Текст книги "Mankillers"

Автор книги: Ken Casper

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“Very i-ron-ic indeed,” Tracker agreed, carefully pronouncing each syllable, so there’d be no misunderstanding.

The old codger downed his next drink in one gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and staggered back to his seat at the bar.

Tracker was sitting quietly at the table, observing the scene, trying to decide if there was any more information to be gleaned, when a small man of perhaps two-score years stepped up to the side of the table.

“You just gonna sit there and take up space, Mister Dusky Nancy-boy?”

Tracker considered his options. He’d walked away from a fight or two, but this particular creature didn’t deserve leniency.

“Actually, my dear man, I’ve come to get your money.”

The other man stepped back and placed his hand under his coat, clearly prepared to draw a weapon.

“I happened to observe you playing cards at that table over yonder. You appeared to be quite adept at it, seeing as how you won all the pots.” Tracker had also noticed him cheating.

“You want to play cards, Nancy?”

“My name is Lucky. Luckier than you, I think.”

The other man laughed uproariously. “Take my money, huh?” He addressed the men at the surrounding tables. “You fellows want to watch me strip this coon naked?”

Several titters went up until Tracker turned his full glare on them.

“May I have your name, sir?” he asked.

“Call me Lefty.”

“Well, Lefty, shall we commence? Mr. Bartender,” he called out to Peg-leg, “would you have a fresh deck of cards available?”

“Sure thing.”

A moment later Peg-leg came thumping from around the long bar and offered him an unopened deck. Tracker exchanged it for another silver dollar. Again there was the display of picket-fence teeth, and the one-legged man retreated happily behind his bar.

They cut for dealer. Lefty drew a nine. Tracker showed an eight.

“Oh my,” he exclaimed, “I’m off to a poor start.”

“Come the finish you’ll be even poorer, Mr. Dusky Nancy-boy.”

“The game?” Tracker asked.

“Five-card stud. How does that sound?”

“Mmm. Poetic.”

Lefty raised his brows, apparently unsure what the word meant.

Tracker showed no reaction to the continued insults he received over the next half dozen hands. In an honest game the cocky little man might have broken even, but this wasn’t an honest game. Tracker had observed him palming several cards and had increased his bets in an apparent attempt to recoup his losses, but he continued to lose.

“I thought you were lucky, Nancy,” Lefty taunted as he dealt another round and slipped himself another ace.

“I once knew a man who palmed his cards and lost the hand.”

“What . . . What are you saying?” Lefty’s eyes narrowed in his first display of wariness.

“Only that it must be time for my luck to change.”

“How about double or nothing?”

Tracker grinned and reached inside his coat. Lefty immediately shoved back his chair with a screech.

“My cash reserve,” Tracker explained with a cheery grin. He removed a money pouch and plopped it down on the wooden table. “Winner take all. Agreed?”

The other man snickered. “Okay, Mr. Dusky Nancy-boy. It’s gonna be a pleasure to take your money.”

Smiling, Tracker muttered. “Beware the hand that reaches out.”

“Hey, Lefty. Maybe you ought to call Mr. Nancy-boy, Fancy-words,” a man suggested, drawing laughter from the crowd that had gathered to watch.

“Deal the cards,” Tracker said in a voice that was deeper than before, but which nobody seemed to notice, least of all the cheat sitting across from him.

Lefty dealt the cards, the first one down, three up. Once again he palmed a card. Tracker had a pair of jacks showing, a three face up, one down. His opponent had a pair of tens and an ace showing.

He dealt Tracker’s fifth card down and was preparing to draw his own. Tracker’s right hand flew into and out of his coat. In a lightning move he impaled the man’s hand to the table with a stiletto.

Before the fraud had a chance to blink, Tracker reached under his pinioned paw and withdrew the ace of spades. A gasp went up from the onlookers just as Lefty let out a scream of agony.

“You’re the second man of my acquaintance who palmed a card and lost the hand.”

His face white with shock, his shoulders writhing stiffly in pain, Lefty stared dumbfounded at his assailant.

Calmly holding the knife in place, Tracker yanked the card sharp’s bloody palm through the blade, slicing it deftly into two parts. The resulting scream was even more piercing than the first one. A gasp of horrified disbelief erupted from the circle of onlookers as they all took a simultaneous step backward.

Casually scooping up the money, Tracker dropped it into his coat pocket, extracted the knife from the table, wiped it on his victim’s shirt sleeve, returned it to the scabbard under his coat and glanced around. There were no challengers.

“I guess your nickname is Righty now,” he said with a chuckle.

No one followed when Tracker marched out the door. He instantly put the mangled hand out of his mind. It wasn’t important. What interested him was the story Cephus had recounted.

Buck Thomson had unwittingly inherited a powerful enemy. Did he realize how vulnerable he had become and the danger he posed to the people around him?

Chapter THIRTEEN

The next morning Buck arrived at the Richland County Bank to find his friend Gus closeted with a prominent local client and not expected to be available for the better part of an hour. Buck was turning to leave the building when a male voice called out.

“Buck Thomson? I do declare. Is it really you?”

He swung around.

A young man, dressed in a well-tailored but worn suit with a vest and stained cravat, stepped toward him, hobbling badly on his left leg. Buck’s initial reaction was to attribute his handicap to a war injury. It took him a moment to place the face. “Rex? Rexford Cleburne?”

Not a war casualty at all. Clay’s best friend had broken his ankle badly in a fall while foxhunting as a teenager; the fracture had never healed properly.

“It’s been years,” Rex said, offering his hand. “I’m glad to see you survived the recent unpleasantness, apparently in one piece.”

“It’s good to see you too, Rex. How’ve you been?” He was almost as tall as Buck, with wavy sand-colored hair, parted in the middle, and dark-edged, medium-blue eyes. A handsome young man, who in spite of his limp gave the impression of vigorous good health.

“I understand you’re a doctor now. You planning to open your practice here in Columbia?

“I haven’t made any plans for the future yet. I’m here to discuss options with Mr. Grayson about selling Jasmine.”

“Sell Jasmine? What about Clay? I thought he was going to take over the place.”

Buck paused. “I’m sorry you haven’t heard, Rex. Clay’s dead. He was killed in the war.”

Rex stared at him. “Dead?” His voice shook. “Clay’s dead?”

“I’m sorry,” Buck repeated. “Can we go somewhere? You look like you need to sit down.”

“My office,” Rex muttered.

As he walked beside the limping man, Buck remarked, “Your office? You work here?”

“Have for a couple of years. Used to help Mr. Grayson interview people wanting loans. Nowadays we don’t have any money to lend. I reckon things’ll get even worse with the Yankees in charge. Carpetbaggers! Been invading in droves. Worse than boll weevils.”

Inside a small room with frosted-glass windows on three sides, Rex waved him to a chair while he hobbled behind the scarred wooden desk.

“What happened? How was Clay killed? When?”

“A few months ago, right at the end of the war, up in Virginia. A sniper got him.”

Rex bowed his head.

“Actually, I believe you’re acquainted with the man who killed him.”

Rex looked up, startled and gaped at Buck. “What? I? How could I? Who—”

“Rufus Snead.” Buck watched as the other man rocked in his chair, then heaved himself to his feet.

“That sorry bastard?” He took an unsteady step to one side, reversed course and paced back. “He and his whole damn family are a scourge,” he grumbled in a low intense voice. “Rufus killed Clay? That son of a bitch. I heard talk he was going after your brother. Swore to kill him. I never believed he had the guts to follow through though.” He dropped heavily into his seat again, placed his elbows on the desk and held his head in his hands. “Sniper, huh? Should have known he’d take a coward’s way, shoot him from afar. An honorable man would’ve faced him. So that worthless piece of scum got his revenge after all.”

“Revenge for what?” Buck had already figured it out, but he wanted independent confirmation. “What reason did Rufus Snead have for killing my brother?”

Rex frowned, as if he were weighing options, then spoke in a confidential whisper. “He hated Clay, Buck. No question about that. He hated your brother. Clay never let Rufus forget he was the overseer’s son, from the time they were boys.”

“But that was years ago, when they were children. Did something transpire between them as adults that drove Rufus to murder?” Buck leaned forward and crossed his arms. “Before he was killed, Clay said he wanted to tell me about a family matter, but he never got a chance. Did it have anything to do with the Sneads?”

Rex sighed. “I reckon everybody in lower Richland County’s familiar with the story.”

“I didn’t keep in contact with people around here after I left for medical school. Then the war broke out. When Clay showed up a couple of weeks ago I hadn’t laid eyes on him in four years or more.”

“A lot happened after you left. You remember Saul Snead’s daughter, Sally Mae? She would’ve been eight or ten years old when you were still living here. The only one in the family who had any looks. Her old lady was ugly enough to freeze up a cotton gin, and her old man . . .”

“Emma says the girl died in childbirth, claims she doesn’t know who the father was.”

Rex stroked his chin pensively. “She knows, Buck, but I reckon she doesn’t feel it’s her place to say.”

“It was Clay, wasn’t it?”

Rex shrugged. “Had to have been him. He was her first and I suspect her only. Hell, I thought I might get . . .” He averted his eyes, embarrassed at the impulsive admission. “She wasn’t like the rest of the Sneads, Buck. Not like her momma, if you following my meaning. I believe she was truly in love with Clay. Kept her knees close together and refused to let any other man touch her. That really riled her daddy, not because she let Clay have her, but because she did it for free. He figured she was gonna be a steady source of income. When she refused to share her favors with other men, he beat her nearly as bad as he whipped those boys of his. Then he told your father what Clay’d done. Next thing you know, the girl’s back in Lexington County and Clay’s off to the Citadel. You said you saw Emma. She still got the boy?”

“You never bothered to check up on your best friend’s son?”

A muscle in Rex’s jaw twitched. “Don’t lay that responsibility on me, Dr. Thomson,” he shot back angrily. “It’s your family, not mine. Raleigh knew Emma had his grandson in her cabin, and he seemed content to let him stay there, while he passed his time up at the big house. Commenced drinking like never before. Far as I know, he never said a word to anyone about the baby. Folks around here didn’t talk about it either, at least not where they could be overheard. I certainly didn’t see any reason why I should get involved.”

Buck nodded. “You’re right. I was away at medical school when all this was going on, so I appreciate your enlightening me. I understand now what Clay was referring to.” He braced the wooden arms of the upholstered chair, started to rise, then settled into it again. “What a mess. My father and brother dead. Jasmine in ruins. And now a child that no one seems to want, except an old black woman, who more than anyone else has the right to wash her hands of him. The world’s gone crazy.”

“If I can help in any way, Buck, tell me. Clay was like a brother to me—” he paused, ill-at-ease with the comparison “—my best friend.”

They heard loud, laughing voices out in the lobby. Apparently the bank president’s guest was leaving.

“Thank you, Rex. It’s good seeing you again.” Buck stood. “Forgive me for not asking sooner, but how’s the rest of your family? Still at Foxgrove?”

Rex spread his hands on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. “Father managed to sell the plantation a few years ago. He and Momma and my sister moved to Greenville. He’s a judge there now. Or was. With the war ended and the Yankees in charge, who knows?”

“I wish them well.”

Buck opened the door before his crippled friend reached it and stepped out into the lobby in time to see a large, well-dressed plutocrat, wielding a glossy black walking stick, step out into the street. Grayson turned and greeted Buck with an outstretched hand.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “That was General Hampton, here to discuss . . . some interests of his.” He ushered Buck into his high-ceilinged office.

“Sell it,” Buck instructed, once the door was closed. “For whatever you can get for what’s left of Jasmine, sell it.”

“Are you sure, sir? It’s your patrimony.”

“Sell it,” Buck repeated. “There’s not much left but memories, and there aren’t too many of them I treasure. The house’s gone. The slaves have all run away. Of course, they’re not slaves any more, but . . .” He paced anxiously across the worn Oriental carpet between the desk and the cold stone fireplace. “There’s just one thing. Old Emma. Did you realize she’s raising Clay’s son out there by herself?”

“I heard rumors,” Grayson muttered. “I asked your father a year or more ago about the baby, but all he’d tell me was that it was Saul Snead’s grandson, and I should mind my own business. You mean the child’s still there at Jasmine? What in the name of Ulysses S. Grant is Emma doing with a baby at her age?”

“Taking excellent care of it from what I can tell. But, as you’ve noted, she’s getting on in years. If I sell the place, she’s gonna need somewhere to go.”

Grayson shook his head. “Buck, I’d assumed the Sneads had taken the baby back to Lexington County. If I’d known they hadn’t, especially after I heard about your father’s death, I would’ve checked to see if he was all right.”

“It wasn’t your responsibility, Gus. You’ve had your own problems to deal with. Besides, you’ve already done so much for our family.”

“I wish . . .” Suddenly his face brightened, his hazel eyes twinkled. “Wait till I tell Miriam. She’ll know what to do.” He smote his forehead. “I can hear her now. We’ll have two more chickens in our coop.”

Buck couldn’t help but smile at his friend’s unfailing good humor in spite of all he’d endured. “I don’t feel right unloading this burden on you, Gus, but I’m consoled that old Emma and my nephew couldn’t be in better hands. Thank you, my friend. Now that I know they’ll be properly taken care of, I never want to set eyes on that accursed place again. Sell it,” he repeated once more, in case his earlier message hadn’t been clear enough.

“I’ll do as you wish, Buck, but I hope you’ll reconsider. I hate to think of Jasmine going to some stranger, maybe even a Yankee.”

“Damn the Yankees, and damn Jasmine, for all I care.”

Grayson regarded him for a long minute, then cleared his throat. “I wish things had worked out differently . . . for all of us.”

For several moments the only sound in the room was the ticking of the mantel clock over the fireplace.

Regaining his composure, the banker offered him a cigar from the humidor he kept on the corner of his desk. Once they’d lit up, Buck said, “I’m leaving Columbia. Present company excepted—it holds no associations I care to retain.”

Grayson frowned. “Your family’s lived here for generations and we’ve been lifelong friends. I’ll miss your company, but I certainly understand why you feel you must go. Any idea where?”

“I enjoyed Charleston when I was in medical school, and now I have other reasons for making it my home and establishing my practice there.”

Grayson puffed out a smoke ring. “Do I detect a female influence in your decision?”

Buck smiled, then grew serious. “Any word on Rufus Snead?”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve just received a preliminary report from Tracker.”

Buck sat up.

“Snead’s indeed ensconced in Lexington County among a band of cutthroats and thieves who do his bidding as much out of fear as loyalty. They’re a formidable contingent.”

Buck puffed his cigar and listened carefully.

“Snead knows you’re here in Columbia,” Grayson continued. “He also knew you were coming here from Charleston and purposely ambushed you at Cedar Creek. His intent at the time was to wound you like you wounded him. The man’s insane, obsessed. Tracker’s emphatic. Be exceptionally vigilant. He’s convinced Snead will make another attempt on your life.”

“He already has,” Buck stated calmly through the veil of rich aromatic smoke. “At Weston’s Creek. And he missed. Again.” He examined the ash on the tip of his cigar and recounted the ambush and his narrow escape on the trip back from Jasmine the day before. When he was finished, he stood up. “I think it’s time I met your Mr. Tracker.”

#

“What do you mean you’re going to Jasmine today?” Gus asked his wife at breakfast. “You said last night you were bringing Emma and the baby here in the next week or two.”

“That was last night,” Miriam replied. “I thought more about it and I’ve changed my mind.”

“How often have I heard that before?”

She scowled at him. “There’s no point in waiting, and that poor woman out there all by herself with that child. We should have done something about that situation a long time ago.”

“It wasn’t our responsibility, dear.”

“If each one sweeps in front of his own door, the whole street is clean.”

“I’m trying to reason with you and you give me Jewish aphorisms.”

“You disagree?”

He threw up his hands. “No, dearest, I don’t, but—”

“I was going to send Wilbur and Janey, but Emma hasn’t met Wilbur but maybe one time, and she’s never met Janey. I can’t imagine that old soul getting in a carriage with virtual strangers because they tell her I sent them. So I’m going with them.”

“Buck is going with you, of course.”

“That poor man’s been through enough. Besides, he’s meeting with Dr. Meyer this afternoon. I’m hoping Thaddeus will be able to talk him into settling down here.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“Anyway, Wilbur will drive and Janey can help Emma and me with the child.”

“Just the three of you to take care of an old woman and a baby? That’s unacceptable. I won’t allow it. If you won’t take Buck, I’ll go with you.”

“Tsk. Gus, you tend to your business and I’ll tend to mine.”

“Miriam, you need protection.”

She reached across the table and patted his cheek. “You’re a darling, Gus, but I’m taking your pistol with me. You know I can outshoot you. Go to your bank, dear, and let me take care of this.”

He threw his napkin on the plate before him. “For once in your life, Miriam, listen to me.”

The cup stopped halfway to her mouth and she stared at him. It was so unusual for him to put his foot down, especially once she’d made up her mind.

“You are not leaving this house with no more than two servants and traveling halfway across Richland Country,” he stated. “You need a body guard, and it so happens I have the man for the job.”

She blinked slowly, waiting for him to elaborate.

“So you make your preparations, my dear, and I’ll make mine. His name is Tracker.”

Chapter FOURTEEN

For the third time in three minutes Gus conferred the nickel pocket watch that he wore in place of his treasured gold timepiece, shook his head and sat in the upholstered chair by the cold fireplace. The drawing room of his residence on Senate Street was growing dim with the summer day’s waning light.

Buck stood up from the settee on the other side of the room. “If they’re not here in the next half hour, Gus, I’ll ride out and look for them.”

“I shouldn’t have let her go.” Gus strode to the window.

“She isn’t by herself, old friend. Tracker’s with her.”

“I trust him implicitly, but he’s only one man.”

The housekeeper entered the room. “Mr. Grayson, sir, should I light a lamp?”

“Go ahead,” he responded impatiently. “Is supper ready, Alice?”

“Whenever they get here, sir.”

They heard the clop of horses’ hooves on the street outside. Gus spun to peer through the open window, and let out an audible sigh. “Thank God. It’s them.”

Buck followed him out the front door and stood off to the side while he rushed to the shiny black open landau. “Where in Sam Hill y’all been?” he accosted his wife. “I expected you home two hours ago.”

“Oh, Gus, look at this precious child.” She tickled the cheek of the placid boy in her arms.

“I see him. I see him. Now, what took you so long?”

“Oh, tush. We’re here now. Help us unload.”

Buck smiled at the endearing exchange between husband and wife. But his attention was more drawn to the man on the Appaloosa behind the carriage. Tracker was of indeterminate age. Buck judged him to be of average height and stature, with a coppery complexion that admitted of no one particular race. Dressed impeccably in white trousers, riding boots, matching waist coat and jacket, he appeared smart without being flashy. The incongruity was in his sporting a stovepipe hat while across the saddle cantle he held a Henry rifle.

Grayson said his factotum could blend in anywhere. Differently attired, perhaps he could. What Buck suspected wouldn’t change was the air of confidence that seemed to emanate from inner strength.

The creaking of the carriage as Miriam stood in preparation for stepping down brought Buck’s attention back to the old woman in the seat next to her. Poor Emma. The woman looked exhausted as she slouched against a young servant girl with a flawless, creamed-coffee complexion.

He moved up to the side of the four-wheeler. “Emma, you all right?”

“Oh, Mr. Buck,” she said teary-eyed, “I . . .”

“Janey,” Miriam instructed once she was on the ground, “you take Job while I help Emma.”

The servant girl climbed down the other side of the carriage, came around the back and took the sleeping toddler from Miriam into her arms.

Buck extended his hands to Emma. “Here, let me.”

Slowly and painfully, the former house slave struggled to her feet, swayed when the high-sprung carriage tilted, and nearly fell over its side. Fortunately Buck was there to catch her. Over her protests he carried her in his arms to the porch of the house and set her down in a rocker. Biting her lips, she sobbed.

“You’re all right now, Emma. You’re safe.”

“It’s all gone, Mr. Buck. Everything’s gone. My home. The house. My family. All gone. And now the boy—” She moaned and buried her face in her withered hands. “Ain’t nothin’ left no more. Ain’t nothin’. It’s all over.”

“Now don’t you talk like that, Emma,” Miriam reprimanded her, but there was gentleness in her words and compassion in her eyes. “We’re gonna get the child something to eat, then we’ll bring him back to you.” She turned to the girl. “Janey, in a few minutes, after Emma’s had time to collect herself, you take her to the room we fixed up for her. Then come here and get a tray from Alice for her dinner.”

“I ain’t hungry, Miz. Grayson,” Emma protested.

“Never you mind. You’ve had a long day and a hard journey. You need to eat. Then I want you to get plenty of rest. Janey here’ll see to anything else you need.”

“Yessum,” the old woman mumbled. “Ah ’preciates it, Miz. Grayson.”

“Come along, Miriam,” Gus said to his wife. “You need to eat too. Buck?”

“In a minute. I’ll be with you directly.”

As his hosts entered the foyer of the large house, Buck knelt at the feet of the old black woman. “Emma, you’re going to be all right. You having any pain? I can give you something for it if you do.”

“The pain’s in my heart, Mr. Buck. Ain’t no medicine for that.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, Emma?”

“Yessir, Mr. Buck. Promise me when I’m gone you’ll take me back to Jasmine and bury me under that old chinaberry tree.”

“Emma, I hope that won’t be for a very long time.”

“Yessir, but promise me.”

“Yes, Emma. I promise.” He stroked her arms. “I’ll take you home.”

#

Gus was waiting for him inside the front door. Beside him stood the bodyguard who came forward and offered his hand.

“Dr. Thomson, I am Pierre Bouchard. My friends call me Tracker.”

“I’m happy to meet you, Tracker. Please call me Buck and allow me to thank you for protecting Emma. She’s very special to me. I realize that may seem strange, my affection for an old black woman, but she’s been a very stable and positive influence in my life, and I love her for it.”

The words, spoken impulsively and emotionally, surprised even Buck by their intensity and honesty. Until he’d said them he would hardly have admitted to loving anyone. Honor, respect, admire. But not love.

A small smile came to the other man’s lips, not one of mockery or disbelief, but of sympathy.

“I share your affection for old black women,” Tracker said quietly. “Mine arises from heritage. Yours is voluntary and therefore purer. You have my deepest respect, doctor.” He made a small but distinctive bow, which Buck could hardly have anticipated but which moved him.

Gus, who’d witnessed this exchange and perhaps recognized the potential for mutual discomfort at so instant and spontaneous an exchange of personal views, extended his arm toward the double doors to his right. “Gentlemen.”

The three of them stepped into the front parlor. Gus closed the pocket doors behind them.

“Thank you for your information on Rufus Snead,” Buck said to Tracker. “It’s been most helpful.”

“You and I have a good deal to talk about, but not now. Not here. We can meet later. Privately.”

“Surely you’re staying for supper,” Gus interjected.

“Please thank your wife for the kind invitation. Perhaps another time, but I have some other matters I must attend to.” He addressed Buck. “Would it be convenient for me to come to your hotel room later this evening, say around ten o’clock.”

Buck was disappointed. He was eager to get into the serious discussions Tracker had alluded to, but he also realized the dinner table wasn’t the appropriate place for them, and he couldn’t imagine this man sitting through a social meal making polite small talk when much more important issues were on his mind.

“Ten o’clock will be fine,” he told him. “I’m staying at the Isaac Hayne, room—”

“The John C. Calhoun suite.” Tracker smiled more broadly this time. “Yes, I know.”

Buck might have been offended to realize this stranger had been spying on him, but he found himself returning the smile instead. “Ten o’clock then.”

Tracker shook his host’s hand and left the room.

“An interesting fellow,” Buck commented after he heard the front door close behind him.

“The two of you seem to have hit it off. I’m glad. He’s a good man. You can have complete confidence in his total commitment and integrity.”

They stepped into the hall and down to the dining room opposite the sweeping staircase. A minute later they were seated at the long table with the lace cloth, bone china and silver candelabra. The last wasn’t in use this evening, however. A single candle in a glass base was the sole source of light. Even the well-off had to conserve on consumables.

“Will Emma be all right?” Gus asked. He was sitting at the head of the table, Miriam on his right, Buck on his left.

“She’s plumb worn out,” Miriam opined, scooping up a serving of collards onto her plate. “She’s been taking care of that child all by herself for almost two years. I declare she’s lost fifty pounds since the last time I laid eyes on her. Hardly recognized her. I reckon she gave him most of the food she managed to get hold of, but she’ll be eating regular now.”

“I sure hope she likes kosher cooking,” Gus commented with a grin. “She’s going to miss the fatback in her greens.”

Miriam screwed her mouth and arched her brows disdainfully. “I don’t imagine she’s had much of it lately.” She grinned. “Besides, you can slip her some of yours, dear.” She nodded at the separate bowl of greens the cook always managed to slip beside his plate.

Gus snickered and passed the dish to Buck.

“Aren’t Sarah and her mother joining us?” Buck asked.

“While they’re sitting Shiva—that’s deep mourning for the loss of Mr. Greenwald,” Miriam explained, “they’re taking their meals privately in their rooms.”

The cook brought in a platter of meatloaf and set it in front of Mr. Grayson.

“Alice,” Miriam remarked, “be sure Quintus takes Emma’s carpetbag to her.” She turned to Buck and Gus. “There’s not much in it, but it’s all she and the boy have for now. Tomorrow I’ll see what I can find for her and the child.”

“There goes the budget,” Gus grumbled good-naturedly and served Buck a double portion of vegetable kugel.

#

The side room of Lexington County’s notorious groggery was long and narrow. The ripe odor of unwashed bodies and equally rank clothing mingled with the cloying stench of stale beer, cheap cigar and pipe smoke. The racket sent up by raucous, cursing voices and the clank of glasses and pewter mugs reverberated off the wooden walls and tin ceiling.

Rufus was standing at the plank bar, sucking on his second tankard of sour suds. Definitely not one of Shifty’s better batches of beer, not that anyone seemed to notice or care.

“We heared you was a sharpshooter in the war,” a voice said behind him.

Rufus turned. Tall and bony, Zeke had been one of his brother’s gang members.

“Hank says you want our help getting the critter what killed your brother and Fat Man. Floyd always looked out for us, and Fat Man was a real good cook. Tell us what you want us to do.”

Rufus had always worked alone. He didn’t need help, and he sure didn’t like anybody muscling in, questioning, arguing. He’d do it all himself, except . . . The war was over. You couldn’t shoot someone now without someone else asking questions. In war, you were expected to kill. In this so-called peace if you planted a bullet in a body, they accused you of murder and gave you a trial before stringing you up.

“Yeah, I could use a hand,” he admitted. “But under one condition. You do exactly what I say. No killing until I tell you it’s all right.”

“Balderdash,” Clyde snapped in a deep authoritative voice, his gray beard brushing against the bib of his faded overalls. Strong language for him. He used to be a preacher till he got caught inappropriately inspiring one of God’s sweet angels. “We’ll help you get Floyd’s killer, but we ain’t asking your permission to shoot him dead when we find him.”