“Our deepest condolences,” Mrs. Greenwald responded. “It seems no family’s been spared the tragedy of loss in this terrible conflict, but at last it’s over.”
Mr. Greenwald remained silent during this exchange, which wouldn’t have been particularly remarkable under the circumstances. Buck fondly remembered learning from his mother that when women were speaking, men should remain silent and attentive, speaking only when spoken to. However, Sarah’s father showed absolutely no interest in the conversation. Buck suspected he was for all intents and purposes unaware of what was being said.
They rode in silence for a minute or two.
“And what about the future, doctor?” Ruth asked. “Do you plan to open your practice in Columbia so you can remain close to your father?”
“It’s a consideration. I hope to explore the opportunities with Dr. Meyer and my good friend Gus Grayson.”
“Grayson? You know Augustus and Miriam? I hope they’re well. I’m sure you’ll get wise counsel on the prospects available in their fair city. I implore you, however, not to eliminate Charleston from your considerations. There’s always room for another good doctor, especially in a thriving port.”
“You’re quite right, Mrs. Greenwald.” Buck gazed over at Sarah, sitting next to him. “Charleston has many attractions.”
From there the conversation migrated to mundane subjects like the price of cotton, about other people they knew in common, at least by name, and about times past. Eventually, however, the heat and humidity, the buzzing of insects and the rhythmic snoring of the guard lulled them from their sprightly conversation into private daydreams.
The sun was low in the sky when they finally pulled up to the inn at Monck’s Corner. The driver tied the reins to the brake pole, climbed down and went into the squat, dirty building. The shotgun, who’d been sleeping and snoring all day, miraculously came to life and joined him. Displeased by their ill manners, Buck nevertheless took the time necessary to help the stiff-jointed ladies down for the uncomfortable conveyance. Mr. Greenwald remained on the bench.
“May I offer you a hand?” Buck said.
He received no response.
Ruth came around to his side of the carriage. “Jacob,” she ordered loudly, “we’re stopping here for the night. You need to get down. Now.”
Buck expected the elderly man to resist her as he had in the ship’s dining room, but this time he complied with a mumbled, “Yes, dear.”
The inside of the inn was no more inviting than the outside, but at least they weren’t confined to hard seats and jangling motion. The proprietor came out from behind a raised counter and asked them to sign the register. Buck meanwhile sought out the driver and guard.
They weren’t difficult to find. The saloon was plainly visible through two sets of double doors. Buck entered, walked up to the round table where the pair had already consumed half the contents of quart-sized glass mugs of beer.
“Bring in the ladies luggage, John,” he ordered the driver, “and take it to their rooms.”
“Soon’s I finish my beer,” he replied dismissively.
Buck pretended to ignore him and turned to his companion. “You, too, George.”
“Mister,” the guard growled, not even bothering to look up, “I ain’t your nigger.”
Buck’s heartbeat begin to accelerate, his breathing slowed and deepened, and his chest expanded. He reached out, picked up the two mugs and poured the contents on the sawdust floor. “You’ve finished your beers. Now bring in the bags.”
Both men jumped up. The guard reached for his shotgun, propped up against the table, but Buck kicked it away before he could grab it. Simultaneously he snatched his Colt from the inside pocket of his coat and pressed it to the man’s cheek.
“The next thing I spill won’t be your beer.” He glowered at the driver who’d retreated at the sight of the handgun. “Understand?”
“All right. All right,” the driver wheedled. “Calm down, mister. Don’t know what difference a five-minute delay would’ve made, but you want them bags in now. . . . Sure.”
“You have anything to add?” Buck asked the guard who was now wide-eyed.
“I never argue with a loaded Colt. I’ll get the damned bags.”
“Wise decision.” He released the sweating, foul-smelling drunkard, who backed away and ran out the door.
Buck watched him leave. Sarah and her mother were standing in the other doorway. Neither flinched when he approached them.
“I’m sorry you had to see that, ladies.”
“Some men are slow learners,” Ruth observed.
“I’m afraid you just received a glimpse of the infamous Thomson temper. I’ll do my best to shield you from it in the future.”
From the expression on Sarah’s face he knew his actions had reprised unpleasant memories. He hoped with all his heart he hadn’t driven her away.
#
Business was brisk at the Whiskey Jug Saloon in Lexington County, South Carolina. Rufus Snead slid off the nag he’d rented in Charleston. After being ridden to exhaustion over the last two days, the gelding’s head hung between his forelegs. Rufus didn’t bother hitching him to the post. He wasn’t going anywhere.
The barroom smelled like a combination of outhouse and chicken coop. A few faces glanced at the new arrival, then returned to their cups.
“Rufus, that you?” Floyd bellowed from across the room. “Damn, it’s good to see you again.” He weaved his way between indolent patrons and threw his arms around his older brother.
Rufus was surprised the teenager was almost a head taller than the last time they’d been together. Same scrawny build though. Same rust-colored brown hair. Skin darker now. His slouch hat and clothes looked like they belonged to someone else, especially the leather belt with a silver buckle. Rufus wondered who he’d robbed for it.
“I feared you was a gone coon in the war.” Floyd released him and stepped a half pace back. “But since you ain’t dead, welcome home.” He held Rufus at arm’s length. “What happened to your neck? Yankee’s git ya?”
Better not tell him I was a sniper for the Yankees. Not that Floyd would care, but he always had a big mouth.
“You ‘member the Thomsons, don’t you?” Rufus responded. “Well, I got that son of a bitch Clay for what he done to Sally Mae. It was his fault she died. He killed her, so I blowed his pretty yellow head right off him up there in Virginia.”
“He done that to your neck?”
“Not Clay. His brother Buck.”
“Buck Thomson? I thought that momma’s boy was a doctor? Ain’t he?”
“If you call lopping off people’s arms and legs doctoring. But he still knows how to shoot, I can tell you that. If he’d aimed half an inch to the left, I’d be a dead man. Don’t matter though. Now it’s pay-back time.”
Floyd grinned. “What you got in mind? You want to kill him?”
Rufus squinted at his brother with his good eye. “I’m thinking that’d be too quick. Be more fun to make him feel some pain, like he done me. Figure I could shoot him in the elbow, maybe blow it off, see how good he is at hacking people up with one arm.”
Floyd snickered. “Speaking of one-arm. . . . You remember Chopper Willems?” He nodded to a scrawny farmer in overalls at a corner table. “You mighta noticed, he lost his right hand in the war. Talking now about selling his chicken farm near Gadsden since he ain’t no good at chopping off the heads of live chickens with only one hand. Too much trouble wringing their necks first, so’s he can hold ‘em down. Ain’t affected his ridin’ or his shootin’ though. Can still knock a circling buzzard out of the sky with that rusty old piece of his. Tip a jug too. He’d be much obliged if you’d ask him to join us. He’s plain sick of chasing them chickens. But back to Buck Thomson. I ain’t heard of him being round here since way before the war.”