Buck’s patience snapped. He shoved the driver into a corner, picked him up with a fistful of shirt and some of the chest hair underneath, and growled in his face, “We’re leaving now or you don’t get paid a plugged nickel.”
“Listen, mister—” the man’s voice was strained, yet defiant “—I brung you this far and I’ll get you the rest of the way. But not without a guard.”
“You have fifteen minutes to find one—or else.” He dropped the man onto his feet. They started back together to the already harnessed surrey.
“Where the hell am I supposed to find another guard?” railed the driver. “This here’s Gadsden, not Charleston. Ain’t nobody here ’cept the innkeeper and that farmer over there watering his nag. Don’t reckon he wants to leave home. Besides, he’s only got one hand.”
Buck had seen him in the dining room earlier, a young-old man with his right hand gone above the wrist. How many hands had Buck cut off after battles? How many other men had to spend their lives missing hands and feet because of him?
“I’ll get the others,” Buck stated uncompromisingly. “We’re already behind schedule. We’ll go by way of Cedar Creek. It’s faster.”
“Mister, I don’t like that road.”
“Tough. That’s the way we’re going, and I’ll ride shotgun.”
The driver stared at him and was about to object, but the expression on Buck’s face seemed to change his mind. The one-handed man loitering over on the side watched, then mounted his sorry-looking nag and rode off.
#
“Chopper, I seen army horses in better shape than that bag of bones you’re riding.”
“Probably—” he dismounted “—but this here’s the one I got and I had to ride him like hell, but he took me there and back fast. That’s all that matters. I’m sure he understands times is tough.”
“What’d you find out?”
“Y’all better get riding. They left Gadsden about an hour or so behind me. And get this, your doctor friend is riding guard.”
“What’re you talking about?” Rufus demanded.
Chopper recounted the exchange he’d witnessed. “That sawbones don’t take no for an answer, Rufus. The driver done his best to stall him—I reckon he was hoping for some relief since he was up awful late last night, ’splaining things over that mountain dew you was generous enough to buy me, but—”
“Let me get Floyd and Fat Man,” Rufus said, as he turned away.
“What about me?” Chopper asked.
“You got any of that moonshine left?”
“Hell no. How far you think one measly jug of that stuff lasts with three thirsty men?”
Rufus removed another silver coin from his pocket and tossed it to him. Chopper may have been right-handed once, but he had no trouble catching with his left hand now.
“Get yourself some beer to clear your head. We’ll be back in a few hours.”
“What you gonna do?”
“Take Floyd and Fat Man with me to Cedar Creek, where we’ll welcome Dr. Buck Thomson home.”
A moment later his brother and a big, round man came out of the saloon and joined them.
“Remember,” Rufus told them after explaining the situation, “you can shoot and kill any of ‘em, but not the guard. The doc is all mine.”
#
The wagon had traversed the flat coastal plains of South Carolina and was now rolling over forested hills and through swamps. Swarms of insects bombarded them without relief. There was no breeze and the humidity was suffocating. The ladies fanned themselves incessantly with little effect, while the men slapped and scratched themselves with equally poor results.
They’d been on the road nearly two hours when the surrey descended into a shallow valley. The narrow sandy road wound between the tall pines and scattered oaks that towered over tangled brambles and impenetrable underbrush. Upon coming to a shallow stream, the driver halted the horses to let them drink. Clouds of biting insects immediately attacked. Everyone was swatting ineffectually at them when the driver flicked the reins of the horses and moved on. They’d barely cleared the creek bed when Buck heard the all-too-
familiar flat crack of a rifle shot. The image of his brother’s exploding head flashed before his eyes. A moment later the horse directly in front of him dropped in its traces, blood gushing from its head.
The two women screamed.
Buck swung around and caught a glimpse of Mr. Greenwald frowning in bewilderment.
Before he could raise the Henry from across his knees, a hairy brute stepped from behind a tree on the left, leveled a pistol and at point-blank range shot the driver dead.
Chapter NINE
“Get down,” Buck shouted. He swung his rifle to the left and fired. The assassin’s face widened with disbelief as he was blown backward by the impact of the bullet piercing his chest.
“Stay low,” Buck ordered the people behind him.
He was scanning the woods ahead, searching for the hidden rifleman who’d shot the horse, when Sarah and her mother screamed again. Buck whirled around on the seat in time to see the two women dive for the bottom of the wagon. Mrs. Greenwald reached up for her husband who continued to sit calmly, apparently unfazed by the terror around him. Buck was about to order him to take cover when a thin, disheveled man, wearing a slouch hat, stepped out of the woods on the right side of the road. He pointed his revolver and fired. As the old man slumped from the bench, Buck ended the gunman’s life with a single rifle bullet to his chest.
Sarah, sprawled protectively on top of her mother, was reaching toward her bloodied father when another rifle bullet tore a path across her right shoulder. She made not a whimper, and Buck was convinced she too was dead.
The infamous Thomson temper roared through him. He leaped from the wagon and stood crouched beside it, emptying his rifle into the distant grove at the forward curve of the road. In the wake of the resulting shower of leaves and bark, he spotted a man with long red hair scrambling frantically to the ground.
Images flashed. His brother’s golden head ruined. The crippled boy hiding in a hickory. The desecrated bodies of Martha Hewitt and her children.
“Sarah,” her mother screamed, “you’re bleeding. Help. Help.”
Buck spun around at the same time he heard Sarah moan. She was still alive, thank God. Mr. Greenwald was draped over the side of the wagon, obviously dead. Mrs. Greenwald was pinned beneath her daughter, blood from Sarah’s wounded shoulder dripping onto her bodice. Quickly Buck surveyed the woods once more to insure no further attack was imminent. There was no movement. No jiggling of tree leaves. The air was still, without the hint of a breeze.
Assuming their attacker or attackers had left the scene, he gently raised Sarah off her mother. Dazed, bleeding and undoubtedly in pain, the young woman nevertheless climbed down from the carriage on her own.
“Get behind that rock. Quick,” he instructed her.
Older and less spry, her mother required Buck’s assistance to negotiate her descent.
“Poppa—” Sarah implored.
“There’s nothing we can do for him now, sweetheart,” her mother said tenderly, as she ripped a piece from her skirt. “But you’re bleeding. Hold this tight on your wound.” She asked Buck. “Are they gone?”
“I believe so, or they could be playing possum. We need to get out of here, fast. Stay where you are and lie as flat as you can until I have everything ready.”
He hurriedly detached the harness from the dead horse, then urged its partner to back up far enough to maneuver around it. Untying Gypsy from the rear of the wagon, he led him forward and buckled him into the traces.