Mankillers

Tracker studied him. “Doctor, I’ve done this before. I didn’t survive the Mexican War on my looks.”

Involuntarily, Buck cracked a smile.

“I’ll give you five minutes to get in a position where you can see the bluff. Then I’ll make a run for it. He won’t be expecting anyone to come out of hiding. If he’s lucky he might get two shots at me, but I run damn fast, especially when there’s a bullet chasing me, so it’ll probably be only one. That ought to give you enough time to pinpoint his location. Once I’m on the other side of the road I’ll be stuck there with no place to go, so you’ll be on your own. Think you can handle it?”

“Let’s go.”

#

Sarah had detached herself from the others with the excuse that she needed to attend to a personal matter. In fact, she’d doubled back to where Buck and Tracker were conferring with each other. What she overheard was a plan that both earned her admiration and alarmed her.

She started back to rejoin the others. Her mind was unsettled. Back’s plan was daring—and dangerous. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. He was the only man she’d ever met who was selfless and generous, who inspired her rather than frightened her. His life was in peril. She couldn’t sit quietly in the forest waiting to find out if he lived or died. She didn’t know how she could help him. Maybe she couldn’t protect him the way he was protecting her, but she could be there if he needed her.

She was about to turn back the way she’d come when Janey glanced over her shoulder.

“Miz Sarah, ma’am,” the girl called to her, “you all right? You needs help?”

Wes turned as well.

“Go on,” Sarah said. “I’ll join you presently.”

The coach driver approached her. “You need to stay close to us, ma’am.”

“I will. You go on ahead.”

“Ma’am, I can’t leave you. You need to come with us.”

She looked him directly in the eye. “I’m not asking your permission. Now take Janey and Freddie and get on into the woods.”

“Ma’am—” Wes started to protest.

“Just go,” she insisted. “I’ll be all right.”

The driver paused a long moment, clearly unhappy at the dilemma he was facing, then, with a shake of his head and a shrug, he returned to the others. Janey looked back, clearly frightened, her hand extended to Sarah, but Sarah merely smiled and motioned her on.

#

Buck plowed his way through the underbrush until he had a panoramic view of the bluff above him. Once again he tried to put himself in the redheaded man’s mind. Rufus liked to fire from heights. He already had the advantage of elevation on the bluff, but Buck imagined he’d feel still more comfortable perched in a tree. A bird’s eye view certainly gave him an advantage, but in this cat-and-mouse game, it also limited his mobility.

All Buck could be reasonably sure of was that Rufus Snead would be facing south. The seconds kept ticking away. How long had it been since he and Tracker had separated? When would Tracker make his dash? He had to be ready to fire in an instant. How could he get a clear view of the road without making himself a target at the same time?

Which tree? And how high up?

A shot rang out.

It came from above, ahead of him. But where? He searched for the telltale smoke of a rifle. Nothing. Damn. Damn. Damn. He’d missed his one opportunity to locate the bastard.

#

From her hidden vantage point in the tangled shrubs under the pine trees, Sarah had watched Tracker, wearing Buck’s coat, dash out into the road and then back, only to do it again. But the second time, instead of darting into the woods a dozen yards from her where he’d started from, he zigzagged down the road to where it curved beside the fast-moving river.

He was nearly there when a report rang out. Tracker was moving as fast as any horse she’d ever seen. The bullet missed him and kicked up a gout of sand on his left.

She waited for the sound of Buck’s rifle up on the bluff. But none came. Either he wasn’t yet in place when the mankiller had fired or he hadn’t been able to establish his location. The trees were dense at the top of the bluff. One shot would be difficult to isolate.

She’d overheard Buck and Tracker making their plans, so she knew that Tracker was safe but trapped where he was. Any attempt on his part to get back up on the road would expose him. Since Buck hadn’t yet gotten his prey he would still be searching for the killer. What she had to do now was keep the sniper’s attention focused on the road until Buck was in position.

She listened for another minute. Except for the distant rush of the river and the songbirds twittering around her, all was silent.

Taking a fortifying breath, she reached between her legs, gathered her skirt and bolted out onto the roadway. She couldn’t run nearly as fast or deviously as Tracker, but perhaps the sight of a woman would u

#

A second shot.

This time Buck spied movement and a small wisp of smoke high up in a tree less than twenty yards to his right.

His heart pounded and euphoria coursed through him. At last, Buck had Rufus Snead in his sights.

Carefully he aimed. Slowly he tightened his finger on the trigger. A raven fluttered from the branches of a nearby pine. Buck fired. A scream erupted. An eternal five seconds elapsed before the redheaded man tumbled from his perch to the ground below.

Buck realized he was panting, as if he’d been ru

But Clay was gone forever. Was this justice? It didn’t bring his brother back. Buck tried to console himself that this misanthrope, as Clay had called him, wouldn’t be killing anyone else.

The winding footpath brought him closer to the sniper. He approached cautiously, smoking Henry still clutched in his right hand . . . just in case.

He heard a groan.

My God!

As Buck drew nearer, he realized Rufus Snead was still alive. The bullet had pierced his chest. Blood was oozing from the wound. He was still breathing but he didn’t have long to live.

Suddenly an emotion Buck thought he’d lost somewhere in the many battles of war again manifested itself. Kneeling beside the dying man, he cradled him in his arms the way he’d held his brother.

The redheaded man’s one eye gazed up at him, not so much in pain or anger, as in sorrow. “Sally Mae . . .”

“What about her?” Buck asked softly.

“The . . . only . . . good . . . thing . . . I—” He coughed. “I . . . wanted . . . to . . . help . . .”

Suddenly choked, Buck squeezed out the words, “I understand.”

Blood trickled from the corner of the dying man’s mouth. “Take . . . care . . . of . . . Job,” he whispered.

“I will,” Buck replied, his voice still husky. “I’ll take good care of him.”

“Em-ma . . .” Buck pictured Job coming out onto the porch and climbing onto the old woman’s lap. “Em-ma.”

“Emma too. I promise.” Buck’s throat burned. “They’ll be all right.”

“I’m sor—” His eyes closed.

The mankiller was dead.

Chapter NINETEEN