Текст книги "Mankillers"

Автор книги: Ken Casper

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MANKILLERS

By

Ken Casper and Pres Darby

ISBN 978-0-982-78170-8

Copyright © 2011 by Kenneth Casper and John Preston Darby

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Published by Delphi Books

www.DelphiBooks.us

Published simultaneously in Canada and the United Kingdom

Book design and composition by Just Your Type

–_______________________________________________________

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Casper, K. N.

 Mankillers / by Ken Casper and Pres Darby.

      p. cm.

 ISBN 978-0-9827817-0-8 (trade pbk. : alk. paper)

1.  Physicians–Fiction. 2.  Brothers–Fiction. 3.  Slaves–Fiction. 4.  South Carolina–History–Civil War, 1861-1865–Fiction.  I. Darby, Preston. II. Title.

 PS3603.A8675M36 2011

 813’.6–dc22

                                                           2010027026

Printed in the United States of America

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the authors have made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the authors assume any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Our special thanks to:

Linda Barrett

Garda Parker

Douglas Holden

Fran Baker

For all their help and encouragement

Chapter ONE

Southwestern Virginia, 1865

With the first pale glimmer of another gray dawn, Doctor Elijah Buchanan Thomson could see severed arms and legs piled outside higher than the windowsill. Beyond the porch of the shack that served as his field hospital the ground was clotted with lumps of men, moaning and gritting their teeth. They cursed their pain or called for water and loved ones. Through the mist the names echoed, the pleas of tortured spirits seeking escape from this ring of Hell.

Feeling considerably older than his twenty-six years, Doctor Thomson shuffled through the doorway, removed his apron, arched his back, yawned and rubbed his eyes. The coppery smell of blood, the grating of his bone saw, and the warmth of slippery flesh had dulled his senses. He’d cut, sawed and stitched for over twelve hours. How many had lived? How many died? There’d be more today.

The crack of a rifle not far away brought him to full alert. He looked around. Nobody paid it any heed. He was descending the steps when his attention was drawn to another sound: hoof beats. He looked up.

A black steed leapt the creek and raced toward him, hurling gouts of mud from its hooves. Just short of the house the horseman pulled back on the reins. The animal slid to a halt, reared and pawed the air. The rider, dressed in a gray cavalry officer’s uniform slid from the saddle and saluted.

“Well, Buck, you look bloodier than your patients. Been a long night?”

It seemed forever since Elijah Thomson had heard his nickname. He stared. Fatigue fell from him like a silken garment. “By God, Clay, is it really you?”

The men embraced, pounding each other on the back.

“How’d you find me, little brother?”

“Learned only today you were the surgeon assigned to Kershaw’s outfit.”

Buck stepped back. “You still ride like a fool. You got Yankees on your tail or is it a jealous husband?”

Clay grinned. “If I could handle a gun as well as you, Buck, I wouldn’t have to ride so fast. But it’s neither this time.” He pulled a bandanna from a pocket and wiped his face.

“Then what is it?”

“Lee surrendered two days ago at Appomattox. It’s over, Buck. The war’s over!”

“Over? Really over?”

The killing’s stopped. No more wounded? No more cutting off men’s arms and legs? No more seeing men die before my eyes while I try to salvage what’s left of them?

“Thank God, Clay. Thank God.”

Tears leaked from his brother’s blue eyes. “We tried so hard, Buck.”

“I know. We plumb wore ourselves out whipping them.” He took in the length of his handsome brother. “Lord, you’ve grown up since I saw you last. How long’s it been now? Four, five years?”

“A while, and a lot’s happened since you left Jasmine.”

“Sounds like we have some catching up to do.”

“You bet.” Clay frowned and turned his hat in his hands. “But first I need to talk to you about a mankiller.”

Mankiller. Buck hated the very term, conjuring up, as it did, images of madness, of fiends who killed for the sheer pleasure of it. Since the first shots of the War Between the States, soldiers of both armies had feared sharpshooters, snipers who struck from a distance without warning or mercy. As the war dragged on, rifles and ammunition improved; their skills did too. Now they could fire with deadly accuracy from distances of up to a thousand yards. The only protection for columns of foot soldiers was the patrolling of their perimeters by cavalry. Soon, however, these outriders themselves became targets. Mounted officers in their distinctive uniforms were particularly vulnerable.

“Sit down here with me a minute, Buck.”

They settled on the porch steps, elbows on knees. Down by the creek campfires were flickering to life around metal pots. Cooks began boiling the breakfast gruel, a watery concoction of corn, flour, squirrels, birds and anything else brought in by foragers.

“I’ve been lucky,” Clay admitted. “No wounds though two horses have been shot out from under me. But several of my men have been killed in the last few days by this particular misanthrope.”

“What’s he look like? Anybody seen him?”

“One of my sentries caught a glimpse of him yesterday sliding down a tree. All he could tell was that he’s small and has red hair. I tell you, Buck, he’s the best marksman I’ve run into—present company excepted, of course. Goes for head shots, and never misses. Shoots officers, infantrymen, the wounded, even litter bearers.”

Buck jerked upright. “Litter bearers? I’ve never heard of anyone, us or the Yankees, shooting litter bearers. He must be crazy.”

“That’s why I’m here. When I learned you were in this area, I told the general if anyone could get this bastard it’s you. He’s good, Buck, but you’re better. Get ‘im. The war’s over. Enough men have died.”

“I shoot for sport. I’m no mankiller.”

“He’s got to be stopped, Buck, and you’re the man to do it.” Clay came to his feet. “Think of it as protecting your wounded or shooting a mad dog. Doesn’t matter.”

“No,” Buck muttered. “I don’t suppose it does.”

“So come with me to headquarters.”

“I’ve got to check on my patients.” Buck stood up. “Actually I think your man may be here.”

“The sniper’s here?” Clay hurried after Buck and stepped gingerly over a dead amputee at the end of the porch. “You’ve seen him?”

“No—” Buck scratched his unkempt beard “—but I heard shots right after sunup. Sounded like they came from those trees on the other side of the creek.”

“Anybody hit?”

“Not that I’m aware of. My orderly’s seeing about burning those stinking horse carcasses. I reckon we’ll find out when he gets back.” He rubbed his eyes. “I’m so tired—”

“I’ll nose around? You get some sleep,” Clay urged. “You appear about used up.”

“I still have to check my most recent surgeries. Don’t you go wandering and tempting that sharpshooter now. Leave your hat and coat here. Wrap up in one of these blankets.” He placed a hand firmly on his brother’s shoulder. “The war’s over,” he said as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “It’s time to go home.” At least it was for Clay. Buck wasn’t sure he had a home to go to.

Clay cleared his throat. “As soon as this trouble’s finished we ride south. Together, Buck. On the way I’ll tell you about a private matter we need to discuss. But there’ll be time enough for that later.”

#

God, it was so good to see Buck again.

Clay surveyed the scene before him and stared with a feeling of shame and disgust at the corpse he’d stepped over a few minutes earlier. Blond, like me. Strong, too. But look at him now. Both legs cut off. At least he’s dead. He won’t have to spend the rest of his days crawling on the ground like an animal. Lord, what woman would want to be touched by a man with no legs?

Around him all Clay could see were men and boys with missing limbs.

My problem seems so insignificant compared with them. Thank God we’ll be leaving here soon and can put this place behind us. I’ll have to tell Buck about the situation I’ve gotten myself into. He’ll be angry with me, of course, like he so often is, but he’ll get over it. He always does. Then he’ll figure a way out of this dilemma for me.

He stiffened as a scream erupted from a soldier bent over a man on the ground. “No, he can’t be dead. He can’t. He’s my brother. He can’t be dead. What’ll I tell Momma? I was supposed to watch out for him. Jody, get up. Get up, Jody.” The young man fell to his knees and wept.

Instinctively Clay started to turn away, until he saw the man take out a gun and raise it to his head.

Off the porch he leapt with a scream of his own. The distraction made the trooper pause long enough for Clay to tackle him. They fell on top of the dead man. Clay ripped the derringer from the grieving man’s hand and flung it as far as he could.

“Your Momma will forgive you for Jody, but she won’t forgive you if you do this.”

A pair of strong hands separated them. They climbed to their feet.

“I’ll take care of him.” The orderly put his arm around the infantryman’s shoulders and led him away. “You’ll be all right, friend.”

#

When Buck was finished examining his latest amputations, he returned to the shack. Clay’s hat and coat were lying on a bench inside the door. His brother had heeded his advice. Buck wrapped himself in a coarse blanket and lay on the floor, barely aware of the thumping sound outside the window. Silent men, whose glazed eyes had seen too much, were loading the remnants of his past night’s work into a two-wheeled cart.

#

Buck’s orderly was returning from the slit-trench privy when he spied a soldier in butternut kneeling by a man lying on the ground. The casualty, missing an arm and a leg, was obviously dead.

“Ain’t nothing you can do for him no more, trooper,” Kentucky called out. “Come give me a hand.”

The soldier didn’t move. He kept staring at the dead man. “We signed up together. Worked neighboring farms. He had a way with growing things. Played a harmonica real good too. Helped me when my folks was took with the fever.”

Kentucky nodded. “I need your help.”

Reluctantly the soldier rose and approached. “What you want from me?”

“Get a shovel from over by the shed. We got to bury some parts.”

“Parts?”

“Just get a shovel.” He’d understand soon enough.

An hour later they rested on their spades by the side of the pit they’d dug, while another soldier brought up the two-wheeled cart. Together they dumped its gruesome cargo into the abyss. Amputated extremities were piled two feet deep.

“Is my friend’s arm and leg in there?” the soldier asked as tears coursed down his face.

“Don’t think about it,” Kentucky told him. The nightmares would come later.

The stone-faced men began shoveling clods of wet earth. The bloodless limbs writhed, as though they were trying to escape their interment.

“Faster,” one of the gravediggers urged. “Faster.” In a near panic he flung spadefuls of sandy soil into the hole. “I can’t stand seeing ‘em move like that. Faster.”

Soon all were covered except one pasty hand which seemed to plead for mercy as the last clumps of dirt hit it.

“Oh God, forgive us,” the shoveler cried, his eyes red, his face wet with tears. “Oh God, I didn’t know it was gonna be like this.”

At last the hand was out of sight.

The weeping man shivered. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Them horses need burning first,” Kentucky told him.

#

Two hours later Buck was awakened by a beam of sunlight shining on his face. He peered over the windowless sill.

Flames blazed from piles of dead horses and mules. There was no breeze. The stench of death was so pervasive it could be tasted. Three years as a physician hadn’t insulated Buck’s senses from the sights, sounds and smells spawned by war.

He descended the steps of the shotgun shack and once again began examining the wounded, sniffing for the tell-tale fetor of developing infection. At the verge of the field he saw Clay and Kentucky pointing at sites beyond the creek. Even without his cavalry tunic and yellow-plumed hat, Clay’s golden head was a beacon in an ocean of dun and dirt.

We’ll ride south together, Buck thought with a longing that threatened to overwhelm him. The war’s over. It’s finally over. Now we can get our lives back.

Leaving the cabin, he approached the two men. “You reckon there’s anything we could do to make this place smell any worse?”

“Ain’t that the truth?” Kentucky replied. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see one of them buzzards up yonder fall right out of the sky from the stink.”

“I see you found gravediggers.”

“Every man that can move a shovel is going at it. And the lieutenant here rounded up men from the farms hereabouts to help.”

“Except for one,” Clay noted. “That devil across the creek doesn’t give a Yankee damn. Leveled a shotgun at me and told me to get the hell off his property. When I was riding off, I glanced over my shoulder. The old jackass was shoving his wife down the steps and cussing her, seemed like for nothing more than just standing in the door. I was tempted to go back and call him out but figured we have enough problems of our own.”

“Wise choice, little brother. I sure wouldn’t want the infamous Thomson temper to get you shot now.” He patted Clay on the shoulder and smiled. “I’m proud of you.”

“Yeah, well . . . that sharpshooter. . . . He’s around here, like you said. Killed a couple of the wounded while you were sleeping. Coward even shot a man who was burning the horses.”

Kentucky spoke up. “The fella had just helped me bury the arm and leg of his dead friend.”

Clay stared at him, then bowed his head, his lips tight.

“You certain it’s the same sniper?” Buck asked.

“Got to be. Hit ‘em all square in the head.” Clay frowned and scratched his chin. “Peculiar thing is the way he chooses his victims.” He pointed. “One was over there on the right about a hundred yards from the creek, another on the left maybe fifty yards closer. The next was on the right again, fifty yards in—”

“That God damn bastard. He’s using my people to sight in his rifle.”

Clay gaped, his mouth open. “What the hell kind of man would do that?”

“The kind that loves killing. He’s what you called him a little while ago, a mankiller.” Buck took a deep breath. “Has he fired lately?”

“Ain’t been no shots for over an hour now,” Kentucky told him.

“Probably waiting for this smoke to clear. I suspect he’s got a long-range repeating rifle, maybe with a telescope sight, so he must know most of our people are unarmed and defenseless. The gutless coward.”

“That’s where he made his first mistake, thinking nobody’d shoot back.” Clay gripped Buck’s arm. “You’re the only one who stands a chance of hitting him at long range. How about it? Before he starts shooting again.”

“Right now we’d best get in out of the open.”

Not far away sweating gravediggers mechanically toiled. Buck and Clay made their way up the incline towards the ramshackle building. Kentucky veered over to the cooking pots.

“I’ve never been asked to take a man’s life before. I’m a healer not a killer.” Buck murmured. His voice faded. When he spoke again, it was if he were talking to himself. “I’ll have to let him fire first so I can see where he’s hidden, then kill him before he can fire again. My old Volcanic shoots straight enough, but the cartridges are old. If it misfires I may never get a second chance . . .”

Clay halted, brows raised. “Then you’ll do it?”

Buck sighed. “I don’t have much choice, do I? He’ll keep killing till he’s stopped.”

They entered the wooden structure. Clay tossed his blanket aside. “God that thing stinks. I’m going down to the creek to clean up.”

Kentucky appeared with a small pail of gelatinous, brown liquid and two metal cups.

“The stew’s hot, but that’s about all I can say for it. Sure hope somebody shows up soon with supplies. You don’t reckon they went home after the surrender and forgot us, do you?”

“Lord, I hope not.”

Clay bounded into the shack, a carbine cradled in his arms. “Now, Dr. Thomson, sir, what do you think of this?”

“My God, Clay, where’d you find a Henry? It looks brand new.”

His brother grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Liberated it from a Yankee a while back. The magazine’s full, and I’ve got extra cartridges in my saddlebags.”

Buck accepted the weapon. “This’ll definitely even the odds.” He raised it to his shoulder and squinted along the barrel. “Is it sighted in yet?”

“I had one of my marksmen back at camp do it, so it should be ready. Too bad you can’t take a few practice shots.”

“That’d tip your friend off, maybe send him scampering. Or he might sight in on us.” He hefted the rifle in his hands, assessing its weight and balance and approving both. “We can only hope your man knew what he was doing.”

A few minutes later Kentucky and Clay positioned themselves inside on either side of the window and watched for movement in the trees bordering the creek. Buck edged out onto the porch, sat on a wooden box in the shade and laid the Henry across his knees.

They waited.

Smoke from the pyres cleared, leaving an unobstructed view of Sayler’s Creek and the woods beyond.

Minutes dragged by.

“Sir,” Kentucky spoke softly, “there’s somebody stirring in that tall hickory on the left.”

“Where? I don’t see anything,” Clay muttered.

Buck gripped the rifle. “I thought those flashes this morning came from a tree on the right.”

“I’m coming out so I can see better.” Clay tiptoed through the door, stood beside Buck and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

“Stay into the shadow, Clay. You’ve got that officer’s uniform on and . . .”

“He’s there, sir.” Kentucky pointed. “In the hickory on the left.”

Buck noted the shimmering of the leaves, brought the rifle more snugly into his shoulder, aimed, fired and immediately levered in another cartridge.

Time seemed suspended as something bounced from branch to branch on its way to the ground. Buck spied a muzzle flash on the right, instinctively shifted his aim and fired. His mind registered the brief image of a figure with long red hair, a moment before he was splattered with the blood, bone and brains of his brother’s explod-

ing head.

Chapter TWO

Clay’s dead.

Awareness penetrated Buck’s consciousness an instant before rage erased all other emotions. A gut-wrenching scream rose from inside him. He dropped to his knees beside his brother and cradled him in his arms, rocking and murmuring to himself.

“I’m sorry, little brother. Poppa always said it was my job to make sure you didn’t get hurt.”

He was barely aware of humming something. A spiritual, like Emma used to sing when they were small and hurt themselves?

“Oh, Clay, why now? The war’s over.”

Gradually he became aware of Kentucky’s urging him to get off the porch and out of the line of fire.

What difference does it make? Clay’s dead. My brother’s dead. It doesn’t matter if someone shoots me. For three years all I’ve seen is death. Death and suffering and mutilation and torment. No one escapes. Clay didn’t. Why should I? We could have gone home together. Now I’ll have to tell Poppa his favorite son won’t be coming back.

“Here, sir. Let me cover him for you.”

Buck lifted his head. The orderly had a blanket.

He touched Buck’s shoulder. “Sir, we need to get off this here porch. That sniper might still be about.”

“He killed my brother,” Buck whispered.

“Yes, sir.”

Buck lowered Clay’s body and knelt there as Kentucky draped it. Suddenly as if possessed, he growled, “Now I’ll kill him.”

Springing to his feet, he seized the Henry, leaped from the porch, dodged through the rows of wounded into the field, then stopped and raised the rifle to his shoulder. He took careful aim at a hickory on the left of the creek’s bend. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Suddenly his blood froze, his scalp tingled, his hands began to shake. As if his fingers had been singed, he flung the Henry from him, collapsed to his knees and bowed his head.

Kentucky raced up, panting, and crouched beside him. “Sir, you hit? You all right?”

“Jesus—” his voice trembled “—there’s a boy in that tree. I almost shot him.”

“What? A boy? In the tree?” The orderly peered into the grove. “I thought it was another sniper.”

“So did I,” Buck answered hollowly. “God, what if I’d shot him?”

A moment passed. “Well, sir, you didn’t. So that’s that. Now let’s get out of the open.”

“I need to see after that child.”

“But—” Kentucky stopped. “But . . . wait up a minute.” He darted back to the cabin and returned a moment later with a handgun. “I believe you hit the shooter in that other tree, sir, cause the branches shook like he was falling, and he didn’t fire back, but in case he ain’t gone, here’s the lieutenant’s Colt. Take it while I clean up the Henry.”

Buck hesitated only a second, then accepted the proffered weapon and stuck it in his belt. “Let’s go see about that boy.”

The orderly retrieved the rifle and on the run wiped it with his sleeve.

They splashed through the stream and slithered up the bank toward the hickory. A figure, wearing a dirty homespun shirt descended from the tree and hopped to where a crutch had fallen. Retrieving it, he clumped toward them. His right leg was withered.

“Lordy, I’m glad to see y’all.”

“What’re you doing up in that tree, boy?” demanded Buck, a tremor in his voice. The doctor’s practiced eye noted bruises scattered over the lad’s arms. His left eye was swollen shut.

“Momma helped me up, then went to hide Hannah from old Zeb.” The words spilled out. “I been here all night.” Tears welled. “I’m scared that devil done hurt Momma again.”

Buck squatted in front of the youngster, who he judged to be ten or eleven years old, and put his arm around the child’s shoulders. “Son, you’re safe now. We’ll go find your mother directly. I bet you’re worn out hiding in that tree all night. What’s your name?”

“Billy, sir. Billy Hewitt. We live over yonder at Zeb Feeney’s place.”

Zeb Feeney. He must be the man Clay had been so incensed over. Buck scowled. “Feeney give you those bruises and black eye?”

Billy glanced down at this leg. “Sometimes I can’t get away fast enough.”

Buck clenched his teeth and shook his head.

“What about the man in that other tree, Billy?” Kentucky asked. “You get a look at him?”

“No, sir. He got here sometime last night and climbed up ‘fore dawn. Started shooting about daylight. I hugged the trunk and prayed he wouldn’t see me. Then there was shots from the soldier camp, and I heard him grunt. He clambered down like the tree was on fire. Jumped on his horse and lit out.”

“Which way’d he go?” asked Buck.

“Towards Feeney’s, best I could tell.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Not real good, sir.” Billy hung his head. “’Cept he was small, and he had long red hair, like a girl’s.”

Buck stood up. “Kentucky, take Billy back to camp, get him something to eat and let him sleep on my pallet. I’ll see if that sniper left any trace.” He extended his hand, grabbed the Henry, and gave it a cursory examination. “It’s clean enough now, but I’ll keep the Colt, too, just in case. Then I need to find Billy’s mother—” his jaw muscles tightened at the thought of a woman being abused “—and make the acquaintance of one Zeb Feeney.”

“Yes, sir. But if you’re not back before long, me and half the camp’ll come searching for you. We need our doctor.”

“I’ll be back. Don’t worry. Point the way to Feeney’s place, Billy, then go with Kentucky.”

#

As they hurried across the uneven ground, Kentucky observed his young charge. The boy kept up with him in a loping gait, his bad leg never touching the ground.

“You handle that crutch pretty good, Billy.”

“Pa done made it for me. But he’s dead now. I sure need a new one. This here’s too short.”

“We’ve got plenty of crutches back at the camp,” Kentucky told him. “I’ll see if I can find one that fits you better.”

The lad smiled. “With a bigger one I bet I could outrun that Zeb Feeney. When he gets aholt of me, he . . .” His voice faded.

The orderly sensed the shame the boy felt at being caught when he should have been able to outrun a grown-up and defend his mother. Billy might still be a boy, but the instinct of a man to defend the women in his life was deep seated.

What kind of creature would beat a crippled boy? This Zeb Feeney better not cross the doctor in the mood he’s in. Major Thomson’s the kindest man I’ve ever met, but today . . . what I saw in his eyes when he cradled his brother in his arms scared me clear to my marrow.

“I don’t reckon you’ll have to worry about Feeney no more,” he said. “Not after the doc has a talk with him.”

“Shucks, talking ain’t gonna do no good.”

“We’ll see. You hungry?”

He nodded. “Ain’t et since day afore yesterday.”

“Well, then you won’t mind that what we got don’t taste specially good.”

“My momma used to make real good cornbread. You got any?”

Cornbread. The word alone had Kentucky’s mouth watering.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he said. “Right now let’s see what we can scare up.”

#

Buck moved through the thicket along the side of the streambed, gripping the Henry in his right fist. He found horse droppings and trampled grass where an animal had been tied. Droplets of bright-red blood—recent bleeding—speckled the leaf layer under the tree. He cocked the pistol and proceeded around the trunk.

Nothing.

His muscles protested as he swung into the lower branches and gazed upward. The sniper was gone, but from this vantage point he spied a ramshackle farmstead about half a mile to the east. It appeared to be deserted, except for a wisp of smoke rising from the cabin’s chimney.

Satisfied he’d seen all there was to see, he shinnied down and walked toward it. Other than the vultures circling overheard, he detected no movement.

Slowing his pace, he approached the cabin. He’d become accustomed to farms devastated by the war, but this collection of hovels seemed destroyed by neglect. The barn roof sagged, its walls tilted on the verge of collapse. The outhouse door was propped against the listing structure. Even more decrepit was the pathetic home itself. Missing shingles left holes in the roof. The porch sagged. The front door hung precariously by a single hinge. The interior was dark and silent.

“Hello, the house,” Buck called out. “Anybody there?”

No answer.

Cautiously he attempted the broken steps of the porch. “Mr. Feeney?”

“Take one more step an’ I’ll blow your head off!” A bearded figure materialized in the doorway and peered with bloodshot eyes over the barrels of a shotgun. “What the hell you think you doing here, messing around my property?”

Buck tightened his grip on the Henry while he raised his free hand. “Whoa. Hold on, mister. No need to get all riled. Just wanted to ask a few questions.”

“Git off my property or I’ll blast this load of buckshot slam in your face.”

“Please calm down, Mr. Feeney. I’m here because there’s a sniper over in those trees shooting my men. You could be his next target. I believe I wounded him, but I’m not sure. You seen anybody go by here?”

“I ain’t seen nothin’. And if I did I wouldn’t tell you. Now scat.”

“We found a boy down near the creek—”

“A boy?” came a voice from the room behind Feeney. “What’s he look like?” A young-old woman in a torn dress stepped onto the porch. Buck saw bruises on her arms.

This bastard’s been beating her too.

“Ma’am, he was in a tree down by the creek, has a withered right leg, said his name was Billy.”

“That’s my son!” She looked for him behind Buck. “Where is he? He all right?”

“He’s at our camp, ma’am. Needs a little patching up, but he’s fine.”

“Git back in the house, woman.” Feeney swung at her with his left hand while keeping the shotgun aimed at Buck with his right. She tried to duck out of his reach, but wasn’t fast enough. His fist connected with her shoulder and knocked her to the floor.

“Hold it, mister.” Buck’s body went rigid with rage. Control your temper, he told himself. Still, his free hand knotted. “Mister, there’s no call to—”

“Please, Zeb.” The woman pleaded as she started to pull herself upright. “I just want to find out about Billy.”

Feeney raised the shotgun to club her. “Damn you, woman, I said git in the house!”

Before the wretch could strike, Buck ripped the gun from his grasp, hurled it into the yard, and grabbed the scruff of the man’s shirt. His breath reeked of liquor.

“Ma’am, would you step inside a moment?” Buck said with exaggerated politeness.

The woman went wide-eyed, then straightened and staggered through the doorway.

Buck rammed the barrel of the Henry under Feeney’s chin, forcing his head back. “Now, you sorry bastard, you beat that boy?”

“It’s her kid, not mine.” Feeney squeezed the words out between yellow teeth.

“He complained Billy didn’t work hard enough,” the woman explained from inside. “The boy done the best he could—”

“Damn cripple. Good riddance, I say,” Feeney muttered, apparently so outraged he forgot the business end of a rifle was pressed against his chin. “Took her and her damn brats in to work the place, but they’re lazier ‘n niggers.”

“You worthless piece of scum.” Buck’s temper overpowered him. “Go to hell, Zeb Feeney.” The Henry jerked as if of its own accord and with a roar blew Feeney’s life away.

As the corpse tumbled to the porch, Buck released his grip, then turned. “Ma’am, you all right?”

“You killed him,” she said, her eyes wide.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, ma’am.”

The two of them stood gazing at the mortal remains of a creature who could scarcely have been classified as human, much less a man. She inched forward and let out a breath, as if she’d been holding it in a long time. At last she raised her eyes and gazed at Buck. For a moment he thought she was going to break into laughter, until she said, “Some men need killing.”