“You need to be able to defend yourself. Besides, it might upset folks if I came riding into town with a Henry on the saddle.”
“Yes, sir, I hear that. You be careful now. There’s a lot of bad men out there.”
#
The redheaded man had spent the last two nights in the woods sleeping on the ground. The bleeding had stopped, but his neck still hurt like hell, especially when the damn mare went into a trot. He’d saw viciously at the reins, and the horse would whinny from the pain, but it would also slow to a plodding pace rather than risk more punishment.
Pesky flies swarmed noisily around the stiff, bloody collar of his shirt. He cursed loudly and tried to flail them away but that made his neck hurt worse, so he stopped those futile efforts and defended himself with vile oaths. If the wound wasn’t properly dressed soon, he knew, maggots would start feasting on his rotting flesh.
Beyond the next hill he could see locomotives belching smoke at the railroad intersection near Burkeville. Litter upon litter of soldiers were being crammed side by side onto flatbeds. As he rode nearer, one of the bearers paused, wiped his brow with a rag and yelled.
“Hey, boy, from the looks of that neck you need to climb aboard with us.”
“I ain’t gonna no damn hospital.”
The litter bearer shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
The rider had a sudden thought. “Hold on a minute. Y’all got a doctor ‘round here?”
“Naw, Doc Thomson stayed back at camp. Some damn sniper killed his brother.”
Well, I’ll be honey-fuggled. Never dawned on me that the man standing next to Clay Thomson was his brother.
“Doc Thomson, you say?” He leaned forward in the saddle and suppressed a grin. “Sniper killed his brother, huh?”
“Over west a ways. Near Sayler’s Creek where the fighting was at. Doc Thomson was standing right by him when it happened.”
“Didn’t nobody shoot back?” the rider asked, trying to contain his glee.
“I hear tell Doc Thomson got off a round or two, but he must’ve missed.”
Reckon I was lucky. As I recall Buck Thomson was a dang good shot, at least at pine cones.
“This Doc Thomson? His first name Buck?”
The litter bearer scratched his head. “Don’t rightly know. From South Carolina, I believe. Never heard him called anything but doc or major. A fine man though.”
“Yeah, sure,” mumbled the small rider.
“Take care of that neck now, hear?” the litter bearer called out as the visitor nudged his horse and rode off.
“Oh, I plan to,” whispered the red-haired man. “I definitely plan to.”
Chapter FOUR
Buck guided Gypsy down a slope to the right of the campground until he reached the railroad going into Burkeville, then he followed the tracks. He was challenged by a Union sentry near the outskirts. After he identified himself and his business in town, the soldier let him pass, and in answer to Buck’s questions, provided directions to the nearest mercantile. “Get ready to be skinned,” he said in friendly warning. “Everything’s priced sky-high.”
A mile down the tracks he entered the busy town. Gypsy stepped daintily along the muddy main street while Buck’s eyes tracked restlessly back and forth over the throngs mingling along the wooden sidewalks. Hostile and curious stares followed his progress. Clots of slouchers standing isly along the streets plus filthy horsemen and wagon-drivers represented the largest collection of “po’ white trash” Buck had ever seen. He reached down and untied the saddlebag hiding his Colt. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something to happen, probably bad.
He dismounted in front of the general store and tied Gypsy to the rail. Inside he found a meager selection of poor quality garments which were, as the sentry had warned, overpriced. They had one virtue, however. They were for sale. He bought outfits for himself and Kentucky.
Buck donned his new civilian coat which smelled musty and fit him poorly, then packaged his uniform tunic with the rest of his purchases. After tying this parcel behind the saddle, he mounted Gypsy once again, headed out of town, and waved to the same friendly sentry as he passed. The evening light had faded and the moonless night was a velvet shroud studded with twinkling diamonds. Gypsy was stepping carefully up the flank of a hill when Buck saw the welcome glow of Kentucky’s fire.
His senses became unnaturally acute when he heard a muffled groaning sound and glimpsed flickering shadows of figures silhouetted in the firelight. Below the crest Buck slipped from his saddle and knotted Gypsy’s reins to a small shrub. Stealthily he opened a saddlebag, withdrew a handful of cartridges and quietly placed them in his coat pocket before filling the empty sixth cylinder of the Colt. With careful deliberation, he silently lowered the hammer.
He crouched forward. For the moment, the rhythmic slapping sounds had ceased. He inched still closer until he had a clear view of the scene below.
Two ragged men lay by the campfire passing a bottle between them. One was obese and red-faced. His left arm ended where his elbow should have been. The other, skinny to the point of emaciation, had a crudely fashioned peg leg strapped to what was left of his right thigh. A third man, standing with his back to Buck, was average in height and weight and in possession of all his limbs. He held a whip in his right hand and appeared to be catching his breath. It wasn’t until he turned to speak to the others that Buck saw the patch covering his left eye and the jagged scar from brow to chin that cut across what once might have been a pleasant face.
Spread-eagled on a nearby tree, Kentucky sagged, his wrists fixed to overhead branches with strips of rawhide. His feet barely touched the ground. He was naked except for the fouled pants pooled around his ankles. Blood oozed from his rectum. A dirty rag was stuffed in his mouth.
“I generally prefer doing niggers,” the whip man told his victim between heavy breaths. “But you’ll just have to do, white boy.”
“You done real good with that white lady the other night, Amos,” said the one-armed man. He took a swig from the whiskey bottle and handed it over to his scarecrow companion. “Real good.”
The leg amputee gulped and snickered. “Oh, yeah. She sure did scream. Make this here white boy scream like a woman, Amos.” He fondled the crotch of his pants. “I truly like it when you make ‘em scream.”
Amos straightened, shook out the whip and was drawing it back for the next lash when Buck cocked his weapon. The distinctive click stopped one-eye in mid motion. The two good pairs of eyes also turned to face the sound.
“Who’s there?” the fat man called out. “Redhead, you come back to play too?”
Buck pulled the trigger. The bullet severed Amos’s upraised hand. The whip tumbled to the ground and laid there, fingers still clutching the handle. Several seconds went by before the owner registered his
loss. Then, screaming, he fell down, clutching the blood-spurting stump.
“That enough screaming for you?” Buck asked the one-legged pervert. A second bullet entered the man’s narrow chest before he had a chance to reply.
Buck then swung his Colt and took deliberate aim at the fat man.
“Please, mister, please.” He held up his good arm and the stump of the other.
Buck pulled the trigger a third time. This bullet found the man’s Adam’s apple and nearly severed his porcine head. Blood gushed from ruptured arteries before finally dribbling to a halt.