Mankillers

Now I’m a target too.

#

The sun was low in the summer sky by the time Tracker crossed the river into Lexington County.

A few discreet inquiries had alerted him to the Whiskey Jug Saloon as Rufus Snead’s hangout of choice. Tracker had been there before and knew the place catered to a class of ruffians that didn’t welcome strangers. He had no qualms about invading enemy territory, but this was a reco

Wearing a stained and threadbare red frock coat, ruffled white shirt, a pink cravat and a vermillion-plumed straw hat, he held his chin up and traipsed through the front door as if the soles of his scuffed brogans were on fire. Heads turned at his entrance, some in undisguised disgust, others in comical amusement. He could imagine both contingents sharpening their knives or fondling other weapons.

Acting oblivious to their stares and muttered comments, he pranced directly to the long bar and was immediately impressed with the agility of the peg-legged bartender who clumped up and down ceaselessly to serve his thirsty clientele. Tapping his silver-headed walking stick on the scarred mahogany, Tracker said in a voice a little too loud, “I say, my good man, do you serve absinthe?” Simultaneously he clicked two silver dollars together.

Peg-leg’s attention was more focused on the large coins than the question. “Ab-what? We got two kinds of beer and two kinds of whiskey. What’s your pleasure?”

“I really was anticipating an aperitif.” When the bartender tilted his head in a

“Like my whiskey, Mister, I’ll give you your money’s worth.” Peg-leg gri

“I’m searching for a Snead family from around here somewhere. Are you acquainted with them?”

The men within earshot ceased their chatter.

Peg-leg leaned forward and spoke confidentially. “Now why would a gentleman of your refinement be interested in the likes of them?”

“I met one of them in the war. Said he was from near here.”

An unkempt bearded man seated next to Tracker interrupted. “You don’t want no part of that family, mister, if there’s any of ‘em’s left ‘after what happened.”

“You tell him about it, Cephus,” Peg-leg urged him. “You know the story better than me.” He returned to his clamoring customers, all of whom drank as if they were contestants and the prize was more whiskey.

Seeing his new companion’s glass was empty, Tracker ordered him a fresh drink, and motioned to an unoccupied table along the wall. Once seated, Cephus sniffed the liquor, smiled across to his host, sipped appreciatively, gri

“Now, what can you tell me about the Sneads,” he asked.

Savoring another taste, Cephus began his tale. “Well, sir, since you ain’t from around here, I reckon you need to know that Saul Snead—the daddy of the clan—was the overseer at Jasmine, the Thomson plantation east aways. Had a place of his own too, a few rocky acres up river. His woman farmed it enough to feed herself and her brood, but mostly she made rot-gut whiskey. Sold what the old man didn’t drink and when she could, earned a little extra money on her back, if you get my meaning. Saul ran cock fights too.”

When Cephus finished off what was left in his glass, Tracker waved to Peg-leg to bring him another. “How big a family did Snead have?”

“Well, there was that toothless old woman of his, like I said, and a couple of sorry red-headed sons. All mad as coon dogs, from what I hear, ‘specially when they was drinking. And there was the girl. Hard to imagine them two producing such a purty little thing. Sally Mae they called her. Some say Saul was saving her to snare a rich man.”

Peg-leg brought the whiskey, and Tracker tossed him another silver dollar. “Where’s he now?”

“Well, sir, you won’t believe this, but one night a year or more back neighbors heard awful screaming coming from their place, like a animal being tortured. Next morning a bunch of locals got together, armed themselves real good and rode over to check things out. They couldn’t credit what they seen. That loony Snead had boiled a Negro man to death in his old lady’s big wash pot and was feeding the meat to his dogs. Crazy old coot was eating some of it hisself.”

“My heavens, what’d they do?”

“What any civilized men would. They strung the old bastard up from a tree in his yard. Heard tell, that devil never stopped cussing till the rope jerked tight. Word is them red-headed boys of his rode up a while later, saw their daddy dangling and rode off without even cutting him down. Left him there for the crows. Ain’t no one been out to the place since.” Cephus stared bleary-eyed at Tracker. “If I was you I’d stay clear too. Folks claim the place’s haunted and won’t go near it.” He smacked his lips. “But what I done told you is sure worth another drink, ‘eh, mister?”

Tracker slipped his untouched beer over to him, and feeling generous, ordered another premium whiskey.

“What happened to the rest of the family?” he asked. “His wife?”

“Well, she run off one night. Least ways that’s what Saul said. A few folks think it’s mighty suspicious. I mean why would she do that? Weren’t nobody go

“A terrible tragedy,” Tracker opined.

Peg-leg brought the next installment of conversation enhancer.

“And the sons?”

“Another tragedy,” Cephus declared as he gulped half the newly arrived glass’s contents. “What you might call a i-ron-ic turn of events.”

Over the course of the next hour and several more shots, Cephus told Tracker about Clay Thomson getting Sally Mae pregnant. Sally Mae dying in childbirth. Rufus swearing vengeance on Clay, then finding and killing him during the war.

“Where’d you hear all this?’ Tracker asked casually.

“Here and there. Rufus come back not long ago and told his younger brother Floyd all about it. Right proud he was too.”

“And the irony?” Tracker asked.

It took a moment for the semi-inebriated raconteur to figure out what the question was. “Oh, the i-ron-ic part. Well, seems Rufus and Floyd was riding one day with a couple of friends out by Cedar Creek when Clay’s older brother, Buck—he’s Dr. Thomson now—was passing through. Guess he recognized Rufus, cause he opened fire on him without warning. When the smoke cleared, Floyd and the friend was dead, and Dr. Thomson and his friends was gone.”

Cephus gri

“So the feud’s over.”

“Not to hear Rufus talk about it. Buck Thomson killed Floyd, he tells people. Now Rufus has taken over Floyd’s gang and is go

“Very i-ron-ic indeed,” Tracker agreed, carefully pronouncing each syllable, so there’d be no misunderstanding.

The old codger downed his next drink in one gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and staggered back to his seat at the bar.