Mankillers

#

“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 pla

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 pla

“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 go

“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 i

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?”