Reaching Weston’s Creek, he halted to let Gypsy drink. As he leaned forward to stroke the steed’s neck, the sharp report of a rifle shot from his right was met almost simultaneously with the ricochet of a bullet whining off a granite rock on his left.
Instantly Buck kicked the startled gelding into a full gallop. Thoughts and images tumbled through his mind, all seemingly at once. He wasn’t sure exactly where the bullet had come from, other than the trees to his right. The woods lining both sides of the creek were dense. He needed to pinpoint the shooter’s position, but he didn’t have time. He was a sitting target, fatally vulnerable where he was. Vaulting over a fallen tree as Clay might have done, he tore through a line of thickets onto an open field and glanced behind him. No one was following.
Suppose there was more than one sniper. Suppose another sharpshooter was positioned along his obvious route of escape. There was no cover here. He kicked Gypsy into a faster gallop, and the faithful steed gave him his all.
Only when they reconnected with the meandering road more than a mile later did he rein in the panting horse to an easy trot. By then they’d reached the relative safety of the outskirts ringing the devastated city.
Who’d shot at him and why? Was it a random act of violence brought on by these troubled times, or had he been personally targeted for robbery and perhaps death? Was the sniper another diabolical opportunist, or—
His mind skittered to a halt, while Gypsy continued to dance forward, head high, breathing heavily.
My God, I’ve been a dolt!
Finally, what seemed like isolated, unrelated facts and events began to fit together to form a coherent picture.
His brother Clay had been a womanizer who’d dallied with Sally Mae, Saul Snead’s young daughter. She got pregnant and died in childbirth. Saul’s son, Rufus, swore vengeance against the man who’d taken advantage of her. Clay was later killed, apparently the random target of a redheaded sniper, whom Buck had since been able to identify as Rufus Snead.
Lord, it didn’t take a genius to figure out Clay had been the baby’s father. Why else would an old black woman be raising a little white boy by herself in times that were more precarious than ever slavery had been—except as an act of love and dedication toward the family that had been the focus of her entire life, and the young white man she’d helped raise?
That was the private family matter Clay had wanted to tell Buck about at Sayler’s Creek.
Snead’s finding Lieutenant Clay Thomson in the waning days of the war may have been purely by chance, but Buck was convinced now that his brother’s death hadn’t been the random act of a crazed mankiller. He’d been a carefully and deliberately chosen target for vengeance by the uncle of Clay’s son. A chilling thought struck him.
Now I’m a target too.
#
The sun was low in the summer sky by the time Tracker crossed the river into Lexington County.
A few discreet inquiries had alerted him to the Whiskey Jug Saloon as Rufus Snead’s hangout of choice. Tracker had been there before and knew the place catered to a class of ruffians that didn’t welcome strangers. He had no qualms about invading enemy territory, but this was a reconnaissance mission. He elected to go instead to the Brick Works across the street which welcomed gamblers, drunks and other assorted miscreants.
Wearing a stained and threadbare red frock coat, ruffled white shirt, a pink cravat and a vermillion-plumed straw hat, he held his chin up and traipsed through the front door as if the soles of his scuffed brogans were on fire. Heads turned at his entrance, some in undisguised disgust, others in comical amusement. He could imagine both contingents sharpening their knives or fondling other weapons.
Acting oblivious to their stares and muttered comments, he pranced directly to the long bar and was immediately impressed with the agility of the peg-legged bartender who clumped up and down ceaselessly to serve his thirsty clientele. Tapping his silver-headed walking stick on the scarred mahogany, Tracker said in a voice a little too loud, “I say, my good man, do you serve absinthe?” Simultaneously he clicked two silver dollars together.
Peg-leg’s attention was more focused on the large coins than the question. “Ab-what? We got two kinds of beer and two kinds of whiskey. What’s your pleasure?”
“I really was anticipating an aperitif.” When the bartender tilted his head in annoyance, Tracker added. “A beer, I guess.” He then slid one of the coins to Peg-leg and held his finger on the other. “And a little information?” he said softly.
“Like my whiskey, Mister, I’ll give you your money’s worth.” Peg-leg grinned, displaying large yellow teeth with gaps resembling a smashed picket fence.
“I’m searching for a Snead family from around here somewhere. Are you acquainted with them?”
The men within earshot ceased their chatter.
Peg-leg leaned forward and spoke confidentially. “Now why would a gentleman of your refinement be interested in the likes of them?”
“I met one of them in the war. Said he was from near here.”
An unkempt bearded man seated next to Tracker interrupted. “You don’t want no part of that family, mister, if there’s any of ‘em’s left ‘after what happened.”
“You tell him about it, Cephus,” Peg-leg urged him. “You know the story better than me.” He returned to his clamoring customers, all of whom drank as if they were contestants and the prize was more whiskey.
Seeing his new companion’s glass was empty, Tracker ordered him a fresh drink, and motioned to an unoccupied table along the wall. Once seated, Cephus sniffed the liquor, smiled across to his host, sipped appreciatively, grinned and belched. Tracker grinned too. Apparently Peg-leg had served the barfly the good stuff.
“Now, what can you tell me about the Sneads,” he asked.
Savoring another taste, Cephus began his tale. “Well, sir, since you ain’t from around here, I reckon you need to know that Saul Snead—the daddy of the clan—was the overseer at Jasmine, the Thomson plantation east aways. Had a place of his own too, a few rocky acres up river. His woman farmed it enough to feed herself and her brood, but mostly she made rot-gut whiskey. Sold what the old man didn’t drink and when she could, earned a little extra money on her back, if you get my meaning. Saul ran cock fights too.”
When Cephus finished off what was left in his glass, Tracker waved to Peg-leg to bring him another. “How big a family did Snead have?”
“Well, there was that toothless old woman of his, like I said, and a couple of sorry red-headed sons. All mad as coon dogs, from what I hear, ‘specially when they was drinking. And there was the girl. Hard to imagine them two producing such a purty little thing. Sally Mae they called her. Some say Saul was saving her to snare a rich man.”
Peg-leg brought the whiskey, and Tracker tossed him another silver dollar. “Where’s he now?”
“Well, sir, you won’t believe this, but one night a year or more back neighbors heard awful screaming coming from their place, like a animal being tortured. Next morning a bunch of locals got together, armed themselves real good and rode over to check things out. They couldn’t credit what they seen. That loony Snead had boiled a Negro man to death in his old lady’s big wash pot and was feeding the meat to his dogs. Crazy old coot was eating some of it hisself.”