Текст книги "Mankillers"

Автор книги: Ken Casper

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“What can you tell me about the plowboy you encountered this afternoon?” Buck asked.

“He’s not Rufus Snead, if that’s what you’re worried about. This guy had dark hair. Real, not dyed. He was more like thirty than twenty, and he had two good eyes, very blue eyes.”

“That’s a relief,” Buck responded. “He looked so much like Snead from a distance that—”

“One thing I can tell you about him,” Tracker added, “is that he was no plowboy. His hands were too soft and clean.”

So who was he?

#

“Good work,” Rufus told Mundo. So the coach had been stuck on the road because of a bad hub. They’d been sitting ducks, except Rufus didn’t know that then. He expected Mundo to pass by the moving coach. By the time he was able to work his way back to the gang, the coach had already arrived in St Matthews.

“I swan, those women are bodacious fine,” Mundo added. “The white woman is pretty as a turtle dove, and that dusky gal makes a man feel right pert.”

A one-track mind, Rufus thought, emphasis on the one track, not the mind.

“You’re randy for anything in a skirt,” Clem commented a few feet down the bar. He tipped his mug and gulped foamy beer, let out a belch and turned to Rufus. “Why didn’t we hit ‘em today, boss? I don’t understand why we’re waiting.”

“You don’t have to. We hit ‘em when I tell you to.”

In fact, knowing now the pickle they’d been in when they stopped to repair the wheel, he probably should have attacked them. A lost opportunity. But he didn’t know then what he knew now. Besides, there’d be other chances to exfluncticate Doc Thomson and his friends. After all, coaches broke down all the time.

Zeke came bounding into the long barroom. “Hey, boss, I found it.”

“Found what? Your ass or your elbow?”

“The perfect spot for your ambush tomorrow.”

“Where?” Rufus asked. “And what makes it so damn perfect?”

Suppressing a grin of pleasure at being one up on the one-eyed runt, Zeke told him. “On the road to Holly Hill. A long narrow bridge through the swamp. We’ll be able to hear ‘em when they get on it. There’s woods on both sides. I know how you like being up in trees, boss. They can’t turn the coach around on that bridge, so they’ll be sitting ducks.”

Rufus smiled. It did sound perfect. “Get some sleep,” he ordered. “We’re gonna be up real early tomorrow. And remember the doc is mine.”

“He’s all yours, boss,” Mundo said. “I prefers women.”

Chapter SIXTEEN

The sun was pinking the eastern sky when Buck tapped on Tracker’s door. Hardly a moment elapsed before it opened and the man stood in front of him fully dressed.

“I’m riding out to see what there is to be seen,” Buck told him. “I expect to be back by the time y’all have finished breakfast, but don’t leave until I do. I want to make sure the road’s clear and check out any bad spots.”

“We’ll be waiting for you.”

Buck started to walk away.

“I’ll have Mr. Hopkins pack some biscuits for you,” Tracker added, “to eat at your leisure.”

“Uh, thanks.”

Buck found the road out of the compound ran straight for two miles, then curved around a series of small hills. From there it descended into swampland that buzzed with mosquitoes, stinging flies and black gnats. Another mile on and Buck came to a long wooden causeway, barely wide enough for the coach. Cypress trees crowded both sides of the shaky structure. Once on the bridge the coach would be committed to moving forward.

“If ever there was an ambush waiting to happen,” Buck muttered to himself, “this is it.”

Before crossing, he removed the binoculars from his saddle bag and scanned the flat terrain. No sign of anyone about. He started across the bridge. The gelding’s iron shoes drummed the half rotted timbers, an alarm to anyone coming the other way, but also a tocsin for anyone lying in wait. Buck didn’t like it, but it appeared to be the only road to Holly Hill. He wasn’t ready to turn back yet, however. If the travelers were to be successful in negotiating this thieves’ corner, he needed to be familiar with what still lay ahead.

A mile farther along, the road widened and the opportunities for maneuver improved. Buck also discovered what appeared to be a little-used by-road that swept to the south, presumably to farms. Dead ends, probably.

He turned around and retraced his way to the stage depot. But, before he reached the causeway, he stopped to use his binoculars once more. The tall cypress trees growing so close to the road bothered him.

There. Someone was sitting on a thick bough less than fifty feet from the middle of the wooden structure.

How did he get there so fast, or had he been there earlier and Buck hadn’t seen him? The thought wasn’t encouraging. He continued to scan other trees and other branches, this time catching glimpses of at least five other men straddling limbs, holding rifles.

Had they all been there all along?

Was one of them Rufus Snead?

Buck didn’t see him, but he knew the sneaky coward was there. Somewhere.

He also realized he was now cut off from the people he was trying to protect. If he continued down the road and across the causeway, he’d be killed outright. Another fifty yards, and Rufus Snead would surely have him in his sights—if he didn’t already.

He remembered the farm road he’d seen and hoped it would take him to St Matthews.

Reining in Gypsy, he reversed course and rode quietly away from the assassins. At the intersection with the by-road, he checked behind him one last time and set his horse into an easy trot.

The sun was fully up now, warming the damp air. At least he was moving away from the swamp. Insects chased him but not in the numbers he’d previously encountered. Only three or four had so far drawn blood.

As expected, the dirt road brought him to a small once-white farmhouse with an unpainted cypress barn behind it. A bent old man in bib overalls was carrying a tin bucket from the house, presumably to empty in the privy several yards beyond.

Buck could feel the man’s anxiety build at his approach. “Hello, old-timer. Is this the road to St. Matthews?”

“Well, it ain’t the main one no more, but it’ll get you there.”

“Does it get any better?”

“It don’t get no worse.”

“That’s small consolation.”

An hour later, Buck pulled into the stage compound. The traveling party was outside, no doubt to enjoy the fresh air. The ladies were sitting in wicker chairs on the porch of the building, fanning themselves, while the men were standing under an oak tree, smoking little cigars or pipes.

“Is everything all right?” Sarah came to meet him. She was clearly apprehensive. “You were gone so long, I . . . we were worried.”

Tracker moved closer as Buck dismounted. “Trouble?”

“They’re waiting for us,” Buck responded.

Sarah gasped, and he regretted giving the report in her presence.

“We can go around them, though,” he announced. The driver and guard joined them. “I came back by a different way. It’s longer and slower, but it’ll circle around the trap on the main route. Now, y’all best be going if you hope to make Holly Hill before sundown.”

“What about you?” Tracker asked. “Aren’t you coming with us?”

“I’ll meet you there. I have some other business to take care of.”

Tracker frowned. “By yourself? You need some company?”

“You protect the women. I’ll join you in Holly Hill. Might even be there to welcome you.”

Janey joined them. “In case we can’t stop to eat lunch,” she said, “I asked Miz Hopkins to pack some food for us.”

Buck raised an eyebrow before he realized he’d done it. “And did she?”

“Cornbread and sidemeat, scuppernongs and red plums.”

“Sounds like a feast.”

“She throwed in some honeycakes too. I mean threw.”

Sarah smiled. “You and Mrs. Hopkins have been getting along pretty well, haven’t you?”

“Aw, she’s all right away from her husband.”

Jim Hopkins approached from the inn. “About the bill. Mister,” he said in a flat voice.

Buck followed him inside where he settled what, in his estimation, amounted to an outrageous sum. His wife seemed embarrassed by the transaction but said nothing. If Buck hadn’t had the feeling they were desperate, he would have objected to the fleecing.

Outside, everyone had taken their places in and on the coach. Wes shook the reins and the lumbering wagon got underway.

#

Buck mounted Gypsy and started down the main road. This was a good opportunity to reverse roles with the redheaded man. Let the pursuer be the pursued. Not far from the causeway, he found a footpath winding through the swampy cypress grove. He dismounted and walked Gypsy as quietly as possible closer to the ambush site he’d discovered earlier.

The surrounding land was flat, the trees dense. He tied Gypsy to a cypress knee and, taking a lesson from his antagonist, climbed up a stout sycamore, his rifle and binoculars slung over his shoulder.

Shinnying up the tree at Sayler’s Creek had been a first since he and Clay were boys. The memory of his dead brother and the recollection of how he’d been assassinated spurred him higher. He was about twenty-five feet up when he straddled a substantial limb, pulled the binoculars around and surveyed the forest on the far side of the wooden bridge. It took several minutes before he spied what he was looking for, three men facing him from the cover of swamp chestnuts. Earlier he’d seen five men in these trees. He kept searching, hoping to see the other two and praying that one of them might be the redheaded man. Rufus Snead was the real target. These others were mere distractions. Still, their gunfire would be as lethal as their leader’s.

Buck propped his Henry in the fork of the bough he was braced in, leveled the barrel and focused on the man farthest away. With a slow squeeze of the trigger, he fired. The round shattered the man’s nose and kept going. His dead body hit the shallow swamp water with an echoing splash.

Before that sound faded, Buck had a bead on the second man, who was closer to him. Another calculated tightening of his trigger finger and this target jerked backward and tumbled from his perch. The third man was scrambling desperately down a neighboring oak, having already dropped his rifle into the brackish water. Through his sights Buck was following the man’s frantic descent, waiting for a clear shot, when Gypsy reared and snorted and stamped his feet. Buck realized his prey had fled and he was in danger of losing his horse. Scampering down the sycamore as fast as he could, he arrived in time to see a cottonmouth slither into the underbrush away from Gypsy’s pounding hooves.

After calming his steed, Buck examined the animal’s legs and found no fang marks. He was about to swing up into the saddle, when he heard the clatter of the retreating gunmen on the wooden structure. To his surprise they were returning toward St Matthews, not advancing to Holly Hill. Buck stayed hidden until their hoof beats had faded into the distance. Was the redheaded man one of them?

Taking Gypsy by the reins and carrying his rifle in his other hand, Buck again led the horse quietly along the footpath, watching carefully for snakes, human and reptilian. Only when he was past the wooden bridge did he mount the steed again and, not taking any chances, put him in a full gallop toward Holly Hill.

#

Rufus swatted at another horse fly and brushed away the glob of blood the insect had drawn. “Damn you, Zeke. We waited hours for that coach. Never showed up, and now we got two men killed. What the hell happened back there?”

“Only thing I can figure, boss, is the coach took the other road.”

Rufus’s face grew hot with rage. “What other road, damn you?”

“The old one, boss. This here’s the new one.”

“Why didn’t you tell me there was two?”

“Nobody uses the old one no more, boss. Except farmers. It was abandoned fifteen years ago or thereabouts.”

“Well, obviously somebody still uses it.”

“What about Joe and Eddie, boss?” Hank asked. “Should we go back and get ‘em? They may just be wounded.”

“Get ‘em if you want to, but if they ain’t cold as a wagon tire by now, they will be by the time you find ‘em, either bled to death or finished off by snakes and varmints.”

Zeke shrugged. “What now, boss?”

“My neck hurts,” Rufus complained, “and these gallnippers is about to eat me alive. First you fetch that ointment of yours and fix me up. Then I’ll figure out our next move. Where you reckon that coach is now?”

“Most to Holly Hill,” Zeke told him. “We might could catch up—”

“No. We’ll go on and find a place to put up for tonight, then get after ‘em tomorrow. Early. I want Doc Thomson to pay for Joe and Eddie.”

“How you know it was the Doc shot them?”

“Cause he didn’t miss. Ain’t but one person’s better with a rifle than him. Me.”

Jake rode up. “Rufus, there’s a good campsite yonder, where we can build a fire to smoke off some of these here pests, and it’s got enough cover. Nobody’ll spot us there.”

“I hope you’re better at picking campsites then this idiot is at figuring out roads,” Rufus replied, glaring at Zeke.

Jake led them to a ravine several miles away. One of the other men had already started a fire. His cohorts were gathering pine straw from under the nearby trees to put on the fire to smoke the bugs away.

“Get out the whiskey, boys,” Rufus yelled. “We’re in for the night. Tomorrow at daybreak we’re gonna have to ride like hell, ‘cause I want to get ahead of that doctor and his friends. Zeke, you best get that damn stuff of yours and treat my neck again.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” Zeke left and returned a minute later with the smelly ointment. “Now hold still.”

“Ouch, God dammit. What you got in there, lye? Burns like hell.”

“Axle grease, a little sulfur and some soothing turpentine. Good for what ails you.”

“If it don’t kill you first.”

Jake brought a whiskey bottle. “Here you go, boss. This’ll help.”

Rufus guzzled a quarter of it before handing it back. “Lord. Even my daddy’s rotgut was better than this pisswater.”

“Better than nothing though, I reckon,” Jake told him.

They settled down, broke out a sack of stale biscuits, a moldy chunk of salt pork, a jar of molasses and another bottle of whiskey.

As soon as Zeke finished with the ointment and had put a semi-clean rag around his boss’s neck, Rufus moved out into the clearing and stared up at the sky. New moon. To make matters worse, there was dense cloud cover. Couldn’t even see the stars.

“Wrong goddam time of the month,” Rufus griped.

Mundo snickered. “What’re we gonna do tomorrow? Why we have to get up so early?”

“So’s we can be on the road ahead of ‘em. Ain’t that what I just said? Then we wait for ‘em to come to us.”

Clem cut a piece of mold off the fatback and sliced the rest into small strips which he put on the iron skillet he carried in his bedroll. The pork was starting to crisp when he knocked the handle and tilted everything into the fire. The grease blazed up, backing everybody away.

“Damn your eyes, Clem.” The redheaded man exploded. “Can’t you do anything right? Now we’re down to dry biscuits, molasses and whiskey. One of you jackasses spill the whiskey and I swear I’ll kill him. Got that?”

The men around him nodded.

They were all snoring when the rain started three hours later. A patter, patter on rocks and leaves at first. Rufus woke in time to realize what was coming. He roused the others. None of them was enthusiastic about being awakened.

“Get up or drown, you dumb sons of bitches. Get up.”

Bodies were stirring, sort of, when, a few minutes later the fire went out and they heard a roar. A wall of water three feet high knocked them sprawling. They were awake now and sputtering. In the darkness they could hear the terrified horses whinnying and snorting. A streak of lightning showed three rearing and pawing at

the swirling waters.

Two hours later, Rufus took inventory of his gang. Nobody knew what had happened to Neezy Collins. The teenager and his horse were missing. Some of the others had lost their bedrolls. Clem had lost his saddle.

“You still got that ointment, Zeke?” Rufus asked.

“Safe and dry, better off than me.”

Rufus gazed up at the sky. The clouds had moved off, which he could clearly see because the sun was fully up now. He’d lost the initiative he’d sought.

“What now, boss?”

Chapter SEVENTEEN

“What now, boss?” Jake asked after the others had gathered around.

Rufus was seething. Things had gone bad before, but this gang of his brother’s was more worthless than his old man’s word. He took in the pathetic bunch of soggy, half-drowned drunks. They’d lost two horses but managed to save the whiskey jug, damn them. Two men were missing as well, so the score was even.

“First we dry off. No use trying to go after the coach today. It’s hours ahead of us now.”

He’d had the perfect plan last night. Ride head of Doc Thomson and have him come to him. He hadn’t counted on the damn storm. How could he? Nobody could predict the weather—‘cept his old granny, when her rheumatism was acting up. But she’d been dead for years.

“We get something to eat, then we ride as hard as we can, but stay behind the coach till it stops for the night at Goose Creek. Then we ride on ahead of it, so’s we can be ready by sun-up when Doc Thomson goes out to do his re-con-noit-ering.”

“His what?” Clem asked.

“Don’t worry about it. Tomorrow we hit ‘em for sure. And remember, you can do whatever you want with any of them—”

“Like the women?” Clem asked enthusiastically.

Rufus shook his head. “But the doc is mine.”

#

The two men sat down facing each other at the trestle table in the main room of the Holly Hill Inn. “Road appears open,” Buck told Tracker. “I wasn’t able to go the whole way, but what I saw was wide and clear. Trees well back and not very dense. If there was anyone up in them, I didn’t see them.”

The innkeeper brought Tracker his breakfast, a stack of pancakes and a dish of grits.

“Where’s the bacon?”

“Ran out about two years ago,” the innkeeper informed him.

“And maple syrup?”

“Two years ago.”

“Got anything to give these flapjacks some taste?”

“A little sorghum molasses, but it’ll cost you.”

Tracker frowned. “If it’s more than a Yankee dollar, I don’t want it.”

“Mister, you got a Yankee dollar, I’ll give you a pat a butter to go with it.”

Tracker shook his head. “I hate war shortages.”

“I guess that means he accepts your kind offer,” Buck told the proprietor.

“I’m a man of appetites, doc,” Tracker commented after their waiter had stepped away, “and I do my best to satisfy all of them, as opportunity presents itself.”

The waiter brought him what amounted to no more than dollops of molasses and butter. Tracker smeared them on with a frown.

“We’re not dealing here with a West Point strategist like General Lee,” he commented to Buck. “If Snead doesn’t have his men deployed in the trees like last time, it seems to me the alternative is a frontal assault. Think they could be ahead of us?”

Buck waved to a serving girl for some coffee. “I don’t know and it worries me. Would’ve been a challenge for them getting there, considering the rain last night, but they may be more familiar with the countryside than we are and know of a way around this place.”

“Not by road,” Tracker said. “There isn’t any bypass, I checked with our kindly innkeeper and he assures me this is the only road between Holly Hill and Goose Creek. Unless your nemesis wants to go halfway back to St Matthews and take the road to St George. But if they use that route we’ll be in Charleston before they even get to Goose Creek.”

“You’re assuming they’d go by road.”

Tracker forked up a generous portion of nearly dry pancakes, and made a face when he tasted it.

“If they’re going to attack—” Buck accepted a metal cup of steaming coffee from the girl “—they’ll have to come at us from the rear.”

“So what’s your plan?”

“Nothing very elaborate or subtle. I’ll follow y’all. I wish we had someone to ride point though . . .”

“I’ll tell Freddie to watch out ahead,” Tracker said, scooping up a forkful of grits, “instead of facing backward like he’s been doing.”

Buck paused a minute, then quietly posed a question. “How’s she holding up?”

“You mean Janey?” At Buck’s arched expression Tracker chuckled. “Mrs. Drexel’s all right, in fact, my friend, I’d say she’s a remarkably strong woman. Her neck pains her some, but she doesn’t complain. And that girl Janey’s been a real help. They read to each other. Your lady friend even laughs, especially when Janey beats her at Whist. If Mrs. Drexel makes it through this journey unscathed, she’ll be fine.”

A minute later, the subject of their discussion came into the room, Janey following behind her.

“It just occurred to me,” Buck said quietly to Tracker, “I’ve never seen her in anything but black.”

“Patience, my friend, the time will come. She’s obviously interested in you.”

Buck shifted his gaze to avoid eye contact with the man sitting across from him, rose and greeted the widow as she entered the long room. “Almost home,” he told her when she reached the table.

She sighed. “It can’t be soon enough.”

“Dr. Thomson, will we be getting to Charleston tonight?” Janey asked.

“Not tonight. We’ll stay over at Goose Creek, then ride into Charleston tomorrow, probably around noon.”

“I ain’t never . . . I have never been to Charleston.” The girl was obviously looking forward to the adventure. “Can I see the ocean from there?”

“Not from my house,” Sarah told her. “We’re on the bay side. Don’t worry. While you’re with me we’ll drive to the beach and you can behold the Great Atlantic.”

Janey gave her a broad smile of anticipation.

#

Jake came riding up like there was a Yankee or a revenuer after him. “Hey Boss, they’re still there.”

“Where?” Rufus asked.

“You git vittles?” Clem called out.

“They’re still at the stagecoach depot,” Jake replied.

“How come?”

“Stage manager said a horse went lame, another threw a shoe, then they had to grease a wheel—”

Something was finally going right, Rufus thought smugly.

“They expected to be out of there an hour after sunup, but it ain’t working out that way.”

“Where’s the food?” Clem whined. “I ain’t et since yesterday.”

“Shut up,” Rufus scolded him. “How soon before they get going?” he asked Jake.

“They was almost finished doing all them things when I rode off. I reckon they’ll be on their way in maybe half an hour.”

Rufus shouted. “Everybody, grab a biscuit and eat in the saddle. Here’s our chance to get ahead of ‘em. Don’t go through town on the main road though. I don’t want any of ‘em seeing you. Just follow me. We got to move fast.”

“What’re we going to do?” Clem asked. He was the first to pull a biscuit from the sack Jake had draped over his saddle horn.

Rufus grinned. There wasn’t time to set up the ambush he was hoping for. “We’re gonna have some fun.”

#

A series of minor mishaps had delayed their departure from Holly Hill. It was almost nine o’clock, two hours later than they’d planned, before they were able to get on the winding, sandy road to Goose Creek. As prearranged, Buck took up his mobile sentry duty a half mile or so behind the coach, sometimes staying on the road, sometimes cutting paths through the underbrush that paralleled it. He kept his binoculars out and constantly scanned the woods, especially the upper branches of trees, for snipers. When Wes stopped at one of the frequent creeks to water the horses, Buck had seen no one or anything suspicious. Yet he felt uneasy, as if he were himself being watched. Intensely he continued to survey the territory around them.

Suddenly a ragged, dirty man stepped out of the nearby woods into the roadway, leading a skinny gray mare. Tracker had alighted from the coach, revolver at his side, and was dutifully scrutinizing the stranger. Buck, his senses on alert, continued to watch the scene through his binoculars, his Henry raised in firing position if anything untoward might happen.

From that distance Buck couldn’t hear the exchange of words between the two men, but he saw the stranger remove his hat with a flourish toward the ladies in the coach. After a few more words were exchanged, the man mounted his horse and rode toward Buck and the stage resumed its journey.

Buck considered avoiding the horseman but decided nothing would be accomplished by doing so. He watched the rider approach at an easy trot, scruffy looking, with several-day’s growth of grayish whiskers and surprisingly clean yellow suspenders.

“Morning, stranger,” the man said in a thick drawl. “Sure are some nervous folks around here. All I said was good morning and the fella down yonder pulled a pistol on me.”

“That right?” Buck replied. “Dangerous times. I reckon everybody’s on edge these days.”

“You take care now, hear?” The man touched his hat and continued on his way.

Buck urged Gypsy after the coach, got out the binoculars he’d discreetly hidden from the stranger and continued to observe the countryside around him.

Several miles farther along, the coach came to a crossroads. Sitting on a fallen tree trunk a dozen yards from the intersection were two men, apparently relaxing in the afternoon sun, doing nothing more than talking to each other.

Something didn’t seem right, but as Buck drew closer to them, he didn’t see anything suspicious. They didn’t even appear to be armed, nor, to Buck’s amazement was there any evidence of a whiskey jug. As the stage passed, they ceased their conversation and waved to the lumbering wagon.

A knot formed in Buck’s stomach. What was going on? Why were they here?

The loiterers greeted him pleasantly as well when he passed by and wished him a good day. He returned the salutation, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss.

The next few hours went by slowly but without incident. They were within five miles of Goose Creek when Buck saw still another stranger, this one riding at a comfortable gait toward the stagecoach. The young man, whose face was covered with freckles, wore a red-plaid shirt. He doffed his hat when he reached the coach, displaying light-brown hair that was almost blond. Most striking, however, was the scar that ran from his right temple to his chin. An old scar, Buck decided, though the man didn’t appear to be more than in his early twenties.

After they exchanged greetings, Buck asked, “You from these parts? I’m wondering if there might be a place to spend the night.”

“Just passing through, mister.”

“Well, thanks anyway,” Buck responded.

Again he had an uneasy feeling. If the stagecoach stop was on this road, the rider must have passed it. Why didn’t he say so? On the other hand, Buck supposed he could have come by one of the side roads between here and there. He was seeing more and more of them as they drew closer to Charleston.

The coach continued down the narrow road, and Buck continued his solitary vigil behind it.

#

Zeke grinned, showing a missing front tooth. “Them folks on the stage are jumpier than a bunch of frogs on a hot skillet. And that man riding that black horse a ways back’s got a pair of binoculars with him.”

“I know,” Rufus said. “I been trailing behind and keeping an eye on him.”

“You only got one, Rufus,” Clem said with a snicker.

Rufus glared at him with it and the other man shut up fast. “Y’all turn in early tonight and lay off the jug. We gotta move out at first light and set our ambush ahead of ‘em.”

“We gonna hit ‘em tomorrow, Rufus?” Hank asked.

“Yep, before they get into Charleston. So get a good night’s sleep.”

#

In his march from Savannah to Columbia, Sherman had bypassed Charleston and mercifully the small settlement at Goose Creek. The accommodations Buck and his party found there were the best they’d encountered in their long, boring trek across devastated South Carolina. The rooms here were comfortable, if not luxurious; the seafood was fresh and expertly prepared, all in stark contrast to the scarce, poor quality fare at other way-stations.

Sarah shunned the non-kosher clams and shrimp, but enthusiastically feasted on the sea bass and porgies in her room with Janey.

Buck and Tracker joined the other guests in the ill-lit restaurant. No dietary restrictions for them. Oysters weren’t in season but clams, shrimp and mussels were, and they made a feast of them.

“I expect we’ll be safe here tonight,” Tracker opined.

The inn was crowded with civilians from Charleston, as well as Yankee officers and their “ladies.” Neither group acknowledged the other. The war was over, but the divide between North and South remained.

“Wes,” Buck said, “how long you reckon we’ll be on the road tomorrow?”

“It’s about three hours to the city,” Wes replied.

“You know the road. If you were going to set up an ambush, where would you do it?”

“Easy,” the coach driver answered. “There’s a spot about six miles ahead on the Cooper River where the road does a switchback below a bluff. Road narrows at that point and sorta juts out into the river. Have to slow down to make the turn. Wouldn’t take much to drop a tree across the path and pick us off while we tried to clear it.”

“I’ll check things out first thing in the morning,” Buck said. “Y’all stay here till I get back. Is there any other route, if we can’t make it through there?”

“Could go to Monck’s Corner,” Wes commented, “but it’s a lot longer. Might not get to Charleston tomorrow, if we go that way.”

“Doesn’t seem like much of an option,” Tracker said. “The longer we’re on the road, the greater the risk. I don’t imagine your lady friend will feel safe till she’s in her own home.”

Neither will I.

#

Buck rose before sunrise the next morning, unable to shake a feeling of apprehension. The hours ahead would bring safe haven in Charleston for Sarah, if all went well, but that was a mighty big if. Wes and Freddie were of a mind that, since Buck had killed four of the gang, the redheaded man and any of his gang who were left had limped back to Lexington County with their tails between their legs. Buck’s gut told him otherwise. The man who’d murdered his brother wouldn’t give up that easily.

Tracker stirred in the other bed and sat up.

“Don’t leave till I return,” Buck told him. “Shouldn’t be gone more than two hours.”

“If you’re not,” Tracker said, yawning and stretching, “I’ll come looking for you.”

“Don’t worry about me. Protect the ladies.”