Текст книги "Mankillers"

Автор книги: Ken Casper

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“Remember,” Rufus told them after explaining the situation, “you can shoot and kill any of ‘em, but not the guard. The doc is all mine.”

#

The wagon had traversed the flat coastal plains of South Carolina and was now rolling over forested hills and through swamps. Swarms of insects bombarded them without relief. There was no breeze and the humidity was suffocating. The ladies fanned themselves incessantly with little effect, while the men slapped and scratched themselves with equally poor results.

They’d been on the road nearly two hours when the surrey descended into a shallow valley. The narrow sandy road wound between the tall pines and scattered oaks that towered over tangled brambles and impenetrable underbrush. Upon coming to a shallow stream, the driver halted the horses to let them drink. Clouds of biting insects immediately attacked. Everyone was swatting ineffectually at them when the driver flicked the reins of the horses and moved on. They’d barely cleared the creek bed when Buck heard the all-too-

familiar flat crack of a rifle shot. The image of his brother’s exploding head flashed before his eyes. A moment later the horse directly in front of him dropped in its traces, blood gushing from its head.

The two women screamed.

Buck swung around and caught a glimpse of Mr. Greenwald frowning in bewilderment.

Before he could raise the Henry from across his knees, a hairy brute stepped from behind a tree on the left, leveled a pistol and at point-blank range shot the driver dead.

Chapter NINE

“Get down,” Buck shouted. He swung his rifle to the left and fired. The assassin’s face widened with disbelief as he was blown backward by the impact of the bullet piercing his chest.

“Stay low,” Buck ordered the people behind him.

He was scanning the woods ahead, searching for the hidden rifleman who’d shot the horse, when Sarah and her mother screamed again. Buck whirled around on the seat in time to see the two women dive for the bottom of the wagon. Mrs. Greenwald reached up for her husband who continued to sit calmly, apparently unfazed by the terror around him. Buck was about to order him to take cover when a thin, disheveled man, wearing a slouch hat, stepped out of the woods on the right side of the road. He pointed his revolver and fired. As the old man slumped from the bench, Buck ended the gunman’s life with a single rifle bullet to his chest.

Sarah, sprawled protectively on top of her mother, was reaching toward her bloodied father when another rifle bullet tore a path across her right shoulder. She made not a whimper, and Buck was convinced she too was dead.

The infamous Thomson temper roared through him. He leaped from the wagon and stood crouched beside it, emptying his rifle into the distant grove at the forward curve of the road. In the wake of the resulting shower of leaves and bark, he spotted a man with long red hair scrambling frantically to the ground.

Images flashed. His brother’s golden head ruined. The crippled boy hiding in a hickory. The desecrated bodies of Martha Hewitt and her children.

“Sarah,” her mother screamed, “you’re bleeding. Help. Help.”

Buck spun around at the same time he heard Sarah moan. She was still alive, thank God. Mr. Greenwald was draped over the side of the wagon, obviously dead. Mrs. Greenwald was pinned beneath her daughter, blood from Sarah’s wounded shoulder dripping onto her bodice. Quickly Buck surveyed the woods once more to insure no further attack was imminent. There was no movement. No jiggling of tree leaves. The air was still, without the hint of a breeze.

Assuming their attacker or attackers had left the scene, he gently raised Sarah off her mother. Dazed, bleeding and undoubtedly in pain, the young woman nevertheless climbed down from the carriage on her own.

“Get behind that rock. Quick,” he instructed her.

Older and less spry, her mother required Buck’s assistance to negotiate her descent.

“Poppa—” Sarah implored.

“There’s nothing we can do for him now, sweetheart,” her mother said tenderly, as she ripped a piece from her skirt. “But you’re bleeding. Hold this tight on your wound.” She asked Buck. “Are they gone?”

“I believe so, or they could be playing possum. We need to get out of here, fast. Stay where you are and lie as flat as you can until I have everything ready.”

He hurriedly detached the harness from the dead horse, then urged its partner to back up far enough to maneuver around it. Untying Gypsy from the rear of the wagon, he led him forward and buckled him into the traces.

Before climbing into the wagon himself, however, he walked over to the burly dead man who’d killed the driver. Bending down, he examined him more closely. He’d never seen the shooter before. The other killer, the thin one, was sprawled on his back in the middle of the road. Buck removed the shapeless hat from the teenager, exposing short, kinky hair with a reddish hue. Buck pulled the killer’s collar aside. There was no scar on his neck. Two red-headed men? What were the odds? It didn’t make any difference. What did matter was that Clay’s killer was still at large, deep in the swamp by now. Buck muttered an oath.

He hoisted the bodies of Mr. Greenwald and the driver into the bottom of the buggy, then, removing clothing from the luggage stowed behind the back seat, he used it to cover them. Meanwhile the two women were clinging to each other. Sarah was sobbing, while her mother held her in her arms and rocked her gently, whispering a rhythmic refrain in a language Buck didn’t recognize.

Praying there were no other gunmen in hiding, he mounted the front seat, gathered the reins, and urged the horses into a brisk trot.

#

Soon they entered the total devastation inflicted by Sherman’s legions upon Columbia. Row upon row of formerly majestic houses had been burned to their foundations. Broken furniture littered ruined lawns. Charred cotton bales, obviously used to obstruct the streets, were strewn like giant burned pillows. Buck drove for blocks without sighting a single inhabitant. Where were the people? Had they all perished? Had they all fled?

Dominating the landscape was the smoke-streaked capitol building, pock-marked from the impact of cannon balls. General Washington, the father of his country, molded in proud bronze, still guarded the front steps, but now his cane was crippled. Only Trinity Church, across the street, seemed to have escaped the wrath of victorious Yankee troops.

Buck came upon a solitary white man in a torn maroon frockcoat scavenging through the rubble of what may have been a parlor. As Buck drew nearer he heard the old man mumbling, “I’ve got to find her picture.”

“Sir,” Buck called out.

The man started to run away, clumsily climbing over an overturned piano bench that was missing a leg.

“Sir,” Buck called out again, hoping he sounded less threatening. “Can you help me, please?”

The man stopped, froze, listened, then turned, as if to an old friend. “How may I assist you, sir? I’d offer you a chair, but—” he peered around, as if confused “—I don’t know where they’ve put them. I must find Lucy Jean’s picture.” He resumed his pawing through broken shards of china and glass.

“Be careful,” Buck warned. “Can you direct me to the nearest undertaker?”

“Jeffcoat’s? She’s not there anymore. We buried her.”

“Where?”

“In the cemetery, of course. Weren’t you there?”

This poor man, Buck thought. Who was Lucy Jean? His wife? His daughter? But he didn’t have time to dwell or help the elderly gentleman. Jeffcoat’s. He remembered now. The name of the largest funeral home in Columbia. Just a few blocks from here.

After a short drive he arrived in front of what appeared to be a typical southern mansion, columns painted a dull white and fronted by a manicured green lawn. Only a large stone etched with the word “Jeffcoat” identified it. He jumped down from the seat, tied the wagon’s reins to a metal post, then turned to Sarah and her mother. With her arms around her daughter’s waist, Mrs. Greenwald gazed at Buck for a moment, then life came to her swollen eyes.

“Where are we?” Before he could answer, she took in the stone tablet and the building. “Oh. Yes, of course.” Sarah sat without moving until her mother whispered in her ear, “We need to get down, dear.”

“Let me help you.” Buck extended his hands.

Sarah reached for them, then made a mewing sound and pulled back. Firmly grasping her waist, Buck lifted her from the carriage and gently deposited her on the ground. As he did so, the older woman glanced at the clothing-covered outline of her dead husband. Then, without a word she accepted Buck’s help and stepped into the street.

“Sarah,” she said, “let me see your shoulder. Good, it’s stopped bleeding,” she noted with approval.

“Nevertheless,” Buck insisted, “we have to clean and dress it quickly.”

He placed his arm around Sarah’s waist and guided her toward the imposing façade. While her mother held her daughter’s hands, Buck knocked sharply on the front door.

An impeccably attired black man opened it immediately. “Yessir, may I help you?”

“I’m Dr. Thomson. A lady has been injured. I require a private room with a washstand, warm water, soap and a clean cloth. Then I need to see Mr. Jeffcoat right away.”

“Yessir. Y’all come in, folks. I’ll go fetch Mr. Jeffcoat directly.” He led them to a small reception room across from the massive staircase and hurried out to complete his assignment.

Before Buck could help Sarah and her mother to the settee, a stocky, balding man with a brown-dyed handlebar mustache, wearing a black frock coat, gray vest and striped pantaloons, hurried to meet them. His visage was one of practiced concern, his voice soothing as trickling water.

“Good evening, ladies, sir. I’m Otis Jeffcoat. How may I assist you?”

Buck offered his hand. “Permit me to introduce Mrs. Greenwald and her daughter, Mrs. Drexel. I’m Dr. Buck Thomson. I must attend to Mrs. Drexel’s shoulder immediately. We’re also in need of your services.”

The black man appeared in the doorway, carrying a basin with a pitcher in it, a towel slung over his arm and a piece of soap balanced on top of it. With amazing dexterity he deposited them on a side table and removed a roll of white cloth bandages from his vest pocket.

“Doctor,” Jeffcoat said, “when you’re finished, Dolfus will be waiting outside the door to escort you to my office.”

Observing the appropriate modesty, Buck engaged the assistance of her mother in removing enough of Sarah’s clothing for him to properly attend to her injury. Impressed by the young woman’s uncomplaining compliance with his directives, which undoubtedly caused her pain, he proceeded to cleanse and dress the wound. After giving her a few moments to rest, Buck opened the door and they followed Dolfus to the funeral director’s office down the hall.

#

When everyone was seated in the tastefully appointed room Ruth Greenwald allowed Dr. Thomson to recount the events that had brought them there. He did so concisely and with professional detachment. Buck then deferred to the older woman.

“Are you familiar with Jewish burial customs, Mr. Jeffcoat?” she asked.

“Madam, I’ve had the honor of handling the funeral arrangements for all the Jewish families here in Columbia. With your permission, I’ll send a messenger immediately to Rabbi Myron Mendelssohn, who, I’m sure, will be a great comfort to you in this difficult time. Do you have any relatives here in Columbia with whom you can sit Shiva?”

Ruth was pleased that the officious man was apparently as knowledgeable as he claimed. “Not relatives but friends. But first there’s the matter of a burial plot.”

“I’m sure Rabbi Mendelssohn can be of assistance in that regard.”

Buck raised his hand. “Perhaps you could also send a message to Gus Grayson and his wife. Miriam’s Jewish.”

“The banker and his wife! Yes, yes!” the undertaker agreed. “I know them well. I’ll send someone to notify them straightaway.” He paused, then inquired of the physician in almost a whisper. “And the present location of the deceased?”

“In the wagon out front.”

“If you’ll excuse me a moment.” He started for the door.

“There’s one other thing, Mr. Jeffcoat,” Buck said, stopping him before he was able to escape. “Our driver—I know him only as John—is also in need of your services.”

“Sir, rest assured this also will be handled appropriately. Dolfus,” he called out, “pull the wagon from in front around . . .” His voice trailed off as he closed the door behind him.

Ruth murmured. “I haven’t seen Miriam and her husband for so long, and now to impose on them like this—”

“Momma, you know Miriam, if you didn’t call on her she’d be offended. Wouldn’t you be if circumstances were reversed?”

“You have the wisdom of a mother,” she said with a smile, then put her hand to her mouth. “Sarah, baby, forgive me.”

“A compliment is kindness, Momma.”

Buck could feel Ruth studying him as he observed her daughter. Sarah was sitting in the fiddle-back chair at the corner of the desk, pale and weary. She hadn’t yet cried, and he had to admire her stoicism, but he also wondered how much more tragedy she could endure. She’d already suffered the loss of her brother in the war, the less-than-honorable demise of her abusive husband in a Yankee prison camp, and now the senseless murder of her beloved father in front of her eyes. Not to mention being shot herself.

“I’m glad you know the Graysons,” Buck said. “Miriam’s a good woman who’s at her best in a crisis. Until she arrives, is there anything I can do for either of you? A glass of water? Brandy perhaps?”

“Nothing, thank you.” Sarah bowed her head. “You’ve been so kind already—” her voice trembled “—and you saved my life.”

She’s so brave, so beautiful, and I’ve brought nothing but pain and death to her and her family.

“If only I could have saved your father,” he said.

“You have no cause for regret, doctor,” Ruth assured him. “My husband left this life quickly, and I believe, painlessly. He was a good husband and a wonderful father. I’m comforted by the belief that God is closest to those whose hearts are broken. Had Jacob lived, I fear the time ahead would have been very difficult for us all.”

Sarah finally broke down and began to weep silently.

Jeffcoat hurriedly reentered the room, wiping his brow with a silken kerchief. “Can I get anything for you ladies, brandy perhaps?”

Before Ruth could answer she heard a heavy knock on the outside door. A moment later, the black man appeared. “Mr. Jeffcoat, sir, Mr. and Mrs. Grayson have arrived.”

“Show them in. At once.”

Dolfus didn’t get a chance. A short, plump woman in a black taffeta hoop dress, bustled around him and marched directly to the women. She extended gloved hands to Ruth and Sarah. “Oh, my dear Ruth. Mr. Jeffcoat’s informed me of your loss. I’m so dreadfully sorry. These difficult times. . . . All our losses—” She stopped, brooded for a moment, then recovered her resolve. “But you’re among friends now. I’ll see to it that everything that can be done will be. Oh, this is so terrible, so tragic.”

She turned abruptly to her husband. “Augustus, Ruth and her daughter are our house guests and will be sitting Shiva with us.” She sighed. “We remain a house in mourning. So much mourning.”

Only then did she acknowledge Buck’s presence. “Elijah.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek gently against his chest. Then, with a final squeeze, she pulled away. “I’m sorry we can’t offer you the hospitality of our home right now.” She bit her lip and her eyes brimmed. “But you’re back. Thank God for that. If only Harry and Bert were here too.” She wiped a tear from her cheek.

“Miriam,” her husband whispered, “don’t—”

“I’m going to have Janey clear out Bert and Harry’s rooms. Our guests will stay there,” she declared uncompromisingly.

“Honey, are you sure?”

She fluttered her hand. “Ruth and Sarah will remain with us for as long as they wish.”

“Yes, my dear.” He nodded and for a moment his dark eyes became glassy, before he too bolstered himself. “I’ll walk Buck over to the Sand Hills Hotel and see to it he’s given their best accommodations. By the time I return Rabbi Mendelssohn should be here and you can complete the necessary arrangements for tomorrow.”

“The surrey and the mare,” Buck remarked, “belong to the stagecoach company, but the gelding’s mine.”

“Put your mind at ease, doctor,” Jeffcoat interceded. “I’ll see to it they’re delivered to the hotel livery as soon as possible and arrangements made for their proper care.”

Buck stood and turned to Miriam. “Please ask your family physician to examine Sarah’s wound as soon as possible and redress it.” Without thinking of the propriety of his action, he took Sarah’s hand and gently caressed it. “I’ll see you and your mother tomorrow. Rest well.”

While the banker was giving his carriage driver instructions to wait for the ladies, Buck sized up his old friend. Augustus Grayson was clean shaven, dressed in obviously expensive but worn clothes, and still athletically fit. The fifty-year-old’s sole concession to the passage of time seemed to be the silvering of his hair and the crow’s feet at the corners of his hazel eyes.

“God, it’s good to see you, Gus,” Buck said as they proceeded down the street on foot. “But once again, I seem to be bringing a world of trouble.”

“You’re home. That’s all that matters now.”

Buck had to struggle to keep up with the banker’s rapid pace as they marched toward the hotel. At the corner where only chimneys of houses remained, they turned to the right.

“Gus, you’re as fit as ever. How do you do it?”

“Well, I still walk to and from work every day, weather permitting. Miriam limits me to two cigars a day if I have any, out of her presence, and she watches what I eat like a hawk. Of course, as she’s fond of pointing out, that isn’t much because I usually have my foot in my mouth.” He chuckled. “Lord I love that woman.”

He slowed his stride when they approached a large brick-built two-story house. At first glance it appeared undamaged. As they passed by, however, Buck realized it was no more than an empty burned-out shell.

“The Wilson place.” Gus shook his head. “Good friends. All died in the fire. So many deaths.”

Buck couldn’t hold back any longer the question he’d dreaded asking. “What happened to Bert and Harry, Gus?” It was clear to him they were dead.

His friend continued on several more paces before answering. “Franklin. Tennessee. Last November.” His voice grew husky. “Nine thousand men, six thousand of them ours, were killed that day.” For a while he didn’t speak. “I received a letter from a Captain Halben in December, just before Christmas. He said he tried to convince the boys to separate before the battle, but they wouldn’t hear of it. Insisted on marching together. Were advancing side by side when the Yankees lowered their cannons and fired pointblank into the formation. My boys . . . just . . . disappeared.”

“God damn this war.” Buck’s jaw tightened. He knew what each size of munitions could do to the human body, from the ragged tears of the minie-ball to the multiple punctures of the Gatling gun to total destruction by mortars and cannon fire. He and Grayson walked on side by side for another half block before Buck was able to get past the lump in his throat and the anger.

“I’m sorry, Gus, for them, and for you. Bert and Harry were good men who did you and Miriam great credit. They were honorable men and devoted sons. My family and I adored them.”

They were also a study in physical contrasts, Buck reflected, one short and stocky, the other tall and lanky, with complimentary senses of humor. How they loved to laugh and play off each other, so full of life. It was difficult for Buck to imagine them being gone.

“Miriam wanted to visit their graves,” Gus said after they’d continued on for another devastated block. “I had to tell her there weren’t any. For a while I thought she’d never speak again, then she threw herself into her causes and educating her maid Janey. Slowly that good woman came back to me.”

“And now I bring you more sorrow.”

“It’ll never end, Buck. But as Miriam would say, the world, which was made for us, abides; but we, for whom it was made, depart. Sometimes it seems to me, though, we’ll be in mourning for the rest of our lives. All Miriam and I . . . All any of us can do now is hold on to each other.”

They walked on side by side for another half block, before Gus commented, “My boys were fighting for state rights, you know, not slavery.”

It was hairsplitting, Buck had long realized. The state rights they were fighting for was the right to own slaves.

“I think you’re aware of my feelings about the peculiar institution,” he reminded his friend, “and the rift it caused between my father and me.”

“You’d be surprised how many families around here were split over it, but it was a matter of economics. It bothered me to have to lend money to plantation owners to buy slaves or to accept the cash value of their slaves as collateral for loans. Here I was supporting an institution I detested by day and helping undermine it by night.”

“Undermine it? What do you mean?”

Gus paused a moment, then on a deep breath said, “At last I can tell you, but I do so in the strictest confidence, Buck, for there’re people who would happily wreak their vengeance on us if they knew.” He paused again. “For years Miriam and I have been active conductors on the so-called Underground Railroad.”

Buck stopped short, aware his mouth was hanging open but unable to close it. “You were aiding runaway slaves?”

“So they could get to Canada or other safe havens.”

“My God, Gus. You could have been shot if you were caught. And Miriam.”

“It was a chance we had to take. Slavery is . . . was wrong. Owning people the way one owns a dog or a horse is immoral, not to mention the way some of them were treated.”

“By white trash like Saul Snead,” Buck offered belligerently.

“He was as bad as any of them, worse,” Gus agreed.

Buck shook his head. “In these past war years I thought I’d seen the bravest of the brave, but you two top ‘em all.”

“I’d like to take the credit, but I must tell you I merely furnished the funds. Miriam provided the means and moral courage. She clothed and fed them, gave them shelter and even transported them. No, my friend, if you want an example of selfless bravery, look to Miriam.”

They continued on. Gus had slowed his pace, perhaps in consideration of his young companion, perhaps because he was caught up in his own thoughts and memories. It was during this almost relaxed perambulation that something dawned on Buck that sent a shiver down his spine.

Was it possible that while the parents were undermining the singular cornerstone of southern society, their boys were going off to be killed in defense of it?

“Gus—” he hesitated “—did Bert and Harry know?”

“They knew. They died for the right of free people to make their own decisions.” Emotion silenced him for several strides, then he recovered and said, “I realize that sounds contradictory, but they were fighting so we could make the right choices on our own, not have them dictated by self-righteous outsiders.”

“We could have solved our own problems, if we’d been allowed to,” Buck agreed. “Is that what you mean?”

Gus shrugged. “Firing on Ft. Sumter was a grievous mistake. Firing on any fort is stupid if you can’t win the battle that will inevitably follow. Did those idiot politicians here in Columbia think Lincoln would tuck his tail between his legs and give us independence?”

“I hated slavery,” Buck said, “but like you I thought of myself as a South Carolinian first and an American second. General Lee felt the same way about his allegiance to Virginia. I guess now we’re all Americans first.”

They turned the last corner on their approach to the hotel.

“Gus, we’re lifelong friends. Why did we never have this discussion before?”

“I felt sure you agreed with me in principle, but I was afraid, with your famous Thomson temper, you might inadvertently compromise what we had to do in secret. Besides, when were you around for me to tell you? We haven’t seen you in what . . . six or seven years? First you went off to college, then medical school, then into the war.”

“A war that should never have happened.” He thought of the carnage he’d seen. The wasted lives. The ruined lives. A generation of men scarred and crippled.

“Yet you fought on the side of the Confederacy,” Gus observed.

“Because we were invaded under force of arms by the Yankees. I wasn’t defending slavery. I loathe it. Or state rights. Do we have the right to be morally wrong? I was helping in the struggle against northern aggression. Nobody points a gun at me and mine without me fighting back.”

They’d arrived at the Sand Hills Hotel, a three-story frame building with four grand columns in front. Its northwest wing had suffered fire damage and was obviously no longer habitable. Inside the main entrance, however, there was little evidence that the world outside had changed forever. Plush settees, crystal-shaded lamps and claw-footed tables gleamed, while neatly dressed Negro servants poured tea for finely gowned peaches-and-cream ladies and decanted aged Cognac for distinguished white gentlemen.

The clerk at the registration desk greeted the banker with polite respect.

“Good evening, Mr. Grayson. How may I help you and your young friend?”

“Doctor Thomson requires accommodations for—” he asked Buck “—how long will you be staying?”

“A week perhaps. No more.”

“The John C. Calhoun Suite is available, sir.”

“That’ll be fine.” Grayson turned to Buck. “I’ll leave you now, but I’ll be back tomorrow morning at nine. We have a great deal to discuss. Get some rest. You’ve had a trying day.”

Buck extended his hand. “Thank you for your help, old friend. And please thank Miriam for me.”

After Gus left, Buck arranged for a message to be sent by courier to the stagecoach company in Charleston notifying them of the highway encounter and the death of their driver. It was ironic that the drunken guard had survived. Buck also identified Otis Jeffcoat as the point of contact for the disposition of the driver’s remains.

He then sent a note to Dr. Meyer’s office canceling Mr. Greenwald’s appointment. After informing the man behind the desk that the surrey would be arriving sometime that evening and directing that his baggage be brought to his room, Buck retired for the night.

#

“He killed Floyd.” Rufus stomped in front of the cold pot-bellied stove in Lexington County’s infamous pot house. “He killed my brother.”

Hank wiped his handlebar mustache of beer foam. “Where?”

“Cedar Creek crossing.” It was supposed to be so simple. Shoot the horse and the driver, then put a slug in Thomson’s shoulder. Would have worked if Thomson hadn’t been riding guard, wielding that rifle. Never trust a doctor with a gun in his hand. “He killed my brother and now I’m gonna kill him for sure.”

Hank held up his pewter mug to the bartender for a refill. “What about Fat Man?”

Rufus slammed his fist on the plank bar. “Killed him too.”

“Their bodies still out there?” Shifty replaced Hank’s empty stein with a frothing one. “Or’d you bring ‘em back with you?”

“No time.” Rufus paced angrily, remembering the barrage of gunfire and the shower of leaves. There was no way he was going to hang around with Thomson wielding a gun. “Get a couple of the boys and a wagon out there to pick ‘em up,” he told Hank. “I’m gonna see to it Floyd gets a decent burial. Fat Man too,” he added as an afterthought.

Hank showed no particular interest in hurrying, but drank deeply of his beer, a few drops coursing down the side of his mouth. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. “How come you didn’t get him, Rufus? You knew he was coming along that road and you was waiting for him. Even with one eye it ain’t like you to miss?”

Rufus glared angrily. He didn’t like being reminded he was half-blind. “Ain’t my fault, I tell you. Would’ve got him in the shoulder, dammit, if Floyd and Fat Man hadn’t opened fire too soon. Ended up hitting the woman riding behind him instead.”

“You shot a woman?” Hank grinned and lifted his beer in salute. “Kill her?”

“Told you, I wasn’t aiming for her. Only wounded her. In the shoulder, I expect.” Without realizing it he raised his hand to the blood-stained scarf around his neck. Maybe there was justice after all.

“But you missed killing the doc?” Hank taunted.

“I told you I was aiming to cripple him, damn it. But he killed Floyd. Now I’m gonna kill him.”

“Floyd was a good man. So was Fat Man. Can’t let that doc get away with this. We’ll help you finish him off.”

“I work alone. Always have. I’ll get him myself.”

Hank fondled his luxuriously thick mustache with his fingers. “Didn’t do a real good job by yourself this time.”

“Cause I was depending on other people.”

Hank shrugged and emptied his tankard, then started for the door. “I’ll get Zeke and see to them bodies.” He turned back. “When you change your mind and decide you can use some help with this killer doctor of yours, you just let me know. Like I said, Floyd and Fat Man was friends to a lot of us.”

Chapter TEN

Buck slept deeply and arose early, physically refreshed, but dreading the events to come. As promised, his luggage was waiting in the sitting room. He pulled the cord by the fireplace and when a servant arrived, requested a hot bath be drawn and a barber be summoned to shave him and cut his shaggy hair.

At nine o’clock sharp, he appeared in the hotel’s dining room, well groomed and wearing clean clothes. Gus was drinking a cup of coffee. A waiter pulled out a chair for Buck even before he reached the table. He ordered coffee and a breakfast plate.

“You look like a new man,” Gus commented.

“Probably smell like one too.”

The banker grinned. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You’ve already eaten?” Buck asked.

“Miriam frowns on non-kosher cooking.”

“You’re not Jewish.”

“Please don’t tell her that.”

Buck laughed. “You mean you’ve kept the bedroom lamps unlit all these years.”

Gus guffawed, almost spilling his coffee.