Mankillers

Sarah pushed her way through the underbrush and stopped. Buck was on his knees, tears ru

Fighting the impulse to rush to his side, she started to turn away, filled with shame for her lack of compassion. She’d give him another minute to collect himself.

Tracker appeared at her side, his face stoic. They exchanged wordless glances.

For a moment Buck remained motionless, then lowered the dead body of his archenemy to the soft forest floor and slowly rose to his feet.

“Why are you here?” he asked Sarah.

He seemed so distant, she wondered if he would even hear the answer. “I thought . . .” But she didn’t know what to say. All she could do was envelop him in her arms. They wept together.

After a discreet interval Tracker shook a nearby branch, the distraction enough to raise their heads.

“Mrs. Drexel,” he said, “you’re a remarkably brave woman, but please don’t ever tempt fate like that again.”

Buck looked from one to the other. “Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”

Over the next few minutes Tracker explained what Sarah had done to draw Snead’s second shot. She stood by, occasionally nodding, but said nothing.

When Tracker was finished, Buck looked at Sarah then grasped her hands. “Now that I’ve found you, I don’t want to lose you.”

She smiled up at him. “You haven’t.”

#

Over the next several hours, everyone was busy. Falling back on old habits, Buck took charge. He told Wes where Gypsy was tethered and sent him to the settlement three miles away where he could hire a wagon and team to convey the ladies into Charleston. Meanwhile, he and Tracker buried the redheaded man. Janey was still trembling from the morning’s ordeal. Sarah did her best to assure her the danger was passed. Freddie, feeling useless, insisted on standing guard in case there were more members of Rufus’s gang around. Buck seriously doubted any survivors would be willing to show themselves, but he appreciated the young man’s concern and dedication.

The ordeal was over. The redheaded man was dead. Thank God the killing had ended. Buck knew he should be exhilarated. Instead he felt depressed, let down and strangely sad. He’d killed another man today. He prayed it was his last.

It was late in the afternoon when the weary travelers finally pulled up in front of the Greenwald home on Charleston’s Battery.

“Goodness me,” Janey said, staring up at the massive three-story clapboard mansion. “This is where you live?”

“It’s the only home I’ve ever known. My father had it built when he married my mother. It won’t be the same now without him.”

She invited everyone inside, where they were greeted by a butler and housekeeper, who offered their simple but heartfelt condolences on the death of Mr. Greenwald. They inquired after Sarah’s mother and were given directions to pack an additional trunk of clothes to be sent to her in Columbia. Janey was also introduced, assigned a place in the servants’ quarters and made a part of the household staff.

Meanwhile Buck attended to Freddie’s arm in the back parlor, where he and Wes were then served supper. Before they left for their lodging house on East Bay Street, Sarah presented them with generous purses, which they happily accepted.

As soon as the driver and guard left, she turned to Tracker. “Mr. Bouchard, please join us in the dining room. I can’t offer oysters and shrimp, but I think you’ll find our cuisine palatable.”

He bowed and kissed her hand. “Would that I could, Madame, but I have vital affairs I must attend to. Perhaps on another occasion.”

“You’re always welcome, sir,” she said. “Perhaps when we meet again we can work up our appetites with another footrace.”

He laughed. “I’ve never known a woman to finish last. Au revoir.”

She stood in the doorway, while Buck stepped outside to offer his friend a final handshake. “Thank you for everything, Tracker.”

“You’re welcome.” Then he leaned forward and said sotto voce in Buck’s ear, “Don’t let her get away, mon ami.” With a final wave, he descended the porch steps and strutted toward Market Street.

“Perhaps it would be best if I departed as well,” Buck said to Sarah.

“I would welcome your company this evening, doctor. It’s been a long and trying week, not to mention today’s affair. Mother isn’t here, and I don’t feel like dining alone. On the other hand, maybe you would prefer solitude.”

He recalled the feel of her in his arms at the top of the bluff. “I would very much like to spend some time with you, but . . . is it appropriate? I mean—”

“Under the circumstances,” she said seriously, “I frankly don’t care about propriety, if that’s what you’re referring to. So sit, eat.”

He gri

They sat at opposite ends of the long dining room table, while the butler served a series of courses, each exquisitely prepared, none overly large, though the cumulative effect was quite satisfying.

“May I ask what plans you have for the future?” She spread chicken pate on a piece of toasted bread. “I understand you’re considering opening a medical practice here in Charleston.”

“I know more physicians here than in Columbia, so my chances of finding an opportunity are probably better.” He lifted his cut-crystal glass and sipped tea.

“Do you have any contacts here in Charleston?”

“Some of my old professors, if they’re still around.”

“If I can be of any help . . .” The butler removed dishes and presented the next course, braised beef tips in a wine sauce. “Several friends of our family are doctors.”

“I’d appreciate any introductions you can give me.” My God, Buck thought, this is our first private conversation and we’re talking business. He covered up his smile by sampling the beef dish. “I do hope my future medical practice involves more than gunshot wounds.” And cutting off limbs.

“I’m sure you’ll be successful at whatever you do.”

So polite. So serious. Was she nervous being alone with him? Not afraid, he hoped, but the look in her eyes didn’t reflect fear. No, not fear, but . . . something.

“And you?” he asked, following her lead. “What about this lawsuit you’re involved in?”

“I’ll fight it, of course. I have no intention of letting Franklin Drexel profit by his son’s crimes or my father’s death. You may rest assured of that.”

She was a strong and determined woman. Heaven help her opponents. “You’ll prevail. And after that? Will you run the brokerage yourself?”

“Like you, my future’s uncertain. The cotton market . . .” She lifted her shoulders and let them fall. “My father put money aside for Mother and me, but the hardest work is being idle, as he was fond of saying.”

Buck chuckled. “I never thought of it that way, but I have to agree.”

The meal proceeded with charm and dignity, as they discussed other topics, their tastes in music and literature, Jewish customs and courtesies.

He was disappointed when dessert was finally served, not because it was simple pudding but because it meant their time together was drawing to a close. For two weeks Sarah Drexel had been the focus of his interest, the center of his attention, and the salvation of his sanity. When he left this house in a little while, he had no idea when he would return.