Текст книги "Mankillers"

Автор книги: Ken Casper

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Zeke, standing beside him, nodded. Rufus realized Zeke would’ve nodded at anything Clyde said. “We don’t need no boss.”

Rufus slammed down his mug on the rough board, spilling beer over the side. “Listen to me, damn it. I know Buck Thomson and what he can do. You don’t. Let me tell you, he’s almost as good a shot as me, and I’m better than Floyd and Fat Man was combined. So unless you think you can outshoot me—” he paused to let the words sink in “—you do it my way or it’s no deal.”

When the other men didn’t answer him back, he went on. “I’m gonna kill Thomson with or without y’all.”

“What do you need our help for then?” Zeke demanded.

“Thomson and his lady friend are taking the stage to Charleston on Monday. I need to know who all’s with them, how many guards they’re taking, and the road they’re gonna take, so’s I’ll know where to hit ‘em.”

“What’s in it for us?”

“The stage carries a strong box, don’t it? Probably contains gold, right? Men passengers carry cash, and for sure Doc’s rich bitch’s got fancy jewelry with her. You can divvy it all amongst yourselves.”

Zeke slanted a quizzical eye at him. “We get to keep all the money and jewelry?”

“That’s what I said.”

“What about the woman?” Clyde wanted to know.

“She’s all yours too, dead or alive.”

“Oo-ee.” Clyde took off his hat and waved it over his head. “When’re we going?”

#

Tracker knocked on Buck’s door at precisely ten o’clock that night. No longer in riding attire, he now sported a casual cream-colored linen suit and maroon cravat. He also carried an elegant silver-knobbed walking stick that Buck suspected was more than an affectation.

They again shook hands. Buck offered him a drink from the small collection of decanters on a side table, wasn’t surprised when the tender was declined, then waved him to one of the fiddle-back chairs in the sitting room. Buck took the matching settee at a right angle to him.

“What’s your relationship with the Sneads?” Tracker asked.

Buck reviewed the history of the two families and made no attempt to disguise his contempt for Saul. With what he hoped was clinical dispassion, he itemized the man’s offenses, physical and moral, against the plantation’s defenseless slaves, as well as his defrauding the owner he worked for.

Tracker listened without comment. Buck had no doubt he’d heard similar stories in the past. Given the man’s own amalgamation, he had to wonder what experiences Pierre Bouchard might be able to personally narrate.

Buck then described Clay’s murder by a red-headed little man, the ensuing miserable deaths of the Hewitt family at the hands of depraved ruffians, thanks to the same assassin’s leaving the desperate woman and her children stranded with a useless, half-dead horse, followed by Buck catching a glimpse of him at the port in Charleston and subsequently learning his identity.

Without a nod, Tracker then said, “Tell me about your trip here from Charleston.”

Had he not met the man earlier, Buck might have taken umbrage to the repeated demands, since they constituted an essential reversal of roles. Buck was no longer interviewing a prospective guard. Tracker was interviewing him—to see if he was worthy of his protection. But their brief exchange earlier in the evening and Gus’s utter confidence in him, to the point of entrusting his beloved wife’s life to his care, allayed any misgivings Buck might have had.

Over the next half hour, he gave an account of the fateful journey.

“Any other incidents?”

Buck almost smiled now, suspecting his guest, like a lawyer, rarely asked blunt questions he didn’t already know the answer to. Nonetheless, he described the attack at Weston’s Creek, ending it with a disclaimer.

“If you ask how I know it was Snead who shot at me, I can offer no proof. I never saw him, but the similarity of setting, the circumstances of the attack—by a lone rifleman up in a tree—convinces me it was the same person.”

“It was,” Tracker agreed. “Do you know why he has a personal animus against you?”

“Because I’m a Thomson?”

Tracker shook his head. “That certainly influences his dislike of you but not sufficiently to want to kill you. In fact at Cedar Creek his intent was not to kill you but to wound you, to cripple you and ruin your life.”

Buck felt his jaw drop. Was there a word for such viciousness, for the pleasure this creature seemed to take in seeing other people suffer? If so, he didn’t know what it was. If not, there should be.

“He failed obviously,” Tracker added.

“But succeeded in wounding Sarah Drexel, a completely innocent bystander.”

Tracker nodded. “Fortunately her injury was neither fatal nor serious.” He folded his hands and brought them up to his lips. “His goal now is even more sinister. He’s intent on killing you.”

“Why? What have I ever done to him?”

Tracker paused for a moment. “You killed his brother.”

“I . . . His brother?” Buck’s mind whirled. Had his brother been one of Buck’s patients, one of so many who didn’t survive enemy fire or his knife and saw? He knew the names of so few of the men he’d treated.

“The red-haired young man you killed at Cedar Creek.”

How strange, Buck thought, that he’d forgotten the teenager with the short, rust-colored hair that lay on the side of the road with a bullet through his heart. He’d noted the red hair and even examined his neck to determine if he might be Rufus. Then he’d put him completely out of his mind, like so many of his victims.

“He’s vowed now to kill you. Be on perpetual guard, sir. Your life is in mortal danger.”

Buck climbed to his feet and paced the worn carpet in front of the settee. He did so with hands behind his back for a long minute. Tracker did and said nothing to interrupt his reverie.

“He killed my brother,” Buck muttered, still pacing. “He condemned a half-starved widow and her two children to the most vile deaths at the hands of diseased monsters. He’s responsible for the death of an ailing elderly man who was traveling here with his wife and daughter in search of medical treatment, for wounding the daughter and killing our driver all in cold blood.”

Still Tracker remained silent. Buck continued his march up and down the length of the Oriental rug, then stopped to address his guest.

“The daughter, Sarah Drexel, must now return to Charleston on urgent business. Unfortunately her life continues to be in danger from this redheaded scum simply because she has the misfortune of being associated with me. That is why, sir, I want to engage your services, not to protect me—I’ll take care of myself—but as her bodyguard. Are you available?”

Tracker stood up. “I have a particular loathing for men who would prey upon women and children, the weak and the defenseless. In short, sir, I am at your service.”

The two men shook hands, solemnly and firmly, setting a bond that Buck knew wouldn’t be broken.

“From all you’ve told me,” Tracker said, “I’d take considerable pleasure in ending this villain’s life.”

“I’d prefer to reserve that privilege for myself,” Buck replied, then added, “however, if he should happen to fall within your sights do not hesitate. Kill him.”

Chapter FIFTEEN

The following morning at sunrise, Buck left his hotel and, feeling well-rested, walked briskly to the stage depot. He arrived to find Tracker, now attired as an inconspicuous working man in a rumpled but clean denim outfit, hoisting his carpetbag effortlessly onto the roof of the coach. He finished stowing his cased rifle inside the carriage before turning to greet his employer.

“We need to go over our plans with the driver and guard,” Buck informed him.

A few minutes later, Wes Taylor, the driver, and Freddie Swift, the guard, joined them. After introductions were exchanged, Buck said, “Gentlemen, here’s the situation we’re facing.” He noticed a man in butternut homespun with a luxurious handlebar mustache inspecting the hubs of the coach wheels. Buck motioned the others out of his hearing and continued. “You’ll need to keep a sharp eye out during this trip. I’ve reason to believe we’ll come under fire somewhere between here and Charleston.”

“Why’s that?” Freddie asked.

“I’ve been playing dead man’s tag with a sniper since I left Virginia.”

“I need to tell you, mister,” Wes declared, “I ain’t no good with a rifle or a hand gun. Never have been, but I can drive a coach and team to hell and back. Is that where we’re going?”

Buck smiled in spite of himself. “Maybe. How about you, Freddie? You any good with that gun of yours?”

“Mister, I was at Antietam and Gettysburg. After that I ain’t scared of nothing and I mostly hit what I aim at.”

“That’s all I can ask for,” Buck said. “Gentlemen, this sniper’s a crack shot. Probably has a Henry with a telescope, because he shoots from a distance, but he seems to have a problem with moving targets.”

“Maybe because he only has one good eye,” Tracker observed.

“Only one eye, huh?” Freddie rubbed his chin. “Which is the good one?”

“The right and he’s right-handed, so he has no trouble looking down the barrel of his rifle.”

“I’ll keep us moving,” Wes said. “You can count on that.”

Buck nodded. “Be especially careful if you have to stop along the road. So far he always shoots from ambush, usually high in a tree. But make no mistake. He’s utterly ruthless. He shoots horses and won’t hesitate to shoot women. During the war he sighted his rifle in on litter bearers and my patients. Killed several of ‘em.”

“My God,” Freddie exclaimed, shaking his head.

“Wes,” Buck said, glad he’d captured the young man’s attention, “you keep a sharp eye ahead and alert Tracker or Freddie if anything looks suspicious. Freddie, you watch the rear. From on top the coach, if that makes it easier for you. Tracker will be inside, protecting Mrs. Drexel. I’ll be a quarter of a mile ahead or behind you to make sure there are no surprises. If I see a problem, I’ll signal you. One shot means continue on, but be doubly alert. Two means stop where you are and take immediate cover, as best you can. If I fire three times, Wes, get the hell out of there. Full gallop. Understand?”

“Completely.”

Half an hour later a two-horse open brougham arrived. Buck greeted the Graysons and the two widows with them. He took Sarah’s arm as she climbed down, while Gus assisted Miriam, and the coachman helped Ruth to the ground. Janey, the mulatto servant, seated next to the driver, was left to get down by herself. Freddie and Wes removed the bags to the Concord. Gus greeted Tracker and shook his hand, then introduced him to Sarah and her mother as Pierre Bouchard.

Tracker doffed his hat to the ladies and bowed. “Enchanté, mesdames.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Monsieur Bouchard,” Sarah responded comfortably in French.

“Please call me Tracker.” He smiled. “It will be my pleasure to accompany such a lovely lady. If at any time in our journey I can be of assistance to you, I hope you won’t hesitate to call on me.”

Miriam introduced Janey Stiles to him and announced that she would be accompanying Mrs. Drexel to Charleston as her companion. The girl wore a simple flowered cotton dress, patched in several places but immaculately clean. Her dark intelligent eyes were bright and alert.

Miriam wrapped her arms around Sarah. “Sarah, shalom. Please write us as soon as you can to let us know you arrived safely. And please keep us informed of what’s happening there. I wish we could’ve met under different circumstances, but be assured you’re forever in our hearts and will always be welcome in our home.”

“Thank you so much for your hospitality and the great gift of peace you’ve given me.” Sarah attempted to say more but her voice was fragile.

Her mother placed her hand on Sarah’s cheek and smiled through brimming tears. “Be safe, my child. I wish I were going with you, but your father . . .” She paused. “I’ll be joining you as soon as I recover my strength. I’m with good friends here. Don’t worry about me.”

Sarah threw her arms around her. “Oh, Momma.” The two black-clad women held their embrace and rocked gently for several seconds.

As they were separating, Miriam turned to the young servant. “Janey, I have something for you.” She reached into her purse and brought out a slim, leather-bound volume. “I know this is your favorite book, so it’s yours to keep you company away from home.”

Regaining her composure Sarah raised the book already in Janey’s hand. The Sonnets of Shakespeare. “I like your taste in literature.” She smiled at the girl. “Perhaps you can read some of the verses to me on our trip.”

“I can recite some of ‘em by heart, Miz Sarah, but I’d enjoy reading ’em, specially to you.”

“Ladies,” Buck intervened, “it’s time for us to be on our way.”

The inspector with the handlebar mustache had just finished checking the Concord’s leather suspension straps and walked back to the barn behind the depot.

Tracker came out of the stage office carrying a cloth-wrapped box which he carefully lashed to the roof among the luggage. Gus was right behind him, holding up a ticket in his right hand.

“Fortunately the coach isn’t full. The station master says sometimes it is and passengers have to sit on the roof.” He handed Janey the stiff paper voucher, then helped Sarah into the coach. Tracker, back on the ground, held the door for Janey who, momentarily startled by the unconventional courtesy, hesitated, then climbed in behind her. Through the window she smiled modestly at Tracker.

Buck came up to the door of the Concord. “Ladies, I don’t want to frighten you, but you need to be alert.” He saw Sarah tense, though she made a valiant effort not to let it show. He wished he didn’t have to remind her of their trip here but lulling her into a false sense of security was a luxury they couldn’t afford. “If we run into any trouble, please follow Tracker’s orders. He’s here to protect you. Do you have any questions?”

Sarah looked at him wide-eyed with apprehension. “You’re not coming with us?”

He’d given his ticket to Tracker. “I’ll be following you at a short distance to make sure nobody comes up behind you or threatens you in any way. Don’t worry, even if you can’t see me, you’ll never be out of my sight.”

“Dr. Thomson,” she said, “I appreciate all the precautions you’re taking on my behalf, but I expected you’d be riding with us.”

He didn’t want to tell her about the man stalking him, but he didn’t want her to be complacent either.

“Rightly or wrongly, I hold myself responsible for your father’s untimely death and your getting wounded. I couldn’t bear to have it on my conscience if anything more happened to you.”

She put her hand on his sleeve. “These are indeed difficult times. The war . . .” She took a shallow breath. “It’s as if civilization itself has died. But rest assured, you are not to blame for other people’s misdeeds.”

He was about to respond, when Janey declared, “Don’t you worry, Miz. Sarah. I’ll be watching out for both of us.”

Buck smiled. He’d forgotten Sarah’s young companion was sitting beside her, unavoidably listening in on their conversation. “Good girl,” he complimented her, then stepped back.

Tracker climbed aboard and took the seat opposite Sarah, giving him a rear view of the road behind them.

Buck signaled Wes, who clucked the horses into motion.

#

Getting revenge for the wound in his neck should have been coon pie for Rufus. Instead Doc Thomson had turned everything upside down. Not only wasn’t he touched in the shower of gunfire at Cedar Creek, but he’d killed Floyd and Fat Man. Adding insult to injury, the ambush at Weston’s Creek had gone awry, making Rufus look like a humbug.

Not again. He didn’t work for the Yankees anymore. He wasn’t a lone sniper working for someone else. He had his own gang now, men who’d sworn their loyalty to him—or would once they got their hands on the strong box. Might have been simpler if he didn’t have a gang though. Being a general wasn’t so easy, not with all the planning he had to do.

Rufus had considered showing up at the stage depot by himself, open fire, kill the doc and as many other people as he wanted and then vamoose. But he wasn’t real good at close-in shooting with a handgun, maybe cause he had only one good eye, but more importantly, Buck Thomson was. Rufus couldn’t take any chances on the plantation owner’s highfalutin son hornswoggling him again. Thomson had always been lucky, but his luck was about to run out.

Since he didn’t want to show his face around the depot, Rufus had sent Hank to pick up any information he could. The stage had departed on the first leg of its trip to Charleston less than an hour when Hank appeared in the saloon’s doorway, looking smug and well satisfied with himself. He crossed the room, head up, eyes straight ahead, greeted Rufus who was standing at the bar and ordered a beer from Shifty. He took his first long quaff and stroked his handlebar mustache before telling his new boss, “I got what you wanted.”

Everybody was listening.

“How many people on board?” Rufus demanded.

“The driver, a guard, a dude in working clothes, a white woman in black and a high-yellow nigger girl is all.”

“Who’s the dude?”

“One of them ‘most-white Creoles, I reckon, cause I heard him talk French. Got a rifle case with him.”

“Most-white, huh? Ain’t Doc Thomson then. He’s all white. You see any gent might be the doctor?”

“Yep, but he didn’t get in the coach.”

“What?” Rufus wasn’t expecting that. “What’d he do?”

“Rode off on a black horse a few minutes after it left.”

Thomson wasn’t with his woman? Rufus realized he should have known the doc would want to play scout to make sure there were no traps laid for her. Smart. But then, Rufus never featured Doc Thomson to be stupid. But if he was riding behind the coach . . .

“Any way we can get ahead of ‘em?” he asked Hank.

“You could cut across a couple of farms and connect with the main road on the outskirts of St Matthews. It’s longer, but you can move cross-country on horseback faster and easier than that creaking old Concord, ‘specially the way the roads are nowadays. Probably get there about the same time too.”

Rufus pondered the situation. Hitting them too close to St Matthews probably wasn’t a good idea. The boys wanted to have some fun. That’d take time. Not that he cared about them. Whether they got any money or women wasn’t important to him. All he wanted to do was kill Thomson, but thinking on it, he might want to take his time doing that too. A remote location between stops would be better. And after all, there was no need to rush. They wouldn’t reach Charleston for several days. Maybe he ought to use that time to play a few games, keep them on edge. That way, when he did strike they’d be tuckered out.

A plan came to mind. He would’ve liked to do it himself, but that might be too dangerous. Thomson might recognize him. No point in taking a chance. Not with a man who was as good with guns as the doc. So he came up with another idea. Mundo was dumber than dirt, but he was good with a gun and he generally did all right when he was told exactly what to do. From a distance he might even be mistaken for Rufus.

“Hey, Mundo, I got a job for you.”

#

Sarah had bidden a final farewell to the Graysons and wiped her eyes as the coach pulled away. Miriam and Ruth waved small white kerchiefs as they disappeared from view.

She sat back against the hard wooden seat and let out a rueful sigh. No use fooling herself. She was disappointed that Buck wouldn’t be riding with her. She’d been looking forward to his company. For no reason she smiled at Tracker sitting across from her. His return smile seemed almost an invasion of her inmost thoughts.

The flat-roofed carriage swayed on its leather strap suspension as they advanced down the road at a leisurely pace to spare the horses as well as the passengers over the rutted road.

For the first mile Janey practically hung out the window. This was an adventure for her, a new, exciting experience. Sarah studied the girl. Under the best of circumstances her life would be difficult. Not as difficult as Emma’s had been, she hoped, but not likely to be as comfortable or at ease as a white woman’s. The girl was intelligent and curious, a combination that could make her life rich but could also bring unbearable frustration, for her opportunities to use her intelligence and explore her curiosities would be not just limited but activity obstructed by those less blessed.

Another mile or two went by. The passing countryside offered no new vistas.

“Would you like me to read to you from my book?” Janey asked, proudly opening the small volume. For generations before her, slaves had been forbidden the right to literacy. Janey clearly didn’t take it for granted.

“That would be very nice. Do you have a favorite?”

Janey smiled. “Yes’m. Number twenty-nine.”

“Say yes, ma’am, Janey. Not yes’m. It sounds better.”

“Yes, um, ma’am.”

Tracker appeared preoccupied but also mildly amused. He was an interesting man, partly Sarah suspected, because there was an air of mystery about him, a secretiveness she was utterly confident she was unlikely to penetrate.

“I’d like very much to hear you read,” she told Janey.

The young girl flipped a page, found what she was looking for and began to read:

“When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries

And look upon myself and curse my fate . . .”

It was an appropriate sonnet for a former slave, Sarah realized. She listened to the rest of it, then complimented Janey on her reading of it. Her inflection was in the correct places. Obviously it was a poem she’d read many times before, enough that the words were no longer Shakespeare’s but hers as well.

“Will you read me another?” Sarah asked.

The request obviously pleased her. She paged through the small volume, uncertain which one to choose.

“How about number thirty-four?” Tracker suggested.

Startled, Sarah cocked her head to the side as she gazed at him. He’d been so quiet she’d almost forgotten he was there.

Janey too seemed disoriented by the request, but she recovered quickly. “Oh, all right.” She flipped a few more pages until she found it.

“Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,

And make me travel forth without my cloak,

To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way

Hiding their bravery in their rotten smoke?”

This time Sarah stared at him with stunned amusement. This man in denim was no ordinary working man or body guard, but someone well educated. Self educated? Most likely. She couldn’t imagine him sitting in a classroom listening to someone talk down to him.

And what of the sonnet he’d selected. Despite her efforts to be discreet, he’d noticed her attraction to the doctor. If she was interpreting his message correctly, the man across from her was saying he’d noticed her disappointment in not sharing Buck’s company.

Her body guard’s eyes remained averted, but a smile played on his lips, as if he were reading her thoughts and concurring. When the girl reached the last two lines, the resolution of the sonnet, he joined her in reciting them.

“Ah! But these tears are pearls which thy love sheds,

And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.”

In other words, the disappointment she feels now will be rewarded later.

Janey slipped her finger in between the pages. “That’s pretty.”

She hadn’t read it with the fluidity she had the first piece.

“And appropriate, I think,” Tracker added. Before Sarah could ask the question he must have seen on her lips, he continued, “The key to poetry is often not what’s written, but what’s implied between the lines.”

Sarah didn’t hold back her smile this time. To her puzzlement, however, he ignored it and gazed out the window. What thoughts had these measured lines evoked? Maybe they weren’t about her at all. Nevertheless if they’d been alone she might have said Thank you.

#

The women fell silent, then began nodding as the rig rocked and swayed through the sandy ruts as it headed toward its first destination. Tracker remained on full alert.

They were several miles from St Matthews when the rhythmic, insistent squeal of the coach’s left rear wheel became strident. He was the first to detect the faint smell of burning wood. He stuck his head out the window and informed the driver they had an overheated hub. With a muttered curse the knight of the ribbons began reining in the horses.

“Ladies,” Tracker said firmly, “please stay inside while we attend to this problem.”

Before the wheels had stopped turning Freddie Swift leapt from the roof and positioned himself in front of the coach, sweeping his rifle through a hip-high arc in protective custody. Almost as quickly, Tracker sprang from inside the rig and took a mirror position guarding the rear.

#

A hundred yards back, Buck rode atop Gypsy, scanning the land as far as he could see. Uncertain what the immediate problem was, he remained a discreet distance behind the coach, spurred Gypsy to a gentle knoll for better vantage, slipped his binoculars from the saddle bag and monitored the activities below. Scanning the horizon, he spied a small mounted figure wearing a straw hat on the road ahead. Was it the red-headed man? Or a local plowboy?

Almost frantically he scoured the countryside. No sign of anyone in the trees. No horses unattended. No sign of anyone or anything out of the ordinary. Just a farmhand moseying along a country road on his horse. Buck removed the Henry from its scabbard and kept the stock tucked under his arm as he continued to survey the bucolic scene below. The rider was still a hundred yards from the stalled coach when he removed his hat and wiped his brow. Black hair, not red. Short, not long. Not Rufus Snead. Yet something about him didn’t feel right.

Meanwhile, Wes had removed a beam with a notch in one end from a toolbox beneath the coach’s chassis. He wedged it under the rear axle and urged the horses forward enough to lever the damaged wheel out of its sandy rut. After chocking the others, he unscrewed the hub nut with a wrench, greased the axle and proceeded with reassembly.

Uncomfortable with the plowboy appearing on the scene, Buck raised his rifle to his shoulder and held the lone rider in his sights. Fortunately he passed on Buck’s side of the coach, giving him a clear shot, should one be necessary. The rider slowed his pace as he passed the raised vehicle, tipped his hat to the passengers, said something and continued on. Lowering his rifle, Buck used his binoculars to maintain surveillance of the stranger until he turned into a side road, leading to a farm house a mile away. By then, the coachman had remounted his box and resumed their travel.

Instead of being a source of relief, the false alarm served to heighten Buck’s awareness of the danger ahead.

#

Dusk was approaching as the coach pulled into St Matthews. The stage compound on the western outskirts of the hamlet seemed more suited to storing grain than accommodating travelers. Buck told the driver and passengers to remain outside while he checked within. The dimly lit downstairs common room reeked of last winter’s wood fires.

A man in his fifties wearing a leather apron came through a low doorway at the far end of the room.

“Welcome, welcome, sir. Name’s Jim Hopkins. Y’all are right on time. How many in your party, sir?”

“I’m Dr. Thomson. There are six of us altogether, but we’ll only need accommodations for four. The driver and guard will remain with the coach. The ladies would prefer to stay together if you have a room large enough to accommodate them.”

“They can have the big room, sir. Two beds and a real nice wash stand. I’ll help you bring in their things while my wife Matilda sets the table. Supper’ll be ready in a few minutes. How about a drink first? Reckon you’ve had a long day.”

“It has been long, but I’ll pass on the drink.”

The innkeeper was obviously disappointed. “Whatever you say. Maybe later.”

“Perhaps,” Buck replied, not wanting to dampen the man’s enthusiasm.

They went outside. Tracker was helping Freddie lower the carpet bags from the roof. Janey opened the door below them, got out and held it for Sarah.

“Wait a minute, mister,” the innkeeper said brusquely to Buck, “you didn’t say nothing about no darkies being with y’all. The girl can bed down in the hay barn and the dandy can sleep any damn place he wants, long as it ain’t under my roof.”

Buck could tell Janey had overheard the man’s remarks, but seemed to ignore them. Tracker, however, was less indulgent. Seeing him reach inside his coat, Buck placed a restraining hand on his arm. The two men made brief eye contact. A second later Tracker withdrew his hand.

“Mr. Hopkins,” Buck said firmly, “the ladies—” he emphasized the word “—will be pleased to accept your offer of the big room. And Mr. Bouchard and I appreciate your furnishing us two separate bedrooms.”

“See here, mister, this is my place and I decide who stays in it. And no damn darkies are welcome.”

“Times have changed, Mr. Hopkins. The war’s over.” He put his hand inside his jacket, where his pistol was clearly outlined. “It would be a pity, now that the shooting’s stopped, for you to add your blood to the cause. I sure would hate to have to kill you in front of your wife.”

A scrawny woman, wearing a threadbare dress with a mismatched patch along the hem, came up behind the depot manager and said quietly. “Jim, hush your mouth. Ain’t gonna do neither of us no good if you get yourself killed.”

“Tillie, get inside and leave this to me.”

“Jim, we need the money,” she implored, then addressed the travelers. “Y’all come along now while my husband sees to the horses and totes in y’all’s things. Supper’ll be ready soon as I take the biscuits out of the oven.”

The innkeeper shifted his jaw, shot glances at Tracker and back at Buck. “Y’all be eating together?”

Buck took his hand from inside his coat. “As soon as your dear wife has the table set.”

The man started unhitching the horses. Buck considered reminding him of his wife’s offer for him to help with the luggage but winked at Tracker instead and picked up the nearest suitcase.

“I wonder, doctor,” Tracker commented as he hefted the other portmanteau, “if Mr. Hopkins realizes his wife just saved his hide.”