Mankillers

“Yeah, I could use a hand,” he admitted. “But under one condition. You do exactly what I say. No killing until I tell you it’s all right.”

“Balderdash,” Clyde snapped in a deep authoritative voice, his gray beard brushing against the bib of his faded overalls. Strong language for him. He used to be a preacher till he got caught inappropriately inspiring one of God’s sweet angels. “We’ll help you get Floyd’s killer, but we ain’t asking your permission to shoot him dead when we find him.”

Zeke, standing beside him, nodded. Rufus realized Zeke would’ve nodded at anything Clyde said. “We don’t need no boss.”

Rufus slammed down his mug on the rough board, spilling beer over the side. “Listen to me, damn it. I know Buck Thomson and what he can do. You don’t. Let me tell you, he’s almost as good a shot as me, and I’m better than Floyd and Fat Man was combined. So unless you think you can outshoot me—” he paused to let the words sink in “—you do it my way or it’s no deal.”

When the other men didn’t answer him back, he went on. “I’m go

“What do you need our help for then?” Zeke demanded.

“Thomson and his lady friend are taking the stage to Charleston on Monday. I need to know who all’s with them, how many guards they’re taking, and the road they’re go

“What’s in it for us?”

“The stage carries a strong box, don’t it? Probably contains gold, right? Men passengers carry cash, and for sure Doc’s rich bitch’s got fancy jewelry with her. You can divvy it all amongst yourselves.”

Zeke slanted a quizzical eye at him. “We get to keep all the money and jewelry?”

“That’s what I said.”

“What about the woman?” Clyde wanted to know.

“She’s all yours too, dead or alive.”

“Oo-ee.” Clyde took off his hat and waved it over his head. “When’re we going?”

#

Tracker knocked on Buck’s door at precisely ten o’clock that night. No longer in riding attire, he now sported a casual cream-colored linen suit and maroon cravat. He also carried an elegant silver-knobbed walking stick that Buck suspected was more than an affectation.

They again shook hands. Buck offered him a drink from the small collection of decanters on a side table, wasn’t surprised when the tender was declined, then waved him to one of the fiddle-back chairs in the sitting room. Buck took the matching settee at a right angle to him.

“What’s your relationship with the Sneads?” Tracker asked.

Buck reviewed the history of the two families and made no attempt to disguise his contempt for Saul. With what he hoped was clinical dispassion, he itemized the man’s offenses, physical and moral, against the plantation’s defenseless slaves, as well as his defrauding the owner he worked for.

Tracker listened without comment. Buck had no doubt he’d heard similar stories in the past. Given the man’s own amalgamation, he had to wonder what experiences Pierre Bouchard might be able to personally narrate.

Buck then described Clay’s murder by a red-headed little man, the ensuing miserable deaths of the Hewitt family at the hands of depraved ruffians, thanks to the same assassin’s leaving the desperate woman and her children stranded with a useless, half-dead horse, followed by Buck catching a glimpse of him at the port in Charleston and subsequently learning his identity.

Without a nod, Tracker then said, “Tell me about your trip here from Charleston.”

Had he not met the man earlier, Buck might have taken umbrage to the repeated demands, since they constituted an essential reversal of roles. Buck was no longer interviewing a prospective guard. Tracker was interviewing him—to see if he was worthy of his protection. But their brief exchange earlier in the evening and Gus’s utter confidence in him, to the point of entrusting his beloved wife’s life to his care, allayed any misgivings Buck might have had.

Over the next half hour, he gave an account of the fateful journey.

“Any other incidents?”

Buck almost smiled now, suspecting his guest, like a lawyer, rarely asked blunt questions he didn’t already know the answer to. Nonetheless, he described the attack at Weston’s Creek, ending it with a disclaimer.

“If you ask how I know it was Snead who shot at me, I can offer no proof. I never saw him, but the similarity of setting, the circumstances of the attack—by a lone rifleman up in a tree—convinces me it was the same person.”

“It was,” Tracker agreed. “Do you know why he has a personal animus against you?”

“Because I’m a Thomson?”

Tracker shook his head. “That certainly influences his dislike of you but not sufficiently to want to kill you. In fact at Cedar Creek his intent was not to kill you but to wound you, to cripple you and ruin your life.”

Buck felt his jaw drop. Was there a word for such viciousness, for the pleasure this creature seemed to take in seeing other people suffer? If so, he didn’t know what it was. If not, there should be.

“He failed obviously,” Tracker added.

“But succeeded in wounding Sarah Drexel, a completely i

Tracker nodded. “Fortunately her injury was neither fatal nor serious.” He folded his hands and brought them up to his lips. “His goal now is even more sinister. He’s intent on killing you.”

“Why? What have I ever done to him?”

Tracker paused for a moment. “You killed his brother.”

“I . . . His brother?” Buck’s mind whirled. Had his brother been one of Buck’s patients, one of so many who didn’t survive enemy fire or his knife and saw? He knew the names of so few of the men he’d treated.

“The red-haired young man you killed at Cedar Creek.”

How strange, Buck thought, that he’d forgotten the teenager with the short, rust-colored hair that lay on the side of the road with a bullet through his heart. He’d noted the red hair and even examined his neck to determine if he might be Rufus. Then he’d put him completely out of his mind, like so many of his victims.

“He’s vowed now to kill you. Be on perpetual guard, sir. Your life is in mortal danger.”

Buck climbed to his feet and paced the worn carpet in front of the settee. He did so with hands behind his back for a long minute. Tracker did and said nothing to interrupt his reverie.

“He killed my brother,” Buck muttered, still pacing. “He condemned a half-starved widow and her two children to the most vile deaths at the hands of diseased monsters. He’s responsible for the death of an ailing elderly man who was traveling here with his wife and daughter in search of medical treatment, for wounding the daughter and killing our driver all in cold blood.”

Still Tracker remained silent. Buck continued his march up and down the length of the Oriental rug, then stopped to address his guest.

“The daughter, Sarah Drexel, must now return to Charleston on urgent business. Unfortunately her life continues to be in danger from this redheaded scum simply because she has the misfortune of being associated with me. That is why, sir, I want to engage your services, not to protect me—I’ll take care of myself—but as her bodyguard. Are you available?”

Tracker stood up. “I have a particular loathing for men who would prey upon women and children, the weak and the defenseless. In short, sir, I am at your service.”

The two men shook hands, solemnly and firmly, setting a bond that Buck knew wouldn’t be broken.

“From all you’ve told me,” Tracker said, “I’d take considerable pleasure in ending this villain’s life.”

“I’d prefer to reserve that privilege for myself,” Buck replied, then added, “however, if he should happen to fall within your sights do not hesitate. Kill him.”