Mankillers

“How many servants you got here?” Randolph asked, his gun still pointed directly at Sarah.

“Just me and the cook, massa.”

“Call her.”

“Rosie? Rosie, come here.” His voice was unsteady.

A woman’s gray-haired head appeared from the kitchen door at the other end of the dining room.

“Tell her to get out here,” Randolph repeated harshly.

“Rosie.” Duncan’s voice trembled.

The black woman, who wasn’t up to the butler’s shoulder in height, approached with hands wrapped in her apron.

“Where does that lead to?” Randolph nodded to the small portal under the stairs.

“To the cellar, sir,” Duncan replied.

“Both of you, go down there and be quiet. Understand?”

“Yessir,” he said. The woman shied like a whipped dog as she circled toward it. Seconds later their feet could be heard clattering down the wooden steps.

Randolph moved over to the portal door and slammed it, then shot the outside bolt. His focus on Sarah hadn’t wavered. “Now, my dear adulterous wife, it’s time for you—”

“You know, Randolph, I liked you a lot better when you were dead.”

“Sarah,” Buck cautioned under his breath, but she wasn’t listening. He saw Randolph raise his gun and take a step back as his finger tightened on the trigger.

Suddenly there was an explosion at his feet.

Randolph stared down at a shattered flowerpot but quickly regained his composure before glancing up to the landing above. “Come on down here, Ruth. Damn you.”

No sound.

“If you don’t come down in the next five seconds, I’ll shoot your daughter. Maybe kill her or just let her suffer. One. Two—”

“I’m coming. I’m coming,” Ruth protested.

She descended the regal staircase slowly, arthritically, one painful step at a time. Buck understood what she was doing, stalling, no doubt in the hope that the distraction would give him an opportunity to draw his pistol.

“Stand over there with your daughter and her boyfriend,” Randolph ordered her when she finally reached the bottom of the stairs.

Ruth clung to Sarah’s waist.

“My, what a cozy little family y’all make.”

“Help me, damn it,” Rex shouted angrily. Everybody’s eyes turned toward the sickroom. “My leg’s bleeding. Bad.”

Was it? Buck wondered. It hadn’t been a minute ago.

“The pain,” Rex cried out. “It’s killing me. I need laudanum.”

“But—” Sarah started to say before she caught herself.

“Help me. God, I’m bleeding bad.”

“You’ve got to let Dr. Thomson help the poor man,” Ruth pleaded. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“Somebody . . . you got to stop the bleeding. I don’t want to die. Please, somebody help me. Buck, please.”

“Randolph, really,” Ruth said, as if speaking to a child. “He’s i

“God damn it,” Rex cursed in exasperation. “First you cut off my leg and now you’re letting me bleed to death. Oh God, why? What did I ever do to you?”

Randolph appeared both confused by the situation and angry at the distraction from the other room.

“I’m dying in here.” Rex was sobbing now. “I’m in pain. And not one of you bastards will help me. Please, at least give me something for the pain. P-l-e-a-s-e. God, it hurts.”

At last Randolph seemed to make up his mind. He waved his gun toward the door. “All of you, in there. Now.”

Rex was wailing. “I’m in pain.” He moaned. “I’m bleeding bad.” He sounded pathetic. “I’m dying.” He implored piteously. “Help me!”

The hostages hastened into the dimly lit room. “You women sit over there.” Again Randolph motioned with his weapon, this time toward the settee across from the bed.

The first thing Buck noted was that Rex’s stump really was bleeding.

“Doc,” Randolph shouted impatiently over the keening of the man sprawled on the bloody sheets, “Shut him up quick or I will.”

Buck hated turning his back on his adversary, but he had no choice. He was leaning over his patient when Ruth moaned, “All that blood. I . . . I think I . . . I’m going to faint.”

Over his shoulder, Buck saw the elderly woman sway and Sarah grab her under the arms. “Let me help you, Momma.” She seated her on the settee.

Ruth placed the back of her wrist dramatically on her forehead and mumbled. “That bloody stump . . .”

While Randolph’s attention was diverted to the two women, Buck reached under the covers. He started to turn when Sarah screamed, “No-o-o.”

Like a tiger, she leapt to the man standing in the middle of the room and reached for his arm. Two shots rang out simultaneously.

#

When the smoke cleared, the body of Randolph Drexel lay in a pool of blood in the middle of Ruth Greenwald’s back sitting room.

Sarah stared at it, her pulse hammering in her ears. Or was it the reverberations of the gunshots? How strange that Randolph should look so calm, so relaxed, so still. She had betrothed herself to this man, promised to love, honor and obey him, and for a few months she had felt not quite love but at least affection for him. He had given her a baby. Then he’d taken it away. Affection had turned to pain and loathing and finally hatred. What she’d feared most was that he’d also destroyed her capacity to love.

Until Dr. Thomson appeared in her life. Buck made her feel what she’d never experienced before, certainly not with Randolph—a bond, a union of spirits. Without realizing it she’d found love, not the kind that consumed but the kind that fulfilled.

Buck’s expression was subdued as he placed his fingers on the neck of the human form on the floor.

“This time he really is dead,” he a

Sarah felt an arm tug at her waist, looked over and saw her mother’s stoic face.

“It’s as it should be, my dear. When the righteous in a man departs, evil enters.”

Sarah threw herself into her mother’s arms. “I tried to love him, Momma. Truly, but—”

“He didn’t deserve your love, sweetheart, and never appreciated what he couldn’t give himself. Let Him who is Eternal judge his merits, and let us move on with our lives.” Ruth led her daughter to the settee and sat beside her. They squeezed each other’s hands.

#

A .44 caliber hole was centered directly over the heart of Randolph Drexel. Buck wondered if Sarah’s husband had known of Buck’s reputation with firearms and if it made any difference. He gazed down at the corpse. He’d just killed another man, but as with the others, he felt no regret. This man too had deserved to die.

He surveyed the room. The smell of gun powder hung heavy in the smoky air. Had Sarah not bolted when she had and struck Randolph’s gun arm, Buck might be a cadaver on the floor as well. She’d saved

his life. Again. Not just physically. But they could discuss all that later. At the moment he had a more critical situation to attend to. He rushed over to the bed.

“You certainly played your part well,” he said, raising Rex’s bloody stump from the soaked sheet. “I never realized you were such a good actor. But why the hell are you bleeding? You weren’t when I left the room.”

“Acting?” Rex arched his back and spoke through gritted teeth. “The pain isn’t an act, doctor. I pulled out one of your neat little stitches, and let me tell you, it hurts like hell.”

“I’ll get you some laudanum.” Buck looked around. The flask, which had already been nearly empty, lay on the floor, the last of its contents forming a small puddle on the polished hardwood beside the oriental carpet. He looked to the parlor table where he’d earlier placed a fresh supply.

Sarah climbed to her feet. “Let me help.”

“You don’t need to,” he told her.

“Yes, I do.” Her first step was unsteady, but then she visibly steeled herself and moved forward with determination. “The two of you saved my life. I owe you both more than I can ever repay.” She retrieved the fallen spoon, wiped it with her fingers and collected one of the uncorked flasks from the table. “You must be in agony, Rex. I’m so sorry.”