Mankillers

Springing to his feet, he seized the Henry, leaped from the porch, dodged through the rows of wounded into the field, then stopped and raised the rifle to his shoulder. He took careful aim at a hickory on the left of the creek’s bend. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Suddenly his blood froze, his scalp tingled, his hands began to shake. As if his fingers had been singed, he flung the Henry from him, collapsed to his knees and bowed his head.

Kentucky raced up, panting, and crouched beside him. “Sir, you hit? You all right?”

“Jesus—” his voice trembled “—there’s a boy in that tree. I almost shot him.”

“What? A boy? In the tree?” The orderly peered into the grove. “I thought it was another sniper.”

“So did I,” Buck answered hollowly. “God, what if I’d shot him?”

A moment passed. “Well, sir, you didn’t. So that’s that. Now let’s get out of the open.”

“I need to see after that child.”

“But—” Kentucky stopped. “But . . . wait up a minute.” He darted back to the cabin and returned a moment later with a handgun. “I believe you hit the shooter in that other tree, sir, cause the branches shook like he was falling, and he didn’t fire back, but in case he ain’t gone, here’s the lieutenant’s Colt. Take it while I clean up the Henry.”

Buck hesitated only a second, then accepted the proffered weapon and stuck it in his belt. “Let’s go see about that boy.”

The orderly retrieved the rifle and on the run wiped it with his sleeve.

They splashed through the stream and slithered up the bank toward the hickory. A figure, wearing a dirty homespun shirt descended from the tree and hopped to where a crutch had fallen. Retrieving it, he clumped toward them. His right leg was withered.

“Lordy, I’m glad to see y’all.”

“What’re you doing up in that tree, boy?” demanded Buck, a tremor in his voice. The doctor’s practiced eye noted bruises scattered over the lad’s arms. His left eye was swollen shut.

“Momma helped me up, then went to hide Ha

Buck squatted in front of the youngster, who he judged to be ten or eleven years old, and put his arm around the child’s shoulders. “Son, you’re safe now. We’ll go find your mother directly. I bet you’re worn out hiding in that tree all night. What’s your name?”

“Billy, sir. Billy Hewitt. We live over yonder at Zeb Feeney’s place.”

Zeb Feeney. He must be the man Clay had been so incensed over. Buck scowled. “Feeney give you those bruises and black eye?”

Billy glanced down at this leg. “Sometimes I can’t get away fast enough.”

Buck clenched his teeth and shook his head.

“What about the man in that other tree, Billy?” Kentucky asked. “You get a look at him?”

“No, sir. He got here sometime last night and climbed up ‘fore dawn. Started shooting about daylight. I hugged the trunk and prayed he wouldn’t see me. Then there was shots from the soldier camp, and I heard him grunt. He clambered down like the tree was on fire. Jumped on his horse and lit out.”

“Which way’d he go?” asked Buck.

“Towards Feeney’s, best I could tell.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Not real good, sir.” Billy hung his head. “’Cept he was small, and he had long red hair, like a girl’s.”

Buck stood up. “Kentucky, take Billy back to camp, get him something to eat and let him sleep on my pallet. I’ll see if that sniper left any trace.” He extended his hand, grabbed the Henry, and gave it a cursory examination. “It’s clean enough now, but I’ll keep the Colt, too, just in case. Then I need to find Billy’s mother—” his jaw muscles tightened at the thought of a woman being abused “—and make the acquaintance of one Zeb Feeney.”

“Yes, sir. But if you’re not back before long, me and half the camp’ll come searching for you. We need our doctor.”

“I’ll be back. Don’t worry. Point the way to Feeney’s place, Billy, then go with Kentucky.”

#

As they hurried across the uneven ground, Kentucky observed his young charge. The boy kept up with him in a loping gait, his bad leg never touching the ground.

“You handle that crutch pretty good, Billy.”

“Pa done made it for me. But he’s dead now. I sure need a new one. This here’s too short.”

“We’ve got plenty of crutches back at the camp,” Kentucky told him. “I’ll see if I can find one that fits you better.”

The lad smiled. “With a bigger one I bet I could outrun that Zeb Feeney. When he gets aholt of me, he . . .” His voice faded.

The orderly sensed the shame the boy felt at being caught when he should have been able to outrun a grown-up and defend his mother. Billy might still be a boy, but the instinct of a man to defend the women in his life was deep seated.

What kind of creature would beat a crippled boy? This Zeb Feeney better not cross the doctor in the mood he’s in. Major Thomson’s the kindest man I’ve ever met, but today . . . what I saw in his eyes when he cradled his brother in his arms scared me clear to my marrow.

“I don’t reckon you’ll have to worry about Feeney no more,” he said. “Not after the doc has a talk with him.”

“Shucks, talking ain’t go

“We’ll see. You hungry?”

He nodded. “Ain’t et since day afore yesterday.”

“Well, then you won’t mind that what we got don’t taste specially good.”

“My momma used to make real good cornbread. You got any?”

Cornbread. The word alone had Kentucky’s mouth watering.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he said. “Right now let’s see what we can scare up.”

#

Buck moved through the thicket along the side of the streambed, gripping the Henry in his right fist. He found horse droppings and trampled grass where an animal had been tied. Droplets of bright-red blood—recent bleeding—speckled the leaf layer under the tree. He cocked the pistol and proceeded around the trunk.

Nothing.

His muscles protested as he swung into the lower branches and gazed upward. The sniper was gone, but from this vantage point he spied a ramshackle farmstead about half a mile to the east. It appeared to be deserted, except for a wisp of smoke rising from the cabin’s chimney.

Satisfied he’d seen all there was to see, he shi

Slowing his pace, he approached the cabin. He’d become accustomed to farms devastated by the war, but this collection of hovels seemed destroyed by neglect. The barn roof sagged, its walls tilted on the verge of collapse. The outhouse door was propped against the listing structure. Even more decrepit was the pathetic home itself. Missing shingles left holes in the roof. The porch sagged. The front door hung precariously by a single hinge. The interior was dark and silent.

“Hello, the house,” Buck called out. “Anybody there?”

No answer.

Cautiously he attempted the broken steps of the porch. “Mr. Feeney?”

“Take one more step an’ I’ll blow your head off!” A bearded figure materialized in the doorway and peered with bloodshot eyes over the barrels of a shotgun. “What the hell you think you doing here, messing around my property?”

Buck tightened his grip on the Henry while he raised his free hand. “Whoa. Hold on, mister. No need to get all riled. Just wanted to ask a few questions.”

“Git off my property or I’ll blast this load of buckshot slam in your face.”

“Please calm down, Mr. Feeney. I’m here because there’s a sniper over in those trees shooting my men. You could be his next target. I believe I wounded him, but I’m not sure. You seen anybody go by here?”

“I ain’t seen nothin’. And if I did I wouldn’t tell you. Now scat.”