Текст книги "Mankillers"

Автор книги: Ken Casper

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

The older man sucked in a deep breath and motioned to the chair opposite him. “Sit down.” He picked up the crystal bell beside his plate of grits, eggs and biscuits and rang it. When the butler appeared, he ordered a full breakfast for his son and a pot of coffee. “And have someone clean up this mess.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How are you, Clarence?” Randolph asked.

“Well, sir, thank you. Welcome home, sir.”

Randolph chuckled when the major domo left the room. “If he gets any more pale, I swear he could pass for a white man.”

“Well,” Franklin said sternly. “Explain. What happened?”

A girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen came hesitantly into the room with a hand broom and dust bin and began sweeping up the broken china. As soon as she was finished, she fled as if she were on fire. Randolph watched her go and smiled lasciviously.

“I asked you a question.”

Randolph snorted. “It’s a long story.”

“Shorten it.”

“I was in a prison near Baltimore and was offered parole on a condition of a fee. I wrote to Sarah and told her to pay it. Several weeks went by, and I hadn’t received an answer. I had no idea if she’d gotten my request or if she’d chosen to ignore it. Anyway, one day in the yard two men were fighting over a scrap of moldy fatback, when one stabbed the other to death. The captain of the guard arrived some minutes later. The culprit had fled into the crowd by then. The captain, a sorry excuse for an officer even by Yankee standards, directed the body be taken to the mass grave they’d prepared for the ones who’d died during the night. When he asked who the victim was, I told him his name was Randolph Drexel.”

Franklin stroked his chin pensively. “That explains the report that you were dead. How did you escape?”

“They turned us all loose a couple of months ago. Without a penny or a horse. Have you ever eaten turnip root and hog jowl, Poppa? Quite good if it’s cooked long enough.”

“No, and I don’t intend to. How’d you get home?”

“I walked every damn step of the way here from Maryland. Where the hell’s Sarah? I went by our house. It was all locked up.”

Clarence reentered the room with the same scared black girl carrying a heavy silver tray. He supervised her setting the place where Randolph sat and putting the steaming food in front of him. Randolph didn’t thank her, but he did ask her name.

“Topaz, sir.”

“You’re very pretty, Topaz. I’m looking forward to seeing more of you.”

She mumbled something and darted from the room.

“Prison certainly hasn’t changed you,” Franklin remarked.

Randolph smirked, picked up the Sterling-silver fork and began shoveling poached egg into his mouth. The yoke dribbled down his chin, but he ignored it. Franklin observed him with quiet disgust.

“I repeat—” his mouth was still half-full “—where the hell is my wife?”

“You divorced her, remember?”

“There is no divorce in South Carolina.”

“Makes no difference. You’re legally dead.”

“What are you trying to tell me, dear father?”

“Your widow has sold everything here and gone to Columbia with another man.”

His son glared at him in astonishment and slammed down the silverware, toppling another china cup to the floor.

“That slattern.”

“There’s more,” Franklin said, enjoying his son’s ire. “I tried on your behalf to lay claim to the estate and the brokerage but was thwarted in my most sincere efforts.”

“On my behalf, father, when you thought I was dead?” He laughed viciously. “Perhaps you better fill me in on all the details.”

#

“So you refuse to help me regain my property.”

Simon Weinberg sat straight in his chair and faced the man he’d once thought a good match for Sarah Greenwald. How could he have been so wrong?

“You’re legally dead, and as far as I’m concerned you can stay that way.”

“A self-righteous lawyer.” Randolph laughed. “But don’t worry, counselor. I know she’s gone to Columbia with Buck Thomson. It shouldn’t be too difficult finding her in what Sherman left of that charming city. Father has already provided me with traveling funds—if only to get me out of Charleston.”

“Let her be, Randolph. Nothing good will come of your causing her more grief.”

“Oh, I’ll let her be after I’ve settled a few scores. Her father ruined my reputation and destroyed my livelihood, but he’s dead. Excuse me if I don’t mourn him. Her mother had me sent to the battlefield and ultimately to a prison camp. As for Sarah, she started it all by betraying me. Vengeance is sweet. Or will be on her and her goyishe paramour.”

Simon shook his head. “You seem to have forgotten the Book of Proverbs. He who digs a pit will fall into it, and he who rolls a stone, it will come back upon him.” He stood up. “Now, get out of my office.”

For a moment he thought his unwelcome visitor was going to strike him, but he didn’t. The coward turned on his heel and stormed out.

“Chester,” Simon called once the door to the street had closed, “take this message to the stagecoach office immediately and give them instructions that it’s to be delivered upon arrival.”

#

Everyone was sitting around the dining room table in the Grayson household. The mood was somber one minute, filled with humor the next as they recounted stories about Emma.

“I remember the day your parents got married,” Miriam said. “Your momma was as nervous as a chicken before dinner. After all, she was marrying Raleigh Thomson, one of the wealthiest plantation owners in Richland County. Handsome devil. She was leaving a sheltered life in Camden to live among strangers, and it scared her half to death. But then your grandmother gave her Emma as a wedding present, and that helped. Emma was more of a momma to Mildred than her own mother. Stayed calm as a clam and hummed a spiritual the whole time she was getting Mildred into her wedding dress.”

“Her biggest job was minding you and Clay,” Gus commented.

Buck chuckled. “We could hide from our parents, but we could never fool Emma. She knew all our secret places.”

“Did she have any children of her own?” Sarah asked.

“Certainly not after she came to our house,” Buck replied, “but she never talked about herself. I believe she had family of sorts over near Gadsden. She even mentioned her sister’s girl nursing Job when he was an infant. And of course she delivered him as she had so many others.” He paused. “I’m ashamed when I think about how little I knew about her. I could always count on her, yet I was never interested enough to ask the most basic personal questions.”

“Everybody loved her,” Miriam said. “She was one of those rare people who devoted herself to others and took her consolation in making them happy.”

“Unfortunately I got to meet her all too briefly when she was old and ill,” Sarah said, “but listening to y’all talk about her, I feel like I’ve known her all my life. I wish I could’ve spent more time with her.”

“The salt of the earth,” Gus contributed.

“Beg your pardon, sir,” Quintus said from the doorway. “They’s a letter for Miz Sarah.”

“For me?” she exclaimed. “Who’d be sending me a letter here?”

“The delivery boy’s outside and won’t give it to nobody but her personal.”

Sarah shrugged. “Very well.” She rose from her chair which Buck eased out from behind her, and proceeded to the foyer.

A moment later everyone heard her gasp. “It’s impossible,” she exclaimed. “He can’t be.”

Buck rushed out to her. The others, equally disturbed, followed. They found her sitting on the small chair by the front door, the yellow paper clutched in her right hand. Her face was pale white.

Without asking permission, Buck took the paper, unwrinkled it, scanned the words and muttered. “My God!”

“What is it?” Gus and his wife asked simultaneously.

Buck placed his hand consolingly on Sarah’s shoulder and turned to the others. “Randolph Drexel is alive and on his way here to Columbia.”

#

The next two hours were spent in speculation of how a dead man could be alive.

“I was told he was stabbed to death and buried in a mass grave,” Sarah explained. “The camp commandant even showed me his name written in the death ledger.”

“Were you given any of his effects?” Gus asked.

“No. I asked about his gold watch but no one remembered having seen it. Under the circumstances it didn’t seem unreasonable, and I didn’t really care about it. I would have given it to his father, had I received it.”

“So you had nothing but the word of a stranger that he’d been killed?” Gus asked.

His wife glared at him. “What else was she to do? She had no reason to suspect he wasn’t telling her the truth.”

“I meant no disrespect,” he replied. “My point is that she could have been deceived, intentionally or by accident.”

“What’s important,” Buck remarked, “is that Randolph Drexel’s alive and no doubt out for vengeance.”

“Well,” Miriam told Sarah, “you certainly can’t go to Jasmine tomorrow. It’ll be much too dangerous for you to be out in public.”

“I’ll send word to my bank guards,” Gus offered, “and have them come here and protect her while we’re gone. They’re good men. I can assure you, no one will get past them.”

“No,” Buck decreed. “She’s not staying here alone. She’s going with us so I can protect her.”

“That’s very noble of you, doctor,” Ruth remarked, “but I don’t see how you can protect her on the road. The last time—”

“Mother!” Sarah stopped her.

The older woman bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”

“No apology necessary, Mrs. Greenwald. I fully understand. You have my regrets and my sympathy.”

“What do you have in mind?” Gus asked, clearly as interested in learning Buck’s plan as relieving the tension that had developed.

“According to the dispatch—” he stretched it out on the table in front of him “—Randolph is in Charleston and will be leaving in the morning to come here to Columbia. Whether he already knows Sarah is staying at this house isn’t important. It won’t take him long to find out once he arrives. That’s why Sarah and her mother have to go with us to Jasmine. I don’t want him to find anyone here.”

“A good plan,” Gus concluded. “By the way, I meant to tell you earlier. Rexford asked to go with us. Like you, he has fond memories of Emma and wants to see what’s left of Jasmine. Says he spent as much time there as he did at his own home.”

“He still shoot?” Buck asked.

Gus grinned. “Not as well as you, but close. I’ll send word for him to bring his pistol. What about you?”

Buck had thought he’d retired his guns permanently. Obviously not. He would fire cannon, if need be, to protect Sarah.

#

Buck returned to the hotel that evening in a state of agitation. He’d thought the crises in his life were behind him, that he could go forward with the woman he’d grown to love without having to take on more enemies. Once again he was confronted with the ugly fact that the world he’d grown up in, a world that seemed so genteel and orderly, so refined and sophisticated, was no more—and perhaps had never been that way to begin with. Nevertheless he missed the façade of civilization and decorum it had presented.

In his sitting room, he went to the corner where he’d stored the saddlebags he’d brought with him from the battlefields of Virginia. In one pocket were his medical supplies, his bone saw, his scalpels, needles and sutures, bandages and bottles of chloroform and laudanum. He had no use for them, but long habit required him to check that they were intact. He wouldn’t leave them behind—just in case . . .

In the other pocket of the saddlebag, he found what he was looking for. His brother’s Colt pistol. The cartridges were there as well, along with his binoculars. Clay’s Henry rifle was propped up in the corner.

He stared at the firearms. How much he wanted to abandon them. But that apparently was not to be. He loaded the Colt, leaving one chamber empty and lowered the hammer on it. He also filled the magazine of the rifle. Would Randolph Drexel hide in trees, as the redheaded assassin had? Would he be as accurate a marksman as Rufus Snead?

Would Buck have to take his life too?

The thought made him shudder. But if that’s what it took to protect Sarah, he would once again become a mankiller.

Chapter TWENTY-THREE

Buck arrived at the Grayson house soon after seven the following morning. He’d gone first to Jeffcoat’s to make sure the arrangements Gus had earlier made were being followed precisely. The fastidious undertaker confirmed the hearse and gravediggers had departed before sunrise and would get to the plantation in time to prepare the gravesite before the others arrived. The memorial service was scheduled for shortly after noon.

Miriam had seen to it that the breakfast room sideboard was fully laden with victuals: eggs, pan-seared chicken livers, what Buck learned was kippered herring, biscuits, grits, and red-eye gravy, as well as honey and several varieties of jams and jellies.

“You won’t find any butter for your biscuits or cream for your coffee, I’m afraid,” Gus explained to Buck and Rexford who’d arrived earlier. “We don’t mix dairy and meat.” He winked. “At home.”

Fish for breakfast had never been on Buck’s menu before. He was surprised, however, to discover that the salted, dried fish that had been marinated overnight, was delicious.

At eight o’clock the men escorted the ladies out to the waiting vehicles. Gus rode with his wife and Ruth Greenwald in the open landau with a driver. Sarah was in the second with Janey and Job. Gibbeon took the reins. Rexford followed on his feisty young stallion, Scamp, while Buck rode ahead on Gypsy.

The autumn air was cool and refreshing, the sunshine at odds with the mission of the small caravan that trekked east through gently rolling hills and sandy flatlands. The four-hour trip was uneventful and free of the swarms of insects that had plagued Buck’s earlier visit. At last the main road came to the brick columned gate of Jasmine. The carriages turned down the avenue of sprawling old live-oak trees. About halfway to the acre on which the plantation house had stood, Sarah asked Gibbeon to stop the carriage.

Buck’s spine stiffened. Had she seen something that alarmed her?

“I want to take in the view,” she explained. “Buck, this place is lovely.”

“I wish you could have seen it as it once was. To me now it appears desolate.”

“Take another look around. These trees are regal. The fields beg for cultivation.”

“The house is nothing but ashes, charred stone and brick.”

“It can be rebuilt,” she told him, and he thought he heard a plea that it might be.

“It’ll never be the same.”

“I thought you didn’t like it the way it was.”

He stared at her. That certainly wasn’t the response he’d expected. “We better move on. The others are waiting.”

She smiled. “Yes, sir. Let us move on.”

The lead carriage had stopped in the circular driveway in front of what little was left of the looming mansion. Gibbeon pulled up behind it. Buck helped Sarah to the gravel path, while Rexford took Job so that Janey could climb down on her own. They joined the older people.

“What a terrible shame,” Miriam muttered. “What a terrible tragedy. I remember—”

“Miriam,” Gus cautioned, “let it go.”

She sniffled into a lace handkerchief. “I know. No one has a monopoly on regret. But still.”

The rhythmic sound of hoof beats and the crunching of iron tires on gravel, had everyone turning to gaze at the new arrival.

The lone occupant of the four-wheeler was a large red-bearded man wearing a black suit with a clerical collar. He alighted from the buggy with amazing agility for his size and approached the group.

“It’s been so many years, Buck,” he said, extending his hand. “I had hoped our reunion might be under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Thank you for coming, Reverend Christian. Please allow me to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Grayson—”

“The banker. I know you by reputation, sir, though I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you in person. You’ve been very generous to our community.” He turned to Miriam. “Mrs. Grayson, it’s indeed good to see you again. It would seem our work is done.”

She took his hand warmly. “Only the circumstances, Reverend. Our work is never done.”

Listening to them, Buck realized they’d toiled together in the Underground Railroad. With a smile and a shake of his head, he introduced Sarah and her mother.

Next came Janey and Job.

The minister smiled fondly. “Job doesn’t remember me, but I remember him. Emma brought him to me to be baptized. I’m afraid he didn’t particularly enjoy the experience. Cried through the whole thing, as I recall. Hello, young man.”

Janey urged him to greet the clergyman, which he did shyly, then looked to the chinaberry tree in front of Emma’s cabin. Buck followed his gaze, waiting for the four-year-old to say something. It was unclear if he understood what was going on, though Miriam had explained it to him in the most gentle and sympathetic terms.

“Shall we get started?” Reverend Christian said.

#

Randolph was both frustrated and excited. The trip to Columbia, a city he’d never liked, had been odious and uncomfortable in the horse cars of the trains he’d managed to bribe his way onto. But it was better than his walk home only to find his wife wasn’t there. The bitch.

No matter. She’d soon regret making a cuckold of him. And her mother would regret having him sent off to that stinking battlefield in Virginia.

The capital city looked even worse than he remembered it, now that most of it had been burned to the ground by that Yankee cracker Sherman. No matter. Randolph didn’t plan to be here long. A few years ago he would’ve challenged Doctor Elijah Buchanan Thomson to a duel, but the soldier’s life had taught him a few tricks gentlemen didn’t usually employ, and he was the man to use them. If he had his way he’d hang Thomson from a tree, the coward’s death, but there were other, equally effective ways to send a man to hell.

He’d pondered on the train how he was going to find this Dr. Thomson that Sarah chose to degrade herself with. Then it came to him. How do you find a doctor? By asking another doctor. It was at the office of the third physician that he finally struck gold.

“Buck Thomson?” the rotund sawbones had said. “I’m not familiar with him personally, but I do know he’s good friends with Gus Grayson the banker. I’m sure he’ll be able to put you in touch with him.”

The Grayson house was impressive and not difficult to find. A black butler answered the door.

“Doctor Thomson? He ain’t here, sir. They’s all gone to a funeral. Expects ‘em back later today. May I ask who’s calling and give him your name?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’d like to surprise him.”

#

The small party of mourners migrated to the site under the massive chinaberry tree. The gravediggers had suspended Emma’s plain pine casket on poles over the hole they’d finished excavating only minutes before. Jeffcoat’s men moved away and stood by the hearse as Reverend Christian positioned himself at the head of the coffin. He opened his prayer book and was about to begin the service when faces appeared along the sides of the dilapidated cabins.

Miriam followed his gaze, then called out to them. “Y’all come on up and stand with us. We’re all Emma’s friends. Everyone’s welcome to say goodbye to her. She would’ve wanted it that way.”

The minister echoed her invitation. “Let all come forward who wish to bid her a final farewell and usher her into the presence of the Lord, where there is joy and happiness forever.”

“Amen.”

Buck and the others slowly turned at the sight of half a dozen black men and women, and two small children shuffling toward the interment site. They were all skinny, their clothing threadbare. They had their heads bowed in respect, but Buck imagined they were also uncomfortable in close proximity to people who had once lorded it over them and controlled their fate.

The rector’s words were reassuring. “Come stand with us and praise the Lord in thanksgiving for Emma, for we have come not to mourn her passing but to celebrate her life.”

When they stopped a few paces behind the white people, the minister again raised his prayer book but began speaking without reference to it.

“O God, whose mercies cannot be numbered, accept our prayers on behalf of thy servant Emma, and grant her an entrance into the land of light and joy . . .”

Buck listened without hearing, except for the sobbing of the people behind him. How often had he sat under this tree, teasing Emma as she scrubbed clothes she’d drawn from the steaming metal tub with a wooden stick. As if her hands didn’t burn from the hot lye-soapy water, she would gently tease him back, ever mindful of her place. She smiled so easily, even when she had to have been exhausted, but the joy on her face was genuine when he’d recite “purdy” words from books she couldn’t read. How she loved poetry, the cadence and rhythm of verses with strange words and meaning even he didn’t yet comprehend.

“Out of the depths I cried to thee, Lord, Lord, hear my prayer . . .”

There was open weeping now.

“If anyone wishes to offer prayers or memories of Emma, please come forward,” the minister said. “Let us share the events and good deeds of her life here below.”

When no one came immediately forward Buck spoke up. “I don’t remember the exact words of the bible but the story of the widow’s mite describes her perfectly. Others gave great treasure, but she gave all she had.”

“Praise the Lord,” a woman behind him called out, and suddenly a deep male voice commenced singing:

“Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee!

“Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,

“Darkness be over me, my rest a stone;

“Yet in my dreams I’d be nearer, my God, to Thee . . .

As they finished the last verse, the gravediggers stepped forward and slowly lowered the casket into the hole. As it was being set in place, the minister closed his book and from memory recited a final benediction:

“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord;

“Even so saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors.”

The gravediggers were pulling up the ropes by which they’d lowered the coffin when Job stepped forward and said softly, “Bye, bye, Emma.” He turned and threw himself against Miriam’s dress. She rubbed his shoulders tenderly.

It was more than Buck could take. Raw emotions cascaded through him, burned his throat and racked his body. He emitted an audible sob and dashed behind the chinaberry tree.

As he leaned against the massive trunk, the former slaves began a spiritual he’d heard them sing many times, even while working in the cotton fields.

Swing low, sweet chariot,

Coming for to carry me home . . .

As everyone was singing or humming, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Sarah gazing at him with sorrow-filled eyes.

“All of us have lost someone dear. We have a saying that death is merely moving from one house to another.”

“She had such a hard life,” he said, barely able to get the words past the burning in his throat. “She did so much for others.”

“And now she’s free.”

He removed a kerchief from his inside pocket and wiped his eyes and face. When he made no move from where he was, Sarah said, “You have so many friends here who are happy to see you’ve returned from the war safe and sound. Come meet them.”

He nodded. “Give me a minute.”

“Take your time. There’s no hurry.” She brushed her fingers down the side of his jaw. “We’re not going anywhere, and neither will they.”

It took several minutes for him to master his emotions, longer than he thought it should have, and even then his control was tenuous. He stepped out from behind the chinaberry tree. Everybody had moved away from the gravediggers and were gathered around the minister’s buggy. Reverend Christian was removing his stole and folding it neatly. He looked up at Buck’s approach, his face somber but soft with understanding.

“She was a fine woman,” he said. “I feel privileged to have known her. She was very proud of you.”

Uncertain how to respond to this tribute, Buck said, “It was a beautiful service, Reverend. Thank you for the prayers and benediction.” He turned to the black folks who stood a small distance away and went to them.

“Thank you all for coming.”

“You ‘member me, Mr. Buck? I’s Rastus. Used to tend your poppa’s horses.”

“I remember you well. I never did meet anyone could calm a skittish horse as well as you.” He peered at the woman beside him. “Lulabelle, that you?”

“Yessir, Mr. Buck, sure is.”

He greeted all but one of the others by name. The exception was a field hand who’d come on the place after he’d left home.

“We sure be glad you’s back, Mr. Buck,” Benson said enthusiastically. “We planting come spring? I knows where you can buy seed. Two year old, but still good.”

“We been working in the cotton gin over to Gadsden, but I sure would like to get back in the fields where things is quiet, ‘cept for the birds and mules. They’s always brayin’, but it sound a mighty bit better than in that gin house.”

“You tells us when you wants us, Mr. Buck,” Dola Rose said. “Just leave word at the gin.”

“It may be a while,” Buck temporized. He looked over at Sarah who was watching him and clearly listening as well. “But I’ll keep y’all in mind.”

They thanked him profusely and started wandering off on foot. He realized he had no idea where they lived or how they’d survived, or until now how much he’d missed them.

Sarah came up beside him. “They sure like you.”

“I never beat them.”

“From what I hear you tended all their needs.”

“Somebody had to.”

She smiled in a way that said it didn’t have to be him. “Well, they haven’t forgotten.”

“You ready to go?” he asked and started toward the group talking with Reverend Christian.

Rex approached. “I’ll be leaving now.”

“You’re not coming with us?” Sarah asked.

He looked a little sheepish. “I have an appointment in town.”

“A lady, no doubt,” Buck commented.

“You know me too well.”

“Thank you for coming, Rex. Let’s keep in touch.”

“Definitely. I haven’t given up on convincing you we need good doctors in Columbia.”

They shook hands. Buck and Sarah watched him limp toward his young stallion.

“There’s something I want to do before we leave,” Buck told her.

He strode over to the cabin Emma had lived in most of her life. On the porch above the door was a horseshoe that had been there since before he was born. He reached up and pulled on it and was surprised it was so securely fastened to the ancient wooden crosspiece. He went inside, got a stool and climbed on it. It still took a mighty heave, but then, with a sharp crack it came loose and he dropped nimble-footed to the ground, horseshoe in hand.

The panicky neigh of a horse caught his immediate attention. He looked over to see Rex fighting to gain control of Scamp, but the stallion was strong and uncooperative. He reared again, then made a dash to the right. Rex tumbled off the side of the saddle, but the foot of his crippled left leg got caught up in the stirrup. Even more spooked now, the horse kept whirling and pitching. Suddenly there was a sickening snapping sound. Rex went completely limp. Rastus, the groom, raced over and grabbed the horse’s bridle, hung on and brought the animal to a standstill.

There was no mistaking what had happened. Semi-conscious and moaning in pain, Rex was suspended from the stirrup, his crippled foot at an unnatural angle.

Buck catapulted from the porch to the horse, which was still skittish. Rastus grabbed the stallion’s upper lip in a vice-like grip, stilling the animal. Carefully Buck removed the boot from the high stirrup and eased the leg to the ground. Nearly breathless, Rex’s upper body was writhing in pain.

One of the black men separated himself from the group and drew closer, curious to see what was happening. Buck looked up. “Benson, get my saddle bag off Gypsy. Hurry.”

“Yessir.”

“Rex, I’m going to have to cut your boot off. I’m sorry,” he said, referring not to the boot but to the added pain he was about to inflict.

“That’s . . . all right,” Rex said haltingly. “I don’t think . . . I’ll be needing it . . . anymore.”

Benson placed the saddle bag on the ground beside Buck.

Reverend Christian appeared behind him. “Tell us what else you need, doctor.”

“A board to use as a splint and something to tie the leg in place. Anybody have a sharp knife?”

One of the gravediggers stepped forward, pulled a large, wicked-looking blade from a leather scabbard and handed it to him.

“Somebody hold his shoulders and his left thigh down,” Buck instructed. “This is going to hurt.”

“Just do it,” Rex muttered between clenched teeth.

Another gravedigger offered him a stick to bite on, then pressed down on his shoulders. A gurgling grunt erupted from Rex’s throat as Buck proceeded to slit the fine leather boot from top to heel and slowly eased it off. Already the ankle and foot had turned a sickening purple and blood was oozing from the site where a spicule of bone had lacerated the skin above the joint. Buck knew what had to be done, but he kept his counsel for the present.

Digging into the saddle bag, he removed a flask of laudanum, gently raised Rex’s head and told him to sip. “It’ll take a minute, but then this’ll ease your pain.” He looked up at the clergyman. “Where can we take him?”

“To the vicarage. We’ll have to use the hearse though.”

The people around them grew round eyed with shock at the unconventional use of the long, glass enclosed vehicle, but it was clearly the best suited of the conveyances available, all of which were smaller and afforded no room for anyone to lie down. The hearse’s driver brought it alongside the injured man.

By the time a weathered board and old harness straps had been brought, the laudanum had taken effect. Rex moaned softly but no longer seemed in distress. Buck proceeded to secure the mangled limb to the board.

“What will you need at the vicarage?” Reverend Christian asked. Buck had no doubt the man knew what was coming.

“A table large enough to lay him on. Lash two together if necessary. Then place my instruments and sutures in a pot of boiling water and leave them there until I arrive. I’ll also need a white napkin, a tea strainer and plenty of clean bandages.”

Within minutes the logistics had been worked out. Buck and Sarah would accompany Rex in the hearse, while Gus would go ahead with the others. Ruth and Miriam volunteered to cut up sheets for bandages. Gypsy and Scamp were tied to the rear of the carriage.