He sat more deeply into the upholstered sofa. His fingers trembled as he read:
To my dear son Clay:
I pray your reckless exuberance for life has not placed you in harm’s way and you return safely from this dreadful war.
It was apparent to me from your earliest days that you appreciated the good life of a plantation owner and are unafraid to enjoy the pleasures and privileges it offers. I have therefore willed the entire estate of Jasmine to you. All pertinent documents are on file at the Richland County Bank in Columbia. Be discreet and generous in your affairs, but drink deeply of life and the joys it offers. Your memories of me will fade, but I hope from time to time, you may think of me and smile.
I have also established a trust fund with Gus Grayson to carry faithful Emma and the child through these troubled times. We owe her a great deal. God bless her.
I trust you will be able to put behind you the tragedy of our failed cause and the sorrows it has brought. May this meager bequest help you fulfill your dreams. I could not have asked for a finer son and heir.
Your loving father,
Raleigh
His throat tight, his hands still trembling, Buck managed to return the document to its envelope, which he laid on the side table at the base of a whale-oil lamp. Folk wisdom said time healed all wounds, but the scars left by some injuries never completely disappeared, and the pain of some afflictions remained with a man for the rest of his life.
Though the day was still young, Buck removed his boots and crawled on top of the faded four-poster bed, overwhelmed with fatigue and a sense of guilt that was more deep-seated than mere physical exhaustion. The rawness of the pain radiating from his soul, however, did not diminish his commitment to rid the world of the evil around him.
On the contrary, he was more determined than ever to find the deformed caricature of a man responsible for Clay’s death.
He would track down Rufus Snead, and he would kill him.
#
“He saw me,” Rufus told Zeke. “He recognized me.”
“You sure?”
“Of course he’s sure,” Hank put in. The three of them were sitting at the table closest to the plank bar in the Whiskey Jug, a tankard before each. “His pint-size was a hint, but the long red hair was a dead giveaway.”
Rufus would have favored cutting the man’s gizzard out. He didn’t appreciate being reminded he was small, only a hooter over five feet. As for the red hair, he supposed he could cut it short like Floyd had done his, or dye it a different color, but cut it once and he’d have to keep cutting it. As for dyeing it . . . out of the question. He wasn’t no Mary. Besides, that’d be even more work.
“If my dad-blamed hat hadn’t come off,” he explained, “the folks at that burial would have figured me to be somebody come to visit a dead relative.”
He hated cemeteries. Always had. His old man had bound him to a tombstone one night to teach him a lesson. Couldn’t remember what he’d done wrong. Didn’t matter. The sot didn’t need a reason. Rufus had learned his lesson though—to stay as far away from the crazy lush as he could after that. Done all right too until the night the bastard started beating on Sally Mae.
“Then that banker noticed me and nudged the doc.” Rufus realized too late he should have ignored them. The oversized hat would have shielded his face.
“Well, if the doc didn’t know he was being followed before,” Hank commented between gulps of warm beer, “he does now.”
“Don’t matter,” Rufus told him. “I know where the doc is, but he don’t know where I am.”
“Why didn’t he go after you?” Zeke wondered.
Rufus had been thinking about that too. “Maybe ‘cause he didn’t want to upset his friend’s funeral.”
“To go after his brother’s killer?” Hank obviously didn’t cotton to the notion. “So he interrupts a funeral. Big deal. The dead don’t care, and he could always explain it to the living.”
“Maybe he didn’t have a gun with him and thought Rufus did,” Zeke suggested.
Hank put his finger to the side of his nose. “I like that better.”
Rufus smiled. “If that’s the case, I reckon I ought to arrange another funeral for him to go to.” He snickered. “Make it his funeral too.”
Shifty brought him another tankard of beer. Time to think.
Doc Thomson knew Rufus was watching him.
Thomson was an expert marksman.
Except for maybe church, even Jewish churches, and funerals, he probably wouldn’t go anywhere without a gun, and he was supposed to be every bit as good with a pistol as he was with a rifle. Rufus knew how good that was.
Should be easy enough to follow him wherever he went, but shooting him in town probably wasn’t a good idea. The locals might catch him, but worse, them damn Yankees might, and they wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him on the spot or take him somewhere and hang him, or at least treat him real bad.
Better for him to pick the time and place, rather than waiting for a chance that might never come. But now that the doc had seen him, it would be too dangerous to go after him alone.
“Think the boys might be willing to help me out, Hank?”
“Told you, everybody liked Floyd and Fat Man. They want their killer almost as much as you do. What do you need?”
Chapter ELEVEN
The following morning after breakfast in the hotel dining room, attended to by a slow-moving but remarkably efficient old black man, Buck went directly to the stage office. The next coach to Charleston wouldn’t be leaving for three days. Good timing. He sent a messenger to Sarah informing her of the schedule, then spent the next couple of hours searching for better clothing at a price he was willing to pay. Confederate money was worthless. Federal currency was in short supply. Most commerce for ordinary people was conducted at the rudimentary barter level. Even the barest of necessities were in short supply. Everything above mere subsistence was now considered a luxury.
Buck was at an unexpected advantage. Asa had refused to even touch the gold and silver Buck had collected from the men who’d attacked him, and as much as Buck loathed its source, he realized it would be foolish to ignore it. Instead, he hoarded it in a way his upbringing never taught him and haggled in a manner his father would have spurned. He also kept careful track of every coin he spent and vowed to return a like amount to his friend at a future date.
It was close to noon by the time he set out on a journey he knew would be as unsettling as his father’s written farewell. It had been nearly six years since he’d left Jasmine, seemingly at peace with his resolution to never set eyes on it or his father again. But learning his father was dead, he realized he’d undergone a sea change. It was one thing to resent and hold at arm’s length a living man with whom there was still the possibility of reconciliation, and quite another when that person was dead. The same was true but in reverse regarding Jasmine. Dissociating himself from something that was sacred to another member of the family was much easier when he didn’t expect to own it. Now, as the sole heir of the ancestral estate, he had no choice but to return, even if it was for the last time.
Mounting Gypsy, he set off for the plantation, fifteen miles away.