Mankillers

She put her hand on his sleeve. “These are indeed difficult times. The war . . .” She took a shallow breath. “It’s as if civilization itself has died. But rest assured, you are not to blame for other people’s misdeeds.”

He was about to respond, when Janey declared, “Don’t you worry, Miz. Sarah. I’ll be watching out for both of us.”

Buck smiled. He’d forgotten Sarah’s young companion was sitting beside her, unavoidably listening in on their conversation. “Good girl,” he complimented her, then stepped back.

Tracker climbed aboard and took the seat opposite Sarah, giving him a rear view of the road behind them.

Buck signaled Wes, who clucked the horses into motion.

#

Getting revenge for the wound in his neck should have been coon pie for Rufus. Instead Doc Thomson had turned everything upside down. Not only wasn’t he touched in the shower of gunfire at Cedar Creek, but he’d killed Floyd and Fat Man. Adding insult to injury, the ambush at Weston’s Creek had gone awry, making Rufus look like a humbug.

Not again. He didn’t work for the Yankees anymore. He wasn’t a lone sniper working for someone else. He had his own gang now, men who’d sworn their loyalty to him—or would once they got their hands on the strong box. Might have been simpler if he didn’t have a gang though. Being a general wasn’t so easy, not with all the pla

Rufus had considered showing up at the stage depot by himself, open fire, kill the doc and as many other people as he wanted and then vamoose. But he wasn’t real good at close-in shooting with a handgun, maybe cause he had only one good eye, but more importantly, Buck Thomson was. Rufus couldn’t take any chances on the plantation owner’s highfalutin son hornswoggling him again. Thomson had always been lucky, but his luck was about to run out.

Since he didn’t want to show his face around the depot, Rufus had sent Hank to pick up any information he could. The stage had departed on the first leg of its trip to Charleston less than an hour when Hank appeared in the saloon’s doorway, looking smug and well satisfied with himself. He crossed the room, head up, eyes straight ahead, greeted Rufus who was standing at the bar and ordered a beer from Shifty. He took his first long quaff and stroked his handlebar mustache before telling his new boss, “I got what you wanted.”

Everybody was listening.

“How many people on board?” Rufus demanded.

“The driver, a guard, a dude in working clothes, a white woman in black and a high-yellow nigger girl is all.”

“Who’s the dude?”

“One of them ‘most-white Creoles, I reckon, cause I heard him talk French. Got a rifle case with him.”

“Most-white, huh? Ain’t Doc Thomson then. He’s all white. You see any gent might be the doctor?”

“Yep, but he didn’t get in the coach.”

“What?” Rufus wasn’t expecting that. “What’d he do?”

“Rode off on a black horse a few minutes after it left.”

Thomson wasn’t with his woman? Rufus realized he should have known the doc would want to play scout to make sure there were no traps laid for her. Smart. But then, Rufus never featured Doc Thomson to be stupid. But if he was riding behind the coach . . .

“Any way we can get ahead of ‘em?” he asked Hank.

“You could cut across a couple of farms and co

Rufus pondered the situation. Hitting them too close to St Matthews probably wasn’t a good idea. The boys wanted to have some fun. That’d take time. Not that he cared about them. Whether they got any money or women wasn’t important to him. All he wanted to do was kill Thomson, but thinking on it, he might want to take his time doing that too. A remote location between stops would be better. And after all, there was no need to rush. They wouldn’t reach Charleston for several days. Maybe he ought to use that time to play a few games, keep them on edge. That way, when he did strike they’d be tuckered out.

A plan came to mind. He would’ve liked to do it himself, but that might be too dangerous. Thomson might recognize him. No point in taking a chance. Not with a man who was as good with guns as the doc. So he came up with another idea. Mundo was dumber than dirt, but he was good with a gun and he generally did all right when he was told exactly what to do. From a distance he might even be mistaken for Rufus.

“Hey, Mundo, I got a job for you.”

#

Sarah had bidden a final farewell to the Graysons and wiped her eyes as the coach pulled away. Miriam and Ruth waved small white kerchiefs as they disappeared from view.

She sat back against the hard wooden seat and let out a rueful sigh. No use fooling herself. She was disappointed that Buck wouldn’t be riding with her. She’d been looking forward to his company. For no reason she smiled at Tracker sitting across from her. His return smile seemed almost an invasion of her inmost thoughts.

The flat-roofed carriage swayed on its leather strap suspension as they advanced down the road at a leisurely pace to spare the horses as well as the passengers over the rutted road.

For the first mile Janey practically hung out the window. This was an adventure for her, a new, exciting experience. Sarah studied the girl. Under the best of circumstances her life would be difficult. Not as difficult as Emma’s had been, she hoped, but not likely to be as comfortable or at ease as a white woman’s. The girl was intelligent and curious, a combination that could make her life rich but could also bring unbearable frustration, for her opportunities to use her intelligence and explore her curiosities would be not just limited but activity obstructed by those less blessed.

Another mile or two went by. The passing countryside offered no new vistas.

“Would you like me to read to you from my book?” Janey asked, proudly opening the small volume. For generations before her, slaves had been forbidden the right to literacy. Janey clearly didn’t take it for granted.

“That would be very nice. Do you have a favorite?”

Janey smiled. “Yes’m. Number twenty-nine.”

“Say yes, ma’am, Janey. Not yes’m. It sounds better.”

“Yes, um, ma’am.”

Tracker appeared preoccupied but also mildly amused. He was an interesting man, partly Sarah suspected, because there was an air of mystery about him, a secretiveness she was utterly confident she was unlikely to penetrate.

“I’d like very much to hear you read,” she told Janey.

The young girl flipped a page, found what she was looking for and began to read:

“When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries

And look upon myself and curse my fate . . .”

It was an appropriate so

“Will you read me another?” Sarah asked.

The request obviously pleased her. She paged through the small volume, uncertain which one to choose.

“How about number thirty-four?” Tracker suggested.

Startled, Sarah cocked her head to the side as she gazed at him. He’d been so quiet she’d almost forgotten he was there.

Janey too seemed disoriented by the request, but she recovered quickly. “Oh, all right.” She flipped a few more pages until she found it.