

  Dutch Leonard, a hothead of a different kind

  The Townspeople

  Emmanuel Clover, a scared patriot

  Jehu H. Ogle, the mayor

  Aram Khouri, a shopkeeper

  Grandfather Khouri, a man with an unhappy past

  Rose Lovelock, a woman of easy virtue

  Nick, a man in a bowler hat

  The Critters

  Charlie Dog, an elderly shepherd dog

  Bacon, a young mutt

  Tornado/Hercules/Six-Shooter/Devil Dancer/Lightning Bolt/Hero/Sweet Honey Baby, a handsome horse with a nervous condition

  July 1917

  Somebody Is Going to Get Killed

  Chapter One

  “The world must be made safe for democracy.”

  —President Woodrow Wilson, April 2, 1917

  Old Nick had been following the traveler ever since he left the detention camp back in New Mexico. It wasn’t that the traveler made a particularly appealing target himself, but everywhere this fellow went, trouble followed in his wake. And trouble was Nick’s food and drink.

  The minute President Wilson had asked Congress to get the country involved in the endless blood-soaked war going on in Europe, Nick had smelled the ugly stench of hysteria and reached for his tool kit. His blades were sharp and his armaments were oiled and ready. Discord had been sown far and wide, and Nick had had plenty of work to keep him happy.

  The miners’ strike down in Arizona had drawn old Nick like a fly to manure, and he had been so busy maintaining disorder that at first he hadn’t noticed the slender man in the thick of it all. The traveler was of middle height, and lightly built, his appearance unremarkable, except for a russet beard liberally streaked with gray, and sharp dark eyes.

  On a morning in early July, Nick joined the armed posse that roused the striking miners from their beds, and helped cram them into twenty-three sweltering cattle cars to deport the troublemakers out of Arizona. Nick enthusiastically arrested anyone who looked like a miner and a couple of men who didn’t, and helped himself to some of their property along the way. He volunteered to man the m
achine gun guarding the deportees and spent the entire trip to New Mexico basking in the miners’ fear and fury as they were carried to their unknown fate. By the time they reached the barbed wire camps in New Mexico, the ardor of most of the detainees had flickered and waned. But the bearded traveler’s fire of determination burned bright as ever. This one would go his own way until the end, and Nick knew that whenever a man’s beliefs rubbed against the grain, sparks were bound to fly.

  A few days later, as soon as his union lawyer got him sprung from internment, the traveler had headed straight for the train station at Hermanas and bought a ticket for Muskogee, Oklahoma. The strike was broken, and most of the strikers were broken as well. Nick knew there was little work left for him in the camp. So he scratched the little white scar beside his eye, set his bowler hat upon his head, and boarded the train behind the traveler. He knew the traveler wasn’t going to notice him. No one ever noticed old Nick. Especially not a man whose eyes were blinded by the fire of true belief.

  Chapter Two

  “If there should be disloyalty,

  it will be dealt with a firm hand of repression.”

  —President Woodrow Wilson, April 2, 1917

  The traveler stood at the head of the alley and watched the ruckus for a long time, trying to decide whether or not to get involved. He thought not. He had just been passing by on his way from the hotel to the Muskogee train station when he heard the commotion and stopped to take a look. He wished he hadn’t.

  It was barely light and the sun not even up and he wasn’t in the mood for a fight. He didn’t much like the idea of two ganging up against one, but the blond-haired youngster seemed to be holding his own all right. Besides, it wasn’t any of his business.

  He had had enough strife to last him a while, and he expected he’d soon have a passel more before much longer, so he didn’t see any reason to borrow trouble if he didn’t have to. He had a train to catch. He was just about to move on when the fat brawler got the young man down on the bricks and started pummeling him around the head.

  “Damn Red!” the fat man hollered. His skinny companion grabbed up a length of board from the end of the alley and headed over to finish the job.

  The traveler sighed. He unslung his rucksack from his shoulder, pulled his little blackjack out of his back pocket, and waded in.

  It didn’t take much to break it up. One good slap with the cosh on the fat man’s shoulder and that was that. That was generally the way with bullies. They didn’t pause to figure out who had decided to even the odds, or why. One good howl from the fat one and the skinny one dropped his board and was gone before the traveler even got a good look at him. It took a little longer for the fat man to haul himself up and skedaddle. Still, he moved pretty well for a fellow of his size.

  The blond youth lay where his attacker left him, facedown on the bricks with his hands clasped over his head. The traveler nudged him in the side with his toe.

  “They’re gone, hotshot. You can get up now.” The traveler’s voice bubbled with humor. Or maybe it was relief. It was not often that he managed to get out of a shindy without so much as a bruise.

  The kid’s head turned just enough to enable him to peer at his rescuer out of one rapidly swelling blue eye.

  “Get up, boy,” the traveler repeated. “Let’s have a look at you.”

  The young man pulled one leg up, then the other, and raised himself onto his hands and knees. He grabbed the traveler’s proffered hand and stood. The traveler sucked air through his teeth. The youngster was much the worse for wear.

  “Your face looks like you got yourself caught in a meat grinder, kiddo. It’s lucky I come along when I did. You expect you’ve got any broken bones or busted insides that will require the services of a doctor?”

  The young man patted himself down and took stock of his wounds before answering. He was a little hard to understand because of the split lip. “I reckon I got a bruised rib, here, and my eye hurts, but I don’t think anything is broke.”

  “Looks like them fellows had quite a bone to pick with you. What did you do to rile them up so?”

  “They took issue with something I said.”

  One reddish eyebrow lifted. “I reckon. Did you disrespect the fat feller’s mama?”

  The youth studied the older man out his rapidly purpling eyes, reluctant to answer.

  The traveler slipped the blackjack back into his pocket and crossed his arms. “Don’t worry, towhead. I got no quarrel with a man’s politics or his ancestry neither. You say something against the war? Or do you just have a German name?”

  An ironic smile attempted to form on the bloodied lips. “Neither. I’m just plain Henry Blackwood. I met them two at the diner yonder while I was having a bite before my train come. When we left, we were walking the same direction, toward the station, just having a chat about this and that when I said that I kind of wish this war would get over quick because I didn’t think the Germans are our natural enemies and I’m sorry we’ve got into a scrape with them. They took exception and thought to correct my faulty reasoning with their knuckles.”

  The traveler did not look amused. He fished a white handkerchief out of his vest pocket and handed it to his companion. “That kind of talk can get you killed these days, boyo, or at the least, thrown in jail. Unless you’re willing to die for a currently unpopular principle, I’d advise that for the duration you keep your opinions to yourself.”

  Henry dabbed at the worst of the cuts on his face. “Yessir, I expect I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “You look pretty well grown. How old are you? Twenty-three, twenty-four? How come you ain’t in the Army? You waiting to see if your number comes up in the draft next week?”

  “I tried to join up back in April. They wouldn’t let me. I got the asthma. I went ahead and registered last month, though. If I get rejected again, I may try the Navy come spring. I have no desire to get killed in a war, but better to do my duty than to go to prison for draft-dodging. Especially if them two represent present public opinion.” He handed the bloody handkerchief back to the man. “Thank you for saving me. I reckon if I hustle I can still make my train.”

  “Well, you’d better make a detour to the station washroom and clean yourself up before you present yourself to the stationmaster. They’re like to not let you on the train looking like you just got trampled by an elephant.” The traveler picked up his backpack and the two men headed back out to the street. Henry limped for half a block, but his gait had straightened out by the time they approached the railway station.

  “I appreciate your help, Mister, but you don’t need to walk me all the way in.”

  “I ain’t, sport. I’m heading out on the six a.m. eastbound myself. Where are you off to?”

  “I’m just going up the way a bit. I came up from Texas yesterday. I’m going to live with my uncle for a spell. He’s got me a job at the brick plant in Boynton.”

  This time both the man’s russet eyebrows shot upward. “Well, I’ll be go to hell. Boynton is my destination as well.”

  Chapter Three

  “Oh, once upon a time in Arkansas

  An old man sat in his little cabin door

  And fiddled a tune that I like to hear

  A jolly old tune that he played by ear”

  —“The Arkansas Traveler” an American folk tune

  Henry and the traveler didn’t have a lot of time to chat once the train pulled out of the Muskogee station. Boynton was only fifteen miles down the track, and the stop at Wainright was so brief that the train barely slowed down long enough for the stationmaster to fling a bag of mail into the open door of the postal boxcar.

  Henry did most of the talking. He wasn’t usually such a chatty fellow, but the traveler kept asking him questions, and in such a solicitous manner that Henry found himself relating as much of his life story as he could cram into the half-hour trip.


  Yes, he had just come up from Brownsville, Texas. Oh, yes, there was a lot of trouble going on down there. The border clashes hadn’t slowed down because of the war. In fact, they were getting worse. That’s why he was coming up to Boynton. His mother had convinced his father that it was safer up here.

  The traveler and Henry got off the train at Boynton just as the sun cleared the horizon. Neither noticed the nondescript man in the bowler hat who disembarked behind them and moved into the overhanging shadow of the station roof.

  The traveler hoisted his backpack and shook the young man’s hand. “I wish you luck, slick. And by luck I mean I hope your number don’t come up.”

  Henry smiled at that. He took a furtive glance around the platform for eavesdroppers before he replied. “I admit I don’t want to go to war, Mister, but I expect it’s my duty to give it a try. There’s a lot I could do for my country if I was in the Army.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Good luck just the same, whether you get in or not. I reckon we’ll see each other around.”

  “I hope so. Thanks again for keeping me from getting my head stove in. Which way you headed?”

  “West of town.”

  “My uncle’s place is to the east, just yonder, so I’ll take my leave.”

  The man in the bowler hat watched the two men part and tapped his lip with his finger while he figured out his next move. The traveler was sure trouble, but something was not right with the blond-haired youth. He sensed it, and his senses were never wrong. He picked up his kit and took a leisurely stroll down the street that led east.

  ***

  It didn’t take the traveler long to walk the three blocks from the Boynton train station, through the still-shuttered downtown, and turn onto the dirt road that led out into the country.

  The summer morning was already warm, and promised to be uncomfortable once the sun was high. It made for a beautiful sunrise, though, the dusty sky tinted faintly pink by the light of dawn. There was no wind to stir the leaves on the few scrubby trees that grew between the road and the endless miles of barbed-wire fence enclosing the checkerboard of pasture and cropland. The traveler had noted that the leaves of the trees had turned bottom-side-up. It was going to rain soon. Judging by the state of the crops, he figured that a shower would be most welcome around here.