Mankillers

Tracker was sitting quietly at the table, observing the scene, trying to decide if there was any more information to be gleaned, when a small man of perhaps two-score years stepped up to the side of the table.

“You just go

Tracker considered his options. He’d walked away from a fight or two, but this particular creature didn’t deserve leniency.

“Actually, my dear man, I’ve come to get your money.”

The other man stepped back and placed his hand under his coat, clearly prepared to draw a weapon.

“I happened to observe you playing cards at that table over yonder. You appeared to be quite adept at it, seeing as how you won all the pots.” Tracker had also noticed him cheating.

“You want to play cards, Nancy?”

“My name is Lucky. Luckier than you, I think.”

The other man laughed uproariously. “Take my money, huh?” He addressed the men at the surrounding tables. “You fellows want to watch me strip this coon naked?”

Several titters went up until Tracker turned his full glare on them.

“May I have your name, sir?” he asked.

“Call me Lefty.”

“Well, Lefty, shall we commence? Mr. Bartender,” he called out to Peg-leg, “would you have a fresh deck of cards available?”

“Sure thing.”

A moment later Peg-leg came thumping from around the long bar and offered him an unopened deck. Tracker exchanged it for another silver dollar. Again there was the display of picket-fence teeth, and the one-legged man retreated happily behind his bar.

They cut for dealer. Lefty drew a nine. Tracker showed an eight.

“Oh my,” he exclaimed, “I’m off to a poor start.”

“Come the finish you’ll be even poorer, Mr. Dusky Nancy-boy.”

“The game?” Tracker asked.

“Five-card stud. How does that sound?”

“Mmm. Poetic.”

Lefty raised his brows, apparently unsure what the word meant.

Tracker showed no reaction to the continued insults he received over the next half dozen hands. In an honest game the cocky little man might have broken even, but this wasn’t an honest game. Tracker had observed him palming several cards and had increased his bets in an apparent attempt to recoup his losses, but he continued to lose.

“I thought you were lucky, Nancy,” Lefty taunted as he dealt another round and slipped himself another ace.

“I once knew a man who palmed his cards and lost the hand.”

“What . . . What are you saying?” Lefty’s eyes narrowed in his first display of wariness.

“Only that it must be time for my luck to change.”

“How about double or nothing?”

Tracker gri

“My cash reserve,” Tracker explained with a cheery grin. He removed a money pouch and plopped it down on the wooden table. “Wi

The other man snickered. “Okay, Mr. Dusky Nancy-boy. It’s go

Smiling, Tracker muttered. “Beware the hand that reaches out.”

“Hey, Lefty. Maybe you ought to call Mr. Nancy-boy, Fancy-words,” a man suggested, drawing laughter from the crowd that had gathered to watch.

“Deal the cards,” Tracker said in a voice that was deeper than before, but which nobody seemed to notice, least of all the cheat sitting across from him.

Lefty dealt the cards, the first one down, three up. Once again he palmed a card. Tracker had a pair of jacks showing, a three face up, one down. His opponent had a pair of tens and an ace showing.

He dealt Tracker’s fifth card down and was preparing to draw his own. Tracker’s right hand flew into and out of his coat. In a lightning move he impaled the man’s hand to the table with a stiletto.

Before the fraud had a chance to blink, Tracker reached under his pinioned paw and withdrew the ace of spades. A gasp went up from the onlookers just as Lefty let out a scream of agony.

“You’re the second man of my acquaintance who palmed a card and lost the hand.”

His face white with shock, his shoulders writhing stiffly in pain, Lefty stared dumbfounded at his assailant.

Calmly holding the knife in place, Tracker yanked the card sharp’s bloody palm through the blade, slicing it deftly into two parts. The resulting scream was even more piercing than the first one. A gasp of horrified disbelief erupted from the circle of onlookers as they all took a simultaneous step backward.

Casually scooping up the money, Tracker dropped it into his coat pocket, extracted the knife from the table, wiped it on his victim’s shirt sleeve, returned it to the scabbard under his coat and glanced around. There were no challengers.

“I guess your nickname is Righty now,” he said with a chuckle.

No one followed when Tracker marched out the door. He instantly put the mangled hand out of his mind. It wasn’t important. What interested him was the story Cephus had recounted.

Buck Thomson had unwittingly inherited a powerful enemy. Did he realize how vulnerable he had become and the danger he posed to the people around him?

Chapter THIRTEEN

The next morning Buck arrived at the Richland County Bank to find his friend Gus closeted with a prominent local client and not expected to be available for the better part of an hour. Buck was turning to leave the building when a male voice called out.

“Buck Thomson? I do declare. Is it really you?”

He swung around.

A young man, dressed in a well-tailored but worn suit with a vest and stained cravat, stepped toward him, hobbling badly on his left leg. Buck’s initial reaction was to attribute his handicap to a war injury. It took him a moment to place the face. “Rex? Rexford Cleburne?”

Not a war casualty at all. Clay’s best friend had broken his ankle badly in a fall while foxhunting as a teenager; the fracture had never healed properly.

“It’s been years,” Rex said, offering his hand. “I’m glad to see you survived the recent unpleasantness, apparently in one piece.”

“It’s good to see you too, Rex. How’ve you been?” He was almost as tall as Buck, with wavy sand-colored hair, parted in the middle, and dark-edged, medium-blue eyes. A handsome young man, who in spite of his limp gave the impression of vigorous good health.

“I understand you’re a doctor now. You pla

“I haven’t made any plans for the future yet. I’m here to discuss options with Mr. Grayson about selling Jasmine.”

“Sell Jasmine? What about Clay? I thought he was going to take over the place.”

Buck paused. “I’m sorry you haven’t heard, Rex. Clay’s dead. He was killed in the war.”

Rex stared at him. “Dead?” His voice shook. “Clay’s dead?”

“I’m sorry,” Buck repeated. “Can we go somewhere? You look like you need to sit down.”

“My office,” Rex muttered.

As he walked beside the limping man, Buck remarked, “Your office? You work here?”

“Have for a couple of years. Used to help Mr. Grayson interview people wanting loans. Nowadays we don’t have any money to lend. I reckon things’ll get even worse with the Yankees in charge. Carpetbaggers! Been invading in droves. Worse than boll weevils.”

Inside a small room with frosted-glass windows on three sides, Rex waved him to a chair while he hobbled behind the scarred wooden desk.