Mankillers

Buck returned to where Asa was leaning on the ship’s rail and asked him to wait on the dock with their luggage.

“Where’re you going?”

Buck hesitated. Did he want to tell his friend about seeing his brother’s killer, after all the young man had been through already? He decided not to. “I saw someone I need to talk to. I’ll be right back.”

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 thi

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 ma

“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 A

“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 A

“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.