Mankillers

“I’ve been lucky,” Clay admitted. “No wounds though two horses have been shot out from under me. But several of my men have been killed in the last few days by this particular misanthrope.”

“What’s he look like? Anybody seen him?”

“One of my sentries caught a glimpse of him yesterday sliding down a tree. All he could tell was that he’s small and has red hair. I tell you, Buck, he’s the best marksman I’ve run into—present company excepted, of course. Goes for head shots, and never misses. Shoots officers, infantrymen, the wounded, even litter bearers.”

Buck jerked upright. “Litter bearers? I’ve never heard of anyone, us or the Yankees, shooting litter bearers. He must be crazy.”

“That’s why I’m here. When I learned you were in this area, I told the general if anyone could get this bastard it’s you. He’s good, Buck, but you’re better. Get ‘im. The war’s over. Enough men have died.”

“I shoot for sport. I’m no mankiller.”

“He’s got to be stopped, Buck, and you’re the man to do it.” Clay came to his feet. “Think of it as protecting your wounded or shooting a mad dog. Doesn’t matter.”

“No,” Buck muttered. “I don’t suppose it does.”

“So come with me to headquarters.”

“I’ve got to check on my patients.” Buck stood up. “Actually I think your man may be here.”

“The sniper’s here?” Clay hurried after Buck and stepped gingerly over a dead amputee at the end of the porch. “You’ve seen him?”

“No—” Buck scratched his unkempt beard “—but I heard shots right after sunup. Sounded like they came from those trees on the other side of the creek.”

“Anybody hit?”

“Not that I’m aware of. My orderly’s seeing about burning those stinking horse carcasses. I reckon we’ll find out when he gets back.” He rubbed his eyes. “I’m so tired—”

“I’ll nose around? You get some sleep,” Clay urged. “You appear about used up.”

“I still have to check my most recent surgeries. Don’t you go wandering and tempting that sharpshooter now. Leave your hat and coat here. Wrap up in one of these blankets.” He placed a hand firmly on his brother’s shoulder. “The war’s over,” he said as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “It’s time to go home.” At least it was for Clay. Buck wasn’t sure he had a home to go to.

Clay cleared his throat. “As soon as this trouble’s finished we ride south. Together, Buck. On the way I’ll tell you about a private matter we need to discuss. But there’ll be time enough for that later.”

#

God, it was so good to see Buck again.

Clay surveyed the scene before him and stared with a feeling of shame and disgust at the corpse he’d stepped over a few minutes earlier. Blond, like me. Strong, too. But look at him now. Both legs cut off. At least he’s dead. He won’t have to spend the rest of his days crawling on the ground like an animal. Lord, what woman would want to be touched by a man with no legs?

Around him all Clay could see were men and boys with missing limbs.

My problem seems so insignificant compared with them. Thank God we’ll be leaving here soon and can put this place behind us. I’ll have to tell Buck about the situation I’ve gotten myself into. He’ll be angry with me, of course, like he so often is, but he’ll get over it. He always does. Then he’ll figure a way out of this dilemma for me.

He stiffened as a scream erupted from a soldier bent over a man on the ground. “No, he can’t be dead. He can’t. He’s my brother. He can’t be dead. What’ll I tell Momma? I was supposed to watch out for him. Jody, get up. Get up, Jody.” The young man fell to his knees and wept.

Instinctively Clay started to turn away, until he saw the man take out a gun and raise it to his head.

Off the porch he leapt with a scream of his own. The distraction made the trooper pause long enough for Clay to tackle him. They fell on top of the dead man. Clay ripped the derringer from the grieving man’s hand and flung it as far as he could.

“Your Momma will forgive you for Jody, but she won’t forgive you if you do this.”

A pair of strong hands separated them. They climbed to their feet.

“I’ll take care of him.” The orderly put his arm around the infantryman’s shoulders and led him away. “You’ll be all right, friend.”

#

When Buck was finished examining his latest amputations, he returned to the shack. Clay’s hat and coat were lying on a bench inside the door. His brother had heeded his advice. Buck wrapped himself in a coarse blanket and lay on the floor, barely aware of the thumping sound outside the window. Silent men, whose glazed eyes had seen too much, were loading the remnants of his past night’s work into a two-wheeled cart.

#

Buck’s orderly was returning from the slit-trench privy when he spied a soldier in butternut kneeling by a man lying on the ground. The casualty, missing an arm and a leg, was obviously dead.

“Ain’t nothing you can do for him no more, trooper,” Kentucky called out. “Come give me a hand.”

The soldier didn’t move. He kept staring at the dead man. “We signed up together. Worked neighboring farms. He had a way with growing things. Played a harmonica real good too. Helped me when my folks was took with the fever.”

Kentucky nodded. “I need your help.”

Reluctantly the soldier rose and approached. “What you want from me?”

“Get a shovel from over by the shed. We got to bury some parts.”

“Parts?”

“Just get a shovel.” He’d understand soon enough.

An hour later they rested on their spades by the side of the pit they’d dug, while another soldier brought up the two-wheeled cart. Together they dumped its gruesome cargo into the abyss. Amputated extremities were piled two feet deep.

“Is my friend’s arm and leg in there?” the soldier asked as tears coursed down his face.

“Don’t think about it,” Kentucky told him. The nightmares would come later.

The stone-faced men began shoveling clods of wet earth. The bloodless limbs writhed, as though they were trying to escape their interment.

“Faster,” one of the gravediggers urged. “Faster.” In a near panic he flung spadefuls of sandy soil into the hole. “I can’t stand seeing ‘em move like that. Faster.”

Soon all were covered except one pasty hand which seemed to plead for mercy as the last clumps of dirt hit it.

“Oh God, forgive us,” the shoveler cried, his eyes red, his face wet with tears. “Oh God, I didn’t know it was go

At last the hand was out of sight.

The weeping man shivered. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Them horses need burning first,” Kentucky told him.

#

Two hours later Buck was awakened by a beam of sunlight shining on his face. He peered over the windowless sill.

Flames blazed from piles of dead horses and mules. There was no breeze. The stench of death was so pervasive it could be tasted. Three years as a physician hadn’t insulated Buck’s senses from the sights, sounds and smells spawned by war.

He descended the steps of the shotgun shack and once again began examining the wounded, sniffing for the tell-tale fetor of developing infection. At the verge of the field he saw Clay and Kentucky pointing at sites beyond the creek. Even without his cavalry tunic and yellow-plumed hat, Clay’s golden head was a beacon in an ocean of dun and dirt.

We’ll ride south together, Buck thought with a longing that threatened to overwhelm him. The war’s over. It’s finally over. Now we can get our lives back.

Leaving the cabin, he approached the two men. “You reckon there’s anything we could do to make this place smell any worse?”