Текст книги "Mankillers"

Автор книги: Ken Casper

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Asa nodded. “Sure, Buck. Please don’t be too long. I don’t like it when you’re not around, especially with all these strangers.”

“I’ll only be a few minutes.”

The moment Gypsy was unloaded, Buck leaped into the saddle and began his pursuit.

By the time he’d entered East Bay Street the crowd of departing passengers had thinned. There was no sign of his quarry. Where would he go? Buck had no clue and decided to play the odds. Most unaccompanied men would head for the nearest watering hole, and the Sneads were a brood of heavy drinkers.

The closest saloon was The She Crab just ahead. Buck tied Gypsy to the hitching post and peered through the greasy window. The place was crowded. His prey wasn’t in view, so he went inside. The place reeked of unwashed bodies, stale smoke and cheap liquor. The long mahogany bar was straight ahead.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Buck squeezed between two rotund customers.

They both stopped, glasses halfway to their mouths, and stared at him. “Mister, good manners’ll never get you a drink around here. Yell or fire off that fancy pistol you’re toting under your coat. Gunfire tends to get people’s attention.”

“Especially the sheriff’s, if he’s still awake,” the other man said.

“Actually, I’m after information rather than a drink.”

“I hear they have free libraries up north,” the first man noted. “You ain’t one of them carpetbaggers, is you?”

“Lord, no,” the other drinker exclaimed. “Does he sound like a Yankee to you?”

“I’m from Columbia,” Buck told them, “if there’s anything left of it.”

“Took its licks, I hear. But what’re you doing in our fair city, if you’re from Columbia?”

“Trying to find a redheaded man. I thought I saw him come in here a few minutes ago.”

“Mister, we’ve been hanging onto this bar for more than three hours. Ain’t no redheaded man or woman been in here lately.”

“Must have gone somewhere else then. Thanks.” Buck wended his way back outside.

Another dead end, and a disheartening one, especially now that he knew who he was after. A blind chase in a city this size, however, would be a waste of time and effort. His gut said that, like him, Rufus Snead was going home.

Buck mounted Gypsy and loped back to the dock. Asa was sitting on a portmanteau, tapping his foot impatiently. He brightened with perceptible relief when he saw Buck.

“What took you so long? Did you find your friend?”

“No, but I will. You all right?”

“I feel like I’m still rocking on the boat.”

Buck laughed. “That’s perfectly normal, Asa. I feel that way too. But it’ll be gone after a night’s sleep. Come on, let’s get to our hotel.”

“I sure am hungry.”

“Good. A clean hotel room and a hot meal is just what the doctor’s ordering for both of us.”

#

They checked in at the Isaac Hayne Hotel, named for a Revolutionary War martyr hanged by the British, ate sandwiches in the dining room, then Buck settled Asa into their suite and suggested he rest. Satisfied his friend wasn’t inclined to wander—he’d probably take another nap—Buck went to the lobby, requested paper and pen and wrote a brief letter to Dr. Thaddeus Meyer, requesting an appointment for Mr. Jacob Greenwald. Buck put it an envelope and asked the clerk at the desk to send it with the next available courier to Columbia. He

paid generously for the service. He had no idea if it would get there—or when.

From the hotel he proceeded to the stagecoach ticket office several blocks away, only to discover a coach for Columbia had departed that morning. There wouldn’t be another one for at least a week, and rail service wasn’t expected to be available for several months. For a substantial fee, however, the depot master had a three-seated surrey available for hire. Buck inspected it, found it in good condition and rented it along with two horses. The stable manager then informed him he’d also have to pay for a driver and guard, who’d return the wagon from Columbia.

Buck shrugged, muttered, “Welcome home,” and signed the rental ledger. He wasn’t sure when they’d be leaving. It all depended on what provisions he could make for Asa.

#

“It’s so sad, Momma. Buck says—”

“Buck?” Ruth raised an eyebrow and smiled.

“I mean Dr. Thomson. He said Asa was the best orderly he’s ever worked with, that he was especially caring and kind to the sick and wounded.”

“And now he’s the one who needs caring for,” Ruth Greenwald remarked. “This terrible war . . . so many boys—”

“I’m sure Dr. Thomson—”

“You mean Buck,” Ruth teased.

“He won’t leave Charleston until he’s satisfied his friend’s in good hands. Is there anyone—”

“Hmm.” Ruth tapped a finger to her lower lip. “Let me think. The Fiddlesteins wanted a nurse to take care of their son who lost a leg at Atlanta, but I understand they found somebody. Myron Cantor’s boy was blinded at Chattanooga but his wife brought him home and is taking care of him. Oh, I know. Yes. Perfect. I know exactly who to talk to.”

“You always do, Momma.”

“That’s what mothers do, dear.”

“Well, who?”

“Mrs. Cohen.”

“The rabbi’s wife? She’s got Hazel Ann and Flory Jean. Why would she need more help?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you, dear? The rabbi had a stroke last month. His mind and speech seem unimpaired, but his right side’s completely paralyzed. He’s in a wheelchair now. The big problem is . . . well—” she lowered her voice “—his personal needs. He hates having women attending to them. Hazel Ann is an excellent cook and Flory Jean an exceptional housekeeper, but one doesn’t ask spinsters to deal with matters of that sort. Molly’s doing everything for him, and it’s wearing her out, especially since the rabbi is a rather rotund gentleman. She’s not exactly young anymore either. What Mordecai needs is a male nurse. Doctor Thomson’s friend sounds absolutely perfect, if he’s interested.”

“It certainly appears he’s eminently qualified for the job,” Sarah observed.

“And mark my words,” her mother added, “focusing on someone else’s troubles is what that young man needs.”

“As usual, Momma, you’re right.”

“I’ll go over and talk to the rabbi and Molly immediately. Such a mitzvah they couldn’t refuse.”

“Let me go with you. If they agree, we can stop off at the hotel and discuss it with Dr. Thomson.”

#

“I don’t need no buggy, dammit. All I want is a horse to get me home to Columbia.”

“All right. All right.” The stable manager shook his head. “I just figured with your hurt neck a buggy would be more comfortable, and since there’s a doctor plans on driving a surrey to Columbia in the next day or two, thought you might want to check if he has room for another passenger. Be cheaper than renting a horse on your own.”

Rufus tried not to show a reaction.

No, it can’t be, he thought. Surely he’s not talking about Buck Thomson. But then how many doctors could there be going to Columbia these days?

“A doctor you say?” He struggled to sound only mildly interested. “Going to Columbia? I wonder if I know him. What’s his name?”

“Thomson.” The man rifled in a drawer and brought out a dog-eared ledger. “Elijah Thomson.”

Rufus had to keep from smiling. He’d taken his revenge on Clay Thomson. An eye for an eye. Or more precisely a death for a death. Now there was the matter of Rufus’s neck. That called for a wound for a wound. This might be the perfect opportunity to pay him back.

“He’s staying at the Isaac Hayne Hotel if you want to go ask him,” the livery man said.

“No. I don’t want to wait that long.” Or confront him face-to-face. “Just give me a horse. I can get there before he even leaves.”

And be waiting for him. The last of the Thomsons.

#

Buck was puzzled by the summons to the lobby of the hotel that evening to meet two ladies who were asking for him. It was a pleasant surprise when he saw Sarah and her mother on the settee across from the saloon. After exchanging greetings Ruth Greenwald told him in a concise manner of the arrangements she’d made for Asa to remain in Charleston and assist the Cohens, if he wanted the job.

“It won’t be a sinecure,” she pointed out. “He’ll be required to attend to all the aging rabbi’s personal needs under difficult circumstances. In return he’ll receive respect and support. Like everyone else these days they don’t have any cash, but he’ll at least get room and board.” Ruth then reiterated her firm conviction that helping others was the best way to help oneself.

“Absolutely brilliant,” Buck exclaimed. “I can’t think of better medicine for Asa than assisting someone in need. He excels at that.”

Momentarily excusing himself, he went upstairs and brought his friend down without explaining the reason for the summons. A small smile came to Asa’s face as soon as he saw the ladies. Ruth tactfully explained to him the duties he’d be called upon to perform if he agreed to come with them. For an all-too-brief moment, Buck glimpsed a spark of enthusiasm in the young man’s eyes. His verbal reply, however, was “Whatever you say.” Then he added to the ladies, “Thank you.”

At least he hasn’t forgotten his manners, Buck thought. He gave Ruth detailed instructions to pass on to Mrs. Cohen on how to attend to Asa’s lacerations.

“I’ll come and check up on you when I return from Columbia,” he assured his friend. “If you need anything in the meantime, you can contact me at the Graysons’.”

Together they returned to the room and assembled Asa’s modest belongings. Twenty minutes later, they again joined the ladies, this time in front of the hotel. Buck shook his friend’s hand in both of his. “By the time I see you again, I expect you’ll be healed and well on your way to a complete recovery.”

“I hope so, Buck.” His eyes became glassy. “Thanks for—” He broke off abruptly and climbed into the carriage and took the seat opposite the two women.

Buck felt a pang of loneliness as he watched them disappear down the busy street.

Chapter EIGHT

Early next morning the surrey Buck had rented pulled up in front of the Isaac Hayne Hotel, and the sullen driver grudgingly loaded his passengers’ portmanteaux. He was a large man, more mass than muscle, and it was manifest he hadn’t bathed in some time, perhaps since before the late war. After another restless wait of over

fifteen minutes a short pudgy guard with bleary eyes, lugging a 12-gauge shotgun, joined them. Reeking of last night’s alcohol he clambered onto the front seat without a word of greeting or apology, belched loudly and was snoring before they’d even reached the outskirts of Charleston.

It was going to be a long trip with these brutes, Buck decided.

The open carriage was more utilitarian than elegant, a flatbed wagon with two ranks of passenger seats on leaf springs, plus the driver’s bench behind an improvised dashboard. Mr. and Mrs. Greenwald sat in the rear, while Sarah and Buck occupied the front seat opposite them. This afforded him the opportunity to keep an eye on the road behind them, since both the driver and guard, when the latter was awake, were focused forward. The baggage was stowed behind the rear bench. It wasn’t an ideal setup, but at least they were out in the air instead of confined to a cramped coach interior. Gypsy was tethered behind the carriage.

Once what promised to be a tedious journey had begun, Mrs. Greenwald, in true southern fashion, initiated a conversation by inquiring into Buck’s family background.

“Dr. Thomson, by any chance are you related to the Thomsons of Sullivan’s Island?”

“No ma’am, all my family’s from lower Richland County near Columbia. I did have occasion to meet the Thomsons of whom you speak while I was attending medical school in Charleston. Delightful people. I wish I could claim them as kin.”

For a while, Buck and Mrs. Greenwald discussed family connections and he courteously sketched his past life for them as genteel manners dictated.

“My younger brother Clay and I were raised at Jasmine, a cotton plantation about fifteen miles from Columbia. Our mother, Mildred Lynch, died of yellow fever when I was thirteen and my father chose not to remarry.” He added, as if lightly, “I’m afraid I was something of a disappointment to him when I chose to study medicine rather than follow the family tradition and manage the plantation.”

“Family traditions are very important but the profession of medicine is a truly noble calling.”

“How long have you been a physician, doctor?” Sarah asked.

“I graduated from medical school three years ago and immedately joined the army, as did all my fellow classmates and professors. Now I’m returning home to visit my father and see what’s left of the family holdings.”

“And your brother?”

“Clay was killed near Burkeville in Virginia shortly after Lee surrendered.”

“Our deepest condolences,” Mrs. Greenwald responded. “It seems no family’s been spared the tragedy of loss in this terrible conflict, but at last it’s over.”

Mr. Greenwald remained silent during this exchange, which wouldn’t have been particularly remarkable under the circumstances. Buck fondly remembered learning from his mother that when women were speaking, men should remain silent and attentive, speaking only when spoken to. However, Sarah’s father showed absolutely no interest in the conversation. Buck suspected he was for all intents and purposes unaware of what was being said.

They rode in silence for a minute or two.

“And what about the future, doctor?” Ruth asked. “Do you plan to open your practice in Columbia so you can remain close to your father?”

“It’s a consideration. I hope to explore the opportunities with Dr. Meyer and my good friend Gus Grayson.”

“Grayson? You know Augustus and Miriam? I hope they’re well. I’m sure you’ll get wise counsel on the prospects available in their fair city. I implore you, however, not to eliminate Charleston from your considerations. There’s always room for another good doctor, especially in a thriving port.”

“You’re quite right, Mrs. Greenwald.” Buck gazed over at Sarah, sitting next to him. “Charleston has many attractions.”

From there the conversation migrated to mundane subjects like the price of cotton, about other people they knew in common, at least by name, and about times past. Eventually, however, the heat and humidity, the buzzing of insects and the rhythmic snoring of the guard lulled them from their sprightly conversation into private daydreams.

The sun was low in the sky when they finally pulled up to the inn at Monck’s Corner. The driver tied the reins to the brake pole, climbed down and went into the squat, dirty building. The shotgun, who’d been sleeping and snoring all day, miraculously came to life and joined him. Displeased by their ill manners, Buck nevertheless took the time necessary to help the stiff-jointed ladies down for the uncomfortable conveyance. Mr. Greenwald remained on the bench.

“May I offer you a hand?” Buck said.

He received no response.

Ruth came around to his side of the carriage. “Jacob,” she ordered loudly, “we’re stopping here for the night. You need to get down. Now.”

Buck expected the elderly man to resist her as he had in the ship’s dining room, but this time he complied with a mumbled, “Yes, dear.”

The inside of the inn was no more inviting than the outside, but at least they weren’t confined to hard seats and jangling motion. The proprietor came out from behind a raised counter and asked them to sign the register. Buck meanwhile sought out the driver and guard.

They weren’t difficult to find. The saloon was plainly visible through two sets of double doors. Buck entered, walked up to the round table where the pair had already consumed half the contents of quart-sized glass mugs of beer.

“Bring in the ladies luggage, John,” he ordered the driver, “and take it to their rooms.”

“Soon’s I finish my beer,” he replied dismissively.

Buck pretended to ignore him and turned to his companion. “You, too, George.”

“Mister,” the guard growled, not even bothering to look up, “I ain’t your nigger.”

Buck’s heartbeat begin to accelerate, his breathing slowed and deepened, and his chest expanded. He reached out, picked up the two mugs and poured the contents on the sawdust floor. “You’ve finished your beers. Now bring in the bags.”

Both men jumped up. The guard reached for his shotgun, propped up against the table, but Buck kicked it away before he could grab it. Simultaneously he snatched his Colt from the inside pocket of his coat and pressed it to the man’s cheek.

“The next thing I spill won’t be your beer.” He glowered at the driver who’d retreated at the sight of the handgun. “Understand?”

“All right. All right,” the driver wheedled. “Calm down, mister. Don’t know what difference a five-minute delay would’ve made, but you want them bags in now. . . . Sure.”

“You have anything to add?” Buck asked the guard who was now wide-eyed.

“I never argue with a loaded Colt. I’ll get the damned bags.”

“Wise decision.” He released the sweating, foul-smelling drunkard, who backed away and ran out the door.

Buck watched him leave. Sarah and her mother were standing in the other doorway. Neither flinched when he approached them.

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

“Some men are slow learners,” Ruth observed.

“I’m afraid you just received a glimpse of the infamous Thomson temper. I’ll do my best to shield you from it in the future.”

From the expression on Sarah’s face he knew his actions had reprised unpleasant memories. He hoped with all his heart he hadn’t driven her away.

#

Business was brisk at the Whiskey Jug Saloon in Lexington County, South Carolina. Rufus Snead slid off the nag he’d rented in Charleston. After being ridden to exhaustion over the last two days, the gelding’s head hung between his forelegs. Rufus didn’t bother hitching him to the post. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The barroom smelled like a combination of outhouse and chicken coop. A few faces glanced at the new arrival, then returned to their cups.

“Rufus, that you?” Floyd bellowed from across the room. “Damn, it’s good to see you again.” He weaved his way between indolent patrons and threw his arms around his older brother.

Rufus was surprised the teenager was almost a head taller than the last time they’d been together. Same scrawny build though. Same rust-colored brown hair. Skin darker now. His slouch hat and clothes looked like they belonged to someone else, especially the leather belt with a silver buckle. Rufus wondered who he’d robbed for it.

“I feared you was a gone coon in the war.” Floyd released him and stepped a half pace back. “But since you ain’t dead, welcome home.” He held Rufus at arm’s length. “What happened to your neck? Yankee’s git ya?”

Better not tell him I was a sniper for the Yankees. Not that Floyd would care, but he always had a big mouth.

“You ‘member the Thomsons, don’t you?” Rufus responded. “Well, I got that son of a bitch Clay for what he done to Sally Mae. It was his fault she died. He killed her, so I blowed his pretty yellow head right off him up there in Virginia.”

“He done that to your neck?”

“Not Clay. His brother Buck.”

“Buck Thomson? I thought that momma’s boy was a doctor? Ain’t he?”

“If you call lopping off people’s arms and legs doctoring. But he still knows how to shoot, I can tell you that. If he’d aimed half an inch to the left, I’d be a dead man. Don’t matter though. Now it’s pay-back time.”

Floyd grinned. “What you got in mind? You want to kill him?”

Rufus squinted at his brother with his good eye. “I’m thinking that’d be too quick. Be more fun to make him feel some pain, like he done me. Figure I could shoot him in the elbow, maybe blow it off, see how good he is at hacking people up with one arm.”

Floyd snickered. “Speaking of one-arm. . . . You remember Chopper Willems?” He nodded to a scrawny farmer in overalls at a corner table. “You mighta noticed, he lost his right hand in the war. Talking now about selling his chicken farm near Gadsden since he ain’t no good at chopping off the heads of live chickens with only one hand. Too much trouble wringing their necks first, so’s he can hold ‘em down. Ain’t affected his ridin’ or his shootin’ though. Can still knock a circling buzzard out of the sky with that rusty old piece of his. Tip a jug too. He’d be much obliged if you’d ask him to join us. He’s plain sick of chasing them chickens. But back to Buck Thomson. I ain’t heard of him being round here since way before the war.”

“He’s on the way here from Charleston with some folks in a rented surrey. They should be spending tonight in Gadsden and get into Columbia sometime tomorrow.”

“Why Gadsden? Ain’t that a little out of the way?”

“Yep, but the road’s better.” Rufus scratched his head in deep thought. “Tell you what, call Chopper over here. I got a job for ’im.”

“Sure, brother. What you got in mind?”

“Need him to do what the army calls re-con-oy-ter.”

“Sounds like a disease.”

“Means to look around.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“I did. Now call Chopper over here and Fat Man too. I need to find out which way Thompson’s coming, and fast. Him and the people he’s with’ll be here tomorrow.”

“They’ll want to know what’s in it for ‘em,” Floyd said.

“And for you, brother?” Rufus asked with a sneer.

“Maybe you ain’t heard, but the costs of things’s gone up considerable since the war began. Thomson got money?”

“He’s a doctor, ain’t he? Besides, I ’spect the folks he’s traveling with have plenty too.”

“You always could sniff out the soft touches, Rufus. I’ll get Chopper and Fat Man.” The sixteen-year-old motioned to the proprietor behind the plank bar. “Two more beers, Shifty, for me and my brother here.”

“He better have cash. You still owes me for the last two.”

Rufus snorted. “Still free loading, huh, brother.” He removed a leather purse from inside his shirt and produced a small silver coin.

Floyd let out a whoop. “Yankee money! Where’d you get that, brother? Ah, never mind. It’s better than rebel paper.”

“Enough for another couple of rounds, you think?”

“Ooo-eee! Come on, Shifty. Start pouring.”

“Speaking of Sally Mae,” Rufus said after his first gulp, “how’s the boy?”

“Job? Oh, he’s still with old Emma, far as I know.” Floyd snickered. “Favors his daddy, they say, with that yellow hair of his.”

“His daddy’s hair ain’t yellow no more.” Rufus picked up the foamy tankard of beer and downed half of it in one gulp. “Ain’t yellow now.”

#

“Momma, you must be exhausted, and Poppa can barely keep his eyes open.”

“I’ll be glad when this journey’s over,” Ruth said, feeling every bit as tired as she probably appeared. “The food gets worse and the beds lumpier. I’ll never put your father and me through a trip like this again.” She went over to the wash stand, poured water from the pitcher and patted it on her cheeks and neck. “Surely Dr. Meyer will be able to recommend a physician in Charleston to treat your father.” She pulled the combs from her hair and let the thick gray-streaked braid fall down her back. “Too bad Dr. Thomson doesn’t plan to practice there.”

Sarah chuckled softly as she removed the veil covering her head and dropped it on the trunk in the corner of the room. “I must say you interrogated the poor man enough in the last two days to know everything about him.”

“The character of the people you’re traveling with is important, dear. Besides, what else is there to talk about when you’re on the road—or what they call a road—for hours on end?”

Sadly she regarded her husband sitting on the edge of the one chair in the room, his head down, his hands dangling between his knees. Dear Jacob. I wish I could restore you to the man you were. But, alas, I think that may never happen.

“Let me help you put him to bed,” Sarah offered. “Sweet Poppa. I wish . . .”

“Hush, dear,” her mother cut her off. “There’s nothing we can do, except do what we can.”

Five minutes later the lethargic old man was stretched out under the thin counterpane and snoring softly. The women moved to the other side of the room to disrobe for bed. Sarah’s was a straw cot on the floor next to the wash stand.

“Something’s been troubling me, Momma. Did Poppa go to Colonel Steward and arrange for Randolph’s transfer to the regiment in Virginia?”

“No, he did not.” Ruth paused and studied her daughter. Such a lovely young lady. She didn’t deserve the treatment she’d received at the hands of the man she’d pledged her life and love to. “No, he did not,” she repeated. “I did.”

The expression on Sarah’s face wasn’t shock, as Ruth had expected, but more like disbelief.

“You? You arranged for him to be sent off and killed?”

Ruth shook her head. “No, sweetheart, I didn’t send him away to be killed. I was trying to save him from being murdered.”

Sarah sank onto the straw mattress and stared up with wide eyes. “I don’t understand, Momma.” She covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers. “What . . .” Her voice quavered. “What are you talking about?”

Ruth pulled the chair over and sat before her, reached down and clasped Sarah’s cold hands. “After confronting Randolph, I learned your father had bought a handgun, a Colt—”

“The one in his luggage?”

“Yes. And he’d been practicing with it. He’s never had any use for fire arms, so it took me a while to figure out what he was up to.”

“Are you telling me he was planning to kill Randolph? That was why you had Colonel Steward send him away, to save him from being killed by Poppa?”

Ruth shook her head. “No, dear. Not to save your husband’s life, but to save your father’s.”

“Momma, you’re not making sense,” Sarah cried out.

“Calm down and listen to me for a minute.” She massaged her daughter’s hands. “If your father had killed Randolph, as he planned, he would’ve been arrested for murder and put in jail. I couldn’t let that happen, sweetheart. He wouldn’t have lasted there more than a few months. He’s a good man, an honorable man, and I love him. He deserves better than to spend his last days in a cage for taking the life of a scoundrel like Randolph. No, I wouldn’t have it.”

“But . . . But Poppa still had the gun when we went to Maryland. He was going to kill Randolph after we got him released, wasn’t he?”

“He never told me, but I’m sure that was his intention. So I stole the cartridges.” She smiled proudly. “I still have them in my purse.”

Sarah stared up at her mother as tears began to well, then she sprang to her feet. Ruth rose too, but more slowly.

“Oh, Momma,” she cried and she embraced her mother. “You did all this for me?”

Ruth whispered, her voice unsteady, “I did it for all of us.”

The two women hugged each other tightly and wept.

#

“You might as well tell the ladies they can relax,” the driver reported to Buck on the last morning of their journey. “We ain’t gonna be leaving anytime soon.”

“What’s wrong now, John?” Buck asked in exasperation.

“Old George is sleeping in.”

Buck eyed him sternly.

“I tried waking him,” John insisted, “but he’s out for the duration.”

“Where is he?” Buck demanded, his temper rising.

“The barn.”

Buck marched toward the gray, weather-beaten wooden building.

The driver struggled to keep up with his long stride. “Come on, mister, just let him sleep it off. Even if you wake him, he’ll be worthless.”

They found the foul-smelling guard curled up in a pile of hay in the corner of an empty horse stall. His snores were keeping more sophisticated animals at bay.

“Give him a few hours, and he’ll be all right,” the driver urged.

“We’ll go on without him.”

“I ain’t going nowhere without a guard.”

Buck’s patience snapped. He shoved the driver into a corner, picked him up with a fistful of shirt and some of the chest hair underneath, and growled in his face, “We’re leaving now or you don’t get paid a plugged nickel.”

“Listen, mister—” the man’s voice was strained, yet defiant “—I brung you this far and I’ll get you the rest of the way. But not without a guard.”

“You have fifteen minutes to find one—or else.” He dropped the man onto his feet. They started back together to the already harnessed surrey.

“Where the hell am I supposed to find another guard?” railed the driver. “This here’s Gadsden, not Charleston. Ain’t nobody here ’cept the innkeeper and that farmer over there watering his nag. Don’t reckon he wants to leave home. Besides, he’s only got one hand.”

Buck had seen him in the dining room earlier, a young-old man with his right hand gone above the wrist. How many hands had Buck cut off after battles? How many other men had to spend their lives missing hands and feet because of him?

“I’ll get the others,” Buck stated uncompromisingly. “We’re already behind schedule. We’ll go by way of Cedar Creek. It’s faster.”

“Mister, I don’t like that road.”

“Tough. That’s the way we’re going, and I’ll ride shotgun.”

The driver stared at him and was about to object, but the expression on Buck’s face seemed to change his mind. The one-handed man loitering over on the side watched, then mounted his sorry-looking nag and rode off.

#

“Chopper, I seen army horses in better shape than that bag of bones you’re riding.”

“Probably—” he dismounted “—but this here’s the one I got and I had to ride him like hell, but he took me there and back fast. That’s all that matters. I’m sure he understands times is tough.”

“What’d you find out?”

“Y’all better get riding. They left Gadsden about an hour or so behind me. And get this, your doctor friend is riding guard.”

“What’re you talking about?” Rufus demanded.

Chopper recounted the exchange he’d witnessed. “That sawbones don’t take no for an answer, Rufus. The driver done his best to stall him—I reckon he was hoping for some relief since he was up awful late last night, ’splaining things over that mountain dew you was generous enough to buy me, but—”

“Let me get Floyd and Fat Man,” Rufus said, as he turned away.

“What about me?” Chopper asked.

“You got any of that moonshine left?”

“Hell no. How far you think one measly jug of that stuff lasts with three thirsty men?”

Rufus removed another silver coin from his pocket and tossed it to him. Chopper may have been right-handed once, but he had no trouble catching with his left hand now.

“Get yourself some beer to clear your head. We’ll be back in a few hours.”

“What you gonna do?”

“Take Floyd and Fat Man with me to Cedar Creek, where we’ll welcome Dr. Buck Thomson home.”

A moment later his brother and a big, round man came out of the saloon and joined them.