Buck almost smiled now, suspecting his guest, like a lawyer, rarely asked blunt questions he didn’t already know the answer to. Nonetheless, he described the attack at Weston’s Creek, ending it with a disclaimer.
“If you ask how I know it was Snead who shot at me, I can offer no proof. I never saw him, but the similarity of setting, the circumstances of the attack—by a lone rifleman up in a tree—convinces me it was the same person.”
“It was,” Tracker agreed. “Do you know why he has a personal animus against you?”
“Because I’m a Thomson?”
Tracker shook his head. “That certainly influences his dislike of you but not sufficiently to want to kill you. In fact at Cedar Creek his intent was not to kill you but to wound you, to cripple you and ruin your life.”
Buck felt his jaw drop. Was there a word for such viciousness, for the pleasure this creature seemed to take in seeing other people suffer? If so, he didn’t know what it was. If not, there should be.
“He failed obviously,” Tracker added.
“But succeeded in wounding Sarah Drexel, a completely innocent bystander.”
Tracker nodded. “Fortunately her injury was neither fatal nor serious.” He folded his hands and brought them up to his lips. “His goal now is even more sinister. He’s intent on killing you.”
“Why? What have I ever done to him?”
Tracker paused for a moment. “You killed his brother.”
“I . . . His brother?” Buck’s mind whirled. Had his brother been one of Buck’s patients, one of so many who didn’t survive enemy fire or his knife and saw? He knew the names of so few of the men he’d treated.
“The red-haired young man you killed at Cedar Creek.”
How strange, Buck thought, that he’d forgotten the teenager with the short, rust-colored hair that lay on the side of the road with a bullet through his heart. He’d noted the red hair and even examined his neck to determine if he might be Rufus. Then he’d put him completely out of his mind, like so many of his victims.
“He’s vowed now to kill you. Be on perpetual guard, sir. Your life is in mortal danger.”
Buck climbed to his feet and paced the worn carpet in front of the settee. He did so with hands behind his back for a long minute. Tracker did and said nothing to interrupt his reverie.
“He killed my brother,” Buck muttered, still pacing. “He condemned a half-starved widow and her two children to the most vile deaths at the hands of diseased monsters. He’s responsible for the death of an ailing elderly man who was traveling here with his wife and daughter in search of medical treatment, for wounding the daughter and killing our driver all in cold blood.”
Still Tracker remained silent. Buck continued his march up and down the length of the Oriental rug, then stopped to address his guest.
“The daughter, Sarah Drexel, must now return to Charleston on urgent business. Unfortunately her life continues to be in danger from this redheaded scum simply because she has the misfortune of being associated with me. That is why, sir, I want to engage your services, not to protect me—I’ll take care of myself—but as her bodyguard. Are you available?”
Tracker stood up. “I have a particular loathing for men who would prey upon women and children, the weak and the defenseless. In short, sir, I am at your service.”
The two men shook hands, solemnly and firmly, setting a bond that Buck knew wouldn’t be broken.
“From all you’ve told me,” Tracker said, “I’d take considerable pleasure in ending this villain’s life.”
“I’d prefer to reserve that privilege for myself,” Buck replied, then added, “however, if he should happen to fall within your sights do not hesitate. Kill him.”
Chapter FIFTEEN
The following morning at sunrise, Buck left his hotel and, feeling well-rested, walked briskly to the stage depot. He arrived to find Tracker, now attired as an inconspicuous working man in a rumpled but clean denim outfit, hoisting his carpetbag effortlessly onto the roof of the coach. He finished stowing his cased rifle inside the carriage before turning to greet his employer.
“We need to go over our plans with the driver and guard,” Buck informed him.
A few minutes later, Wes Taylor, the driver, and Freddie Swift, the guard, joined them. After introductions were exchanged, Buck said, “Gentlemen, here’s the situation we’re facing.” He noticed a man in butternut homespun with a luxurious handlebar mustache inspecting the hubs of the coach wheels. Buck motioned the others out of his hearing and continued. “You’ll need to keep a sharp eye out during this trip. I’ve reason to believe we’ll come under fire somewhere between here and Charleston.”
“Why’s that?” Freddie asked.
“I’ve been playing dead man’s tag with a sniper since I left Virginia.”
“I need to tell you, mister,” Wes declared, “I ain’t no good with a rifle or a hand gun. Never have been, but I can drive a coach and team to hell and back. Is that where we’re going?”
Buck smiled in spite of himself. “Maybe. How about you, Freddie? You any good with that gun of yours?”
“Mister, I was at Antietam and Gettysburg. After that I ain’t scared of nothing and I mostly hit what I aim at.”
“That’s all I can ask for,” Buck said. “Gentlemen, this sniper’s a crack shot. Probably has a Henry with a telescope, because he shoots from a distance, but he seems to have a problem with moving targets.”
“Maybe because he only has one good eye,” Tracker observed.
“Only one eye, huh?” Freddie rubbed his chin. “Which is the good one?”
“The right and he’s right-handed, so he has no trouble looking down the barrel of his rifle.”
“I’ll keep us moving,” Wes said. “You can count on that.”
Buck nodded. “Be especially careful if you have to stop along the road. So far he always shoots from ambush, usually high in a tree. But make no mistake. He’s utterly ruthless. He shoots horses and won’t hesitate to shoot women. During the war he sighted his rifle in on litter bearers and my patients. Killed several of ‘em.”
“My God,” Freddie exclaimed, shaking his head.
“Wes,” Buck said, glad he’d captured the young man’s attention, “you keep a sharp eye ahead and alert Tracker or Freddie if anything looks suspicious. Freddie, you watch the rear. From on top the coach, if that makes it easier for you. Tracker will be inside, protecting Mrs. Drexel. I’ll be a quarter of a mile ahead or behind you to make sure there are no surprises. If I see a problem, I’ll signal you. One shot means continue on, but be doubly alert. Two means stop where you are and take immediate cover, as best you can. If I fire three times, Wes, get the hell out of there. Full gallop. Understand?”
“Completely.”
Half an hour later a two-horse open brougham arrived. Buck greeted the Graysons and the two widows with them. He took Sarah’s arm as she climbed down, while Gus assisted Miriam, and the coachman helped Ruth to the ground. Janey, the mulatto servant, seated next to the driver, was left to get down by herself. Freddie and Wes removed the bags to the Concord. Gus greeted Tracker and shook his hand, then introduced him to Sarah and her mother as Pierre Bouchard.
Tracker doffed his hat to the ladies and bowed. “Enchanté, mesdames.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Monsieur Bouchard,” Sarah responded comfortably in French.
“Please call me Tracker.” He smiled. “It will be my pleasure to accompany such a lovely lady. If at any time in our journey I can be of assistance to you, I hope you won’t hesitate to call on me.”