Mankillers

“Ain’t that the truth?” Kentucky replied. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see one of them buzzards up yonder fall right out of the sky from the stink.”

“I see you found gravediggers.”

“Every man that can move a shovel is going at it. And the lieutenant here rounded up men from the farms hereabouts to help.”

“Except for one,” Clay noted. “That devil across the creek doesn’t give a Yankee damn. Leveled a shotgun at me and told me to get the hell off his property. When I was riding off, I glanced over my shoulder. The old jackass was shoving his wife down the steps and cussing her, seemed like for nothing more than just standing in the door. I was tempted to go back and call him out but figured we have enough problems of our own.”

“Wise choice, little brother. I sure wouldn’t want the infamous Thomson temper to get you shot now.” He patted Clay on the shoulder and smiled. “I’m proud of you.”

“Yeah, well . . . that sharpshooter. . . . He’s around here, like you said. Killed a couple of the wounded while you were sleeping. Coward even shot a man who was burning the horses.”

Kentucky spoke up. “The fella had just helped me bury the arm and leg of his dead friend.”

Clay stared at him, then bowed his head, his lips tight.

“You certain it’s the same sniper?” Buck asked.

“Got to be. Hit ‘em all square in the head.” Clay frowned and scratched his chin. “Peculiar thing is the way he chooses his victims.” He pointed. “One was over there on the right about a hundred yards from the creek, another on the left maybe fifty yards closer. The next was on the right again, fifty yards in—”

“That God damn bastard. He’s using my people to sight in his rifle.”

Clay gaped, his mouth open. “What the hell kind of man would do that?”

“The kind that loves killing. He’s what you called him a little while ago, a mankiller.” Buck took a deep breath. “Has he fired lately?”

“Ain’t been no shots for over an hour now,” Kentucky told him.

“Probably waiting for this smoke to clear. I suspect he’s got a long-range repeating rifle, maybe with a telescope sight, so he must know most of our people are unarmed and defenseless. The gutless coward.”

“That’s where he made his first mistake, thinking nobody’d shoot back.” Clay gripped Buck’s arm. “You’re the only one who stands a chance of hitting him at long range. How about it? Before he starts shooting again.”

“Right now we’d best get in out of the open.”

Not far away sweating gravediggers mechanically toiled. Buck and Clay made their way up the incline towards the ramshackle building. Kentucky veered over to the cooking pots.

“I’ve never been asked to take a man’s life before. I’m a healer not a killer.” Buck murmured. His voice faded. When he spoke again, it was if he were talking to himself. “I’ll have to let him fire first so I can see where he’s hidden, then kill him before he can fire again. My old Volcanic shoots straight enough, but the cartridges are old. If it misfires I may never get a second chance . . .”

Clay halted, brows raised. “Then you’ll do it?”

Buck sighed. “I don’t have much choice, do I? He’ll keep killing till he’s stopped.”

They entered the wooden structure. Clay tossed his blanket aside. “God that thing stinks. I’m going down to the creek to clean up.”

Kentucky appeared with a small pail of gelatinous, brown liquid and two metal cups.

“The stew’s hot, but that’s about all I can say for it. Sure hope somebody shows up soon with supplies. You don’t reckon they went home after the surrender and forgot us, do you?”

“Lord, I hope not.”

Clay bounded into the shack, a carbine cradled in his arms. “Now, Dr. Thomson, sir, what do you think of this?”

“My God, Clay, where’d you find a Henry? It looks brand new.”

His brother gri

Buck accepted the weapon. “This’ll definitely even the odds.” He raised it to his shoulder and squinted along the barrel. “Is it sighted in yet?”

“I had one of my marksmen back at camp do it, so it should be ready. Too bad you can’t take a few practice shots.”

“That’d tip your friend off, maybe send him scampering. Or he might sight in on us.” He hefted the rifle in his hands, assessing its weight and balance and approving both. “We can only hope your man knew what he was doing.”

A few minutes later Kentucky and Clay positioned themselves inside on either side of the window and watched for movement in the trees bordering the creek. Buck edged out onto the porch, sat on a wooden box in the shade and laid the Henry across his knees.

They waited.

Smoke from the pyres cleared, leaving an unobstructed view of Sayler’s Creek and the woods beyond.

Minutes dragged by.

“Sir,” Kentucky spoke softly, “there’s somebody stirring in that tall hickory on the left.”

“Where? I don’t see anything,” Clay muttered.

Buck gripped the rifle. “I thought those flashes this morning came from a tree on the right.”

“I’m coming out so I can see better.” Clay tiptoed through the door, stood beside Buck and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

“Stay into the shadow, Clay. You’ve got that officer’s uniform on and . . .”

“He’s there, sir.” Kentucky pointed. “In the hickory on the left.”

Buck noted the shimmering of the leaves, brought the rifle more snugly into his shoulder, aimed, fired and immediately levered in another cartridge.

Time seemed suspended as something bounced from branch to branch on its way to the ground. Buck spied a muzzle flash on the right, instinctively shifted his aim and fired. His mind registered the brief image of a figure with long red hair, a moment before he was splattered with the blood, bone and brains of his brother’s explod-

ing head.

Chapter TWO

Clay’s dead.

Awareness penetrated Buck’s consciousness an instant before rage erased all other emotions. A gut-wrenching scream rose from inside him. He dropped to his knees beside his brother and cradled him in his arms, rocking and murmuring to himself.

“I’m sorry, little brother. Poppa always said it was my job to make sure you didn’t get hurt.”

He was barely aware of humming something. A spiritual, like Emma used to sing when they were small and hurt themselves?

“Oh, Clay, why now? The war’s over.”

Gradually he became aware of Kentucky’s urging him to get off the porch and out of the line of fire.

What difference does it make? Clay’s dead. My brother’s dead. It doesn’t matter if someone shoots me. For three years all I’ve seen is death. Death and suffering and mutilation and torment. No one escapes. Clay didn’t. Why should I? We could have gone home together. Now I’ll have to tell Poppa his favorite son won’t be coming back.

“Here, sir. Let me cover him for you.”

Buck lifted his head. The orderly had a blanket.

He touched Buck’s shoulder. “Sir, we need to get off this here porch. That sniper might still be about.”

“He killed my brother,” Buck whispered.

“Yes, sir.”

Buck lowered Clay’s body and knelt there as Kentucky draped it. Suddenly as if possessed, he growled, “Now I’ll kill him.”