Lord of Order by Brett Riley (the reading list book TXT) 📕

to throw his leg back over and into the stirrup as the wagon spilled its contents through a hole in its side. Ford’s roan bled from its flanks. The hunter had almost crippled himself, had nearly killed his horse. He regained his saddle and aimed, fired. The round whined past Troy. Ford reloaded.

They approached the Huey P. Long Bridge. The river flowed below it, patrol boats maneuvering around floating bodies as if they were logs. A handful of citizens bathed near the water’s edge, despite the corpses. They heard the shots and looked up as Troy galloped onto the bridge, leading Ford and Long by perhaps forty yards.

Troy reined up, and the horse skidded to a halt, blowing hard, its sides slick with sweat. He leaned over and whispered into her ear. Good luck, girl. This ain’t your fault or your fight.

As Ford and Long reached the foot of the bridge, Troy dismounted, drew, and fired on them. Their animals bucked as his bullets zinged off the pavement. Then they dismounted and pulled their horses to the ground, taking refuge behind them. Whinnying in protest, the animals tried to raise their heads. Long reloaded as Ford talked to his horse, probably trying to calm it, and propped his rifle on the animal’s side.

Give it up, Long shouted. You got nowhere to go.

Troy fired, the round striking the pavement between their horses. Then he swatted the mare’s hindquarters. It charged Ford and Long’s position, and in the moment that it blocked their view, Troy stepped over the side of the bridge and jumped.

He kicked and flailed, unable to stop himself, the river rushing up to meet him, its waters frothing. Wind tore past him and into his nose, inflating his lungs until they felt ready to burst. His stomach rose into his throat. A young guard stood up in his skiff and watched Troy plunge. For a moment, they seemed to lock eyes.

Close your mouth, kid. You could catch a ten-pound bass in there.

Then he hit the water. The impact smashed the sense out of him. Something in his knee popped. Cold water rushed over him. He expelled half his breath in the shock. Bullets cut the water all around him, their sound like someone’s palm striking the surface.

His satchel, still tied to his back, pulled him down and down.

Three hours later, from the foot of the bridge, Ford and Long watched the search parties’ torches sweeping the banks, the nearby streets, the river itself, these latter lights bobbing with the currents. Royster stood nearby, giddy. He even clapped Ford and Long on their backs and congratulated them. Benn sat his horse behind them, directing the searchers. Clemens was out there somewhere, his guns unstrapped, ready to burn Troy down if the lord of order should be found alive. No sign of Tetweiller or Hobbes. Long had barely seen Boudreaux in days, and what she had seen, she had not liked. He had looked gaunt, haunted, older. He still refused to discuss what had happened across the river. Long prayed for him every night and morning.

You think we hit him? Ford said. His expression was blank, but his voice quavered, just a little.

Long watched the search a while longer. I know I grazed him, and I’m pretty sure you did too. But once he hit the water? No way to know.

Royster approached. He put a hand on each of their shoulders. You have done us all a great service, he said. The Crusade thanks you. But now I must leave you. Much is left to do. He turned to the nearest Crusader. Kill that red mare. Then take a detail to Lord Troy’s house and burn it. I want no trace of that traitor to remain by morning.

A Crusader grabbed the mare’s reins. The gathering crowd buzzed. It stretched back two blocks. On the front line, Mordecai Jones stood with his arms folded, his hat tipped back. Long did not like the look in his eyes—baleful, like a hungry wolf’s. Even from a distance, tension radiated off him like heat. Tommy Gautreaux held vigil at Jones’s left, his salt-and-pepper beard hanging halfway down his chest, his prodigious gut puddling over his belt, his thumbs tucked into his pockets. To Gautreaux’s right, Antoine Baptiste sneered, his skin glistening with sweat. His shirt, open at the throat, revealed his thick neck and powerful pectorals. He looked as if he wondered how Long’s bones might taste. On the other side of Jones, tall, beanpole-thin Laura Derosier’s face was expressionless, her straight brown hair blowing in the wind.

Long turned away. Down on the banks, no one hailed them. No shots were fired. No one hallooed. For the moment, Gabriel Troy had disappeared.

Downriver, the lord of order dragged himself out of the water near Evangeline Road. A mounted figure waited on the pitch-black street. If he’s hostile, Troy thought, I reckon I’m done. Something had torn in his right knee, and the scrapes on his scalp and arm oozed. Every muscle ached. He had never been so tired in his life.

The figure trotted forward, face obscured by a bandana and a hat pulled low. Troy bent over, both hands on his good knee, breathing hard. The rider shook his head. Then he pulled off his bandana, revealing a weathered, sun-blasted face, wrinkles like cracked earth, a scruffy white beard.

You look like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag, Ernie Tetweiller said.

Troy coughed and sputtered and vomited river water. In the distance, the glow of many torches shimmered faint and ephemeral like a veiled lantern. You got the rest of my stuff? Troy croaked, wiping puke from his mouth with his shirtsleeve.

Right here, the old man said. He squinted at Troy. Sweet Lord above. Did somebody actually shoot you?

Troy winced. A hive of angry bees swarmed in his knee. His lower leg felt cold and numb, yet his scalp and arm were afire. They grazed me a couple times, he said. Plus,