Hank showed no particular interest in hurrying, but drank deeply of his beer, a few drops coursing down the side of his mouth. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. “How come you didn’t get him, Rufus? You knew he was coming along that road and you was waiting for him. Even with one eye it ain’t like you to miss?”
Rufus glared angrily. He didn’t like being reminded he was half-blind. “Ain’t my fault, I tell you. Would’ve got him in the shoulder, dammit, if Floyd and Fat Man hadn’t opened fire too soon. Ended up hitting the woman riding behind him instead.”
“You shot a woman?” Hank grinned and lifted his beer in salute. “Kill her?”
“Told you, I wasn’t aiming for her. Only wounded her. In the shoulder, I expect.” Without realizing it he raised his hand to the blood-stained scarf around his neck. Maybe there was justice after all.
“But you missed killing the doc?” Hank taunted.
“I told you I was aiming to cripple him, damn it. But he killed Floyd. Now I’m gonna kill him.”
“Floyd was a good man. So was Fat Man. Can’t let that doc get away with this. We’ll help you finish him off.”
“I work alone. Always have. I’ll get him myself.”
Hank fondled his luxuriously thick mustache with his fingers. “Didn’t do a real good job by yourself this time.”
“Cause I was depending on other people.”
Hank shrugged and emptied his tankard, then started for the door. “I’ll get Zeke and see to them bodies.” He turned back. “When you change your mind and decide you can use some help with this killer doctor of yours, you just let me know. Like I said, Floyd and Fat Man was friends to a lot of us.”
Chapter TEN
Buck slept deeply and arose early, physically refreshed, but dreading the events to come. As promised, his luggage was waiting in the sitting room. He pulled the cord by the fireplace and when a servant arrived, requested a hot bath be drawn and a barber be summoned to shave him and cut his shaggy hair.
At nine o’clock sharp, he appeared in the hotel’s dining room, well groomed and wearing clean clothes. Gus was drinking a cup of coffee. A waiter pulled out a chair for Buck even before he reached the table. He ordered coffee and a breakfast plate.
“You look like a new man,” Gus commented.
“Probably smell like one too.”
The banker grinned. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You’ve already eaten?” Buck asked.
“Miriam frowns on non-kosher cooking.”
“You’re not Jewish.”
“Please don’t tell her that.”
Buck laughed. “You mean you’ve kept the bedroom lamps unlit all these years.”
Gus guffawed, almost spilling his coffee.
The next half hour was filled with a candid narrative of the lost years. The battles Buck had witnessed, the businesses large and small Grayson had watched collapse, and the families that had moved away. They were recounting pleasant memories of cotillions and barbecues, when a messenger arrived from Jeffcoat, announcing the funeral service at the synagogue would commence at eleven o’clock. Since they had an hour and a half until then, Gus suggested they proceed to his office at the Richland County Bank.
Once comfortably seated there and cigars lighted, Grayson became somber. “I’m so sorry about your father’s death. I wish—”
Buck sat upright in the upholstered chair. “Father’s dead?”
Gus stared at him. “You didn’t know?”
“I—”
“I’m dreadfully sorry, son. I only heard about it a month or so ago myself. I still don’t have all the details, except that there was a fire at the house. You and Raleigh had your differences, but he was in many ways a fine man who loved both his sons.”
“Did Clay know about Father’s death?”
Gus froze. “Did?” he repeated. “You mean—”
“He was killed by a sniper a few days after Lee surrendered.”
The banker shook his head as his eyes misted. “Not him too.” He stared at the desk blotter and mumbled, “Lord, I loved that young man like one of my own. So full of life and joy, and God, what a horseman.” He raised his head. Tears stained his cheeks. “Now he’s gone too, like my precious boys.”
He rose to his feet and paced behind his desk, head bowed. “So many lives ended.” He wiped his eyes and then resumed. “In the event of his death, your father left letters with me to give to you and your brother upon your return. Now, with Clay gone . . . I reckon they both belong to you.”
He went to the shoulder-high black-iron safe in the far corner of the room, spun the dial and removed two dun-colored envelopes. He handed both to his guest. Buck stared at his father’s careless handwriting, frowned and placed the missives in his coat pocket.
“You know, Buck, this country may someday recover from this terrible conflict. We might even eventually bind our nation of states closer together to make us a stronger Union, but, my God, at what a price! All the dead. All the crippled young men, North and South. I tell you, generations will pass before many of these families recover. I’ve heard over a quarter of the young men in the Confederate States have been killed or disabled. Nothing—state rights, abolishing slavery—nothing’s worth the price we’ve paid.”
He picked up his Havana. It had gone out. He set it back in the ashtray and shook his head sadly.
“And Columbia. This beautiful city, ruined, ruined! It’ll be rebuilt, and our state’ll recover, but it’ll take many years. Unfortunately, you can’t force people or legislate them to love one another.”
He leaned back in the swivel chair, then sat upright. “Enough of this philosophizing.” He reached for the dead cigar, relit it with a wooden match, took a deep puff and blew the smoke over his head. “What’re your plans now, son? I hope you’ll open your doctor’s office here in Columbia. You’ll be most welcome . . . and successful.”
Buck too puffed before he replied, “I’m afraid I’ll have to delay that decision for now. There’s another matter I’m obliged to deal with first.”
Gus waited expectantly. When Buck didn’t elaborate, he shrugged. “As you wish. If you require ready cash, it’s available. Raleigh deposited funds here for your medical school, but since you chose not to use them, I’ve invested them for you, and now, with Clay gone. . . . As the sole surviving son, you also inherit Jasmine—or what’s left of it. Give me a day or two to get all the legal documents filed, but—” he stared grimly through the fragrant smoke “—you certainly won’t have to concern yourself with earning a living right away.”
“I have a good horse—” Buck studied the glowing tip of his cigar “—and adequate cash for now. About this matter I alluded to . . . I need your advice. Do you remember Saul Snead?”
“That sorry overseer your father hired? I tried to warn him, but after your momma passed on, all your poppa seemed interested in was turning a profit.”
“I’ve learned Saul’s son, Rufus, is the mankiller who shot Clay. He and his gang also murdered Sarah’s father and wounded her.”
“God in heaven!” Gus wagged his head. “That whole family’s depraved. But this! That wretch’s got to be stopped.”
“My immediate concern is for the safety of Sarah Drexel and her mother.” Buck rose to his feet and strode heavily across the worn carpet. Retracing his steps he positioned himself directly in front of the banker’s desk. “Then,” he declared firmly, “I’m going to find Rufus Snead and kill the murdering bastard.”