Mankillers

“Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,

And make me travel forth without my cloak,

To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way

Hiding their bravery in their rotten smoke?”

This time Sarah stared at him with stu

And what of the so

Her body guard’s eyes remained averted, but a smile played on his lips, as if he were reading her thoughts and concurring. When the girl reached the last two lines, the resolution of the so

“Ah! But these tears are pearls which thy love sheds,

And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.”

In other words, the disappointment she feels now will be rewarded later.

Janey slipped her finger in between the pages. “That’s pretty.”

She hadn’t read it with the fluidity she had the first piece.

“And appropriate, I think,” Tracker added. Before Sarah could ask the question he must have seen on her lips, he continued, “The key to poetry is often not what’s written, but what’s implied between the lines.”

Sarah didn’t hold back her smile this time. To her puzzlement, however, he ignored it and gazed out the window. What thoughts had these measured lines evoked? Maybe they weren’t about her at all. Nevertheless if they’d been alone she might have said Thank you.

#

The women fell silent, then began nodding as the rig rocked and swayed through the sandy ruts as it headed toward its first destination. Tracker remained on full alert.

They were several miles from St Matthews when the rhythmic, insistent squeal of the coach’s left rear wheel became strident. He was the first to detect the faint smell of burning wood. He stuck his head out the window and informed the driver they had an overheated hub. With a muttered curse the knight of the ribbons began reining in the horses.

“Ladies,” Tracker said firmly, “please stay inside while we attend to this problem.”

Before the wheels had stopped turning Freddie Swift leapt from the roof and positioned himself in front of the coach, sweeping his rifle through a hip-high arc in protective custody. Almost as quickly, Tracker sprang from inside the rig and took a mirror position guarding the rear.

#

A hundred yards back, Buck rode atop Gypsy, sca

Almost frantically he scoured the countryside. No sign of anyone in the trees. No horses unattended. No sign of anyone or anything out of the ordinary. Just a farmhand moseying along a country road on his horse. Buck removed the Henry from its scabbard and kept the stock tucked under his arm as he continued to survey the bucolic scene below. The rider was still a hundred yards from the stalled coach when he removed his hat and wiped his brow. Black hair, not red. Short, not long. Not Rufus Snead. Yet something about him didn’t feel right.

Meanwhile, Wes had removed a beam with a notch in one end from a toolbox beneath the coach’s chassis. He wedged it under the rear axle and urged the horses forward enough to lever the damaged wheel out of its sandy rut. After chocking the others, he unscrewed the hub nut with a wrench, greased the axle and proceeded with reassembly.

Uncomfortable with the plowboy appearing on the scene, Buck raised his rifle to his shoulder and held the lone rider in his sights. Fortunately he passed on Buck’s side of the coach, giving him a clear shot, should one be necessary. The rider slowed his pace as he passed the raised vehicle, tipped his hat to the passengers, said something and continued on. Lowering his rifle, Buck used his binoculars to maintain surveillance of the stranger until he turned into a side road, leading to a farm house a mile away. By then, the coachman had remounted his box and resumed their travel.

Instead of being a source of relief, the false alarm served to heighten Buck’s awareness of the danger ahead.

#

Dusk was approaching as the coach pulled into St Matthews. The stage compound on the western outskirts of the hamlet seemed more suited to storing grain than accommodating travelers. Buck told the driver and passengers to remain outside while he checked within. The dimly lit downstairs common room reeked of last winter’s wood fires.

A man in his fifties wearing a leather apron came through a low doorway at the far end of the room.

“Welcome, welcome, sir. Name’s Jim Hopkins. Y’all are right on time. How many in your party, sir?”

“I’m Dr. Thomson. There are six of us altogether, but we’ll only need accommodations for four. The driver and guard will remain with the coach. The ladies would prefer to stay together if you have a room large enough to accommodate them.”

“They can have the big room, sir. Two beds and a real nice wash stand. I’ll help you bring in their things while my wife Matilda sets the table. Supper’ll be ready in a few minutes. How about a drink first? Reckon you’ve had a long day.”

“It has been long, but I’ll pass on the drink.”

The i

“Perhaps,” Buck replied, not wanting to dampen the man’s enthusiasm.

They went outside. Tracker was helping Freddie lower the carpet bags from the roof. Janey opened the door below them, got out and held it for Sarah.

“Wait a minute, mister,” the i

Buck could tell Janey had overheard the man’s remarks, but seemed to ignore them. Tracker, however, was less indulgent. Seeing him reach inside his coat, Buck placed a restraining hand on his arm. The two men made brief eye contact. A second later Tracker withdrew his hand.

“Mr. Hopkins,” Buck said firmly, “the ladies—” he emphasized the word “—will be pleased to accept your offer of the big room. And Mr. Bouchard and I appreciate your furnishing us two separate bedrooms.”

“See here, mister, this is my place and I decide who stays in it. And no damn darkies are welcome.”

“Times have changed, Mr. Hopkins. The war’s over.” He put his hand inside his jacket, where his pistol was clearly outlined. “It would be a pity, now that the shooting’s stopped, for you to add your blood to the cause. I sure would hate to have to kill you in front of your wife.”

A scrawny woman, wearing a threadbare dress with a mismatched patch along the hem, came up behind the depot manager and said quietly. “Jim, hush your mouth. Ain’t go

“Tillie, get inside and leave this to me.”

“Jim, we need the money,” she implored, then addressed the travelers. “Y’all come along now while my husband sees to the horses and totes in y’all’s things. Supper’ll be ready soon as I take the biscuits out of the oven.”