“Where’s the bacon?”
“Ran out about two years ago,” the innkeeper informed him.
“And maple syrup?”
“Two years ago.”
“Got anything to give these flapjacks some taste?”
“A little sorghum molasses, but it’ll cost you.”
Tracker frowned. “If it’s more than a Yankee dollar, I don’t want it.”
“Mister, you got a Yankee dollar, I’ll give you a pat a butter to go with it.”
Tracker shook his head. “I hate war shortages.”
“I guess that means he accepts your kind offer,” Buck told the proprietor.
“I’m a man of appetites, doc,” Tracker commented after their waiter had stepped away, “and I do my best to satisfy all of them, as opportunity presents itself.”
The waiter brought him what amounted to no more than dollops of molasses and butter. Tracker smeared them on with a frown.
“We’re not dealing here with a West Point strategist like General Lee,” he commented to Buck. “If Snead doesn’t have his men deployed in the trees like last time, it seems to me the alternative is a frontal assault. Think they could be ahead of us?”
Buck waved to a serving girl for some coffee. “I don’t know and it worries me. Would’ve been a challenge for them getting there, considering the rain last night, but they may be more familiar with the countryside than we are and know of a way around this place.”
“Not by road,” Tracker said. “There isn’t any bypass, I checked with our kindly innkeeper and he assures me this is the only road between Holly Hill and Goose Creek. Unless your nemesis wants to go halfway back to St Matthews and take the road to St George. But if they use that route we’ll be in Charleston before they even get to Goose Creek.”
“You’re assuming they’d go by road.”
Tracker forked up a generous portion of nearly dry pancakes, and made a face when he tasted it.
“If they’re going to attack—” Buck accepted a metal cup of steaming coffee from the girl “—they’ll have to come at us from the rear.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“Nothing very elaborate or subtle. I’ll follow y’all. I wish we had someone to ride point though . . .”
“I’ll tell Freddie to watch out ahead,” Tracker said, scooping up a forkful of grits, “instead of facing backward like he’s been doing.”
Buck paused a minute, then quietly posed a question. “How’s she holding up?”
“You mean Janey?” At Buck’s arched expression Tracker chuckled. “Mrs. Drexel’s all right, in fact, my friend, I’d say she’s a remarkably strong woman. Her neck pains her some, but she doesn’t complain. And that girl Janey’s been a real help. They read to each other. Your lady friend even laughs, especially when Janey beats her at Whist. If Mrs. Drexel makes it through this journey unscathed, she’ll be fine.”
A minute later, the subject of their discussion came into the room, Janey following behind her.
“It just occurred to me,” Buck said quietly to Tracker, “I’ve never seen her in anything but black.”
“Patience, my friend, the time will come. She’s obviously interested in you.”
Buck shifted his gaze to avoid eye contact with the man sitting across from him, rose and greeted the widow as she entered the long room. “Almost home,” he told her when she reached the table.
She sighed. “It can’t be soon enough.”
“Dr. Thomson, will we be getting to Charleston tonight?” Janey asked.
“Not tonight. We’ll stay over at Goose Creek, then ride into Charleston tomorrow, probably around noon.”
“I ain’t never . . . I have never been to Charleston.” The girl was obviously looking forward to the adventure. “Can I see the ocean from there?”
“Not from my house,” Sarah told her. “We’re on the bay side. Don’t worry. While you’re with me we’ll drive to the beach and you can behold the Great Atlantic.”
Janey gave her a broad smile of anticipation.
#
Jake came riding up like there was a Yankee or a revenuer after him. “Hey Boss, they’re still there.”
“Where?” Rufus asked.
“You git vittles?” Clem called out.
“They’re still at the stagecoach depot,” Jake replied.
“How come?”
“Stage manager said a horse went lame, another threw a shoe, then they had to grease a wheel—”
Something was finally going right, Rufus thought smugly.
“They expected to be out of there an hour after sunup, but it ain’t working out that way.”
“Where’s the food?” Clem whined. “I ain’t et since yesterday.”
“Shut up,” Rufus scolded him. “How soon before they get going?” he asked Jake.
“They was almost finished doing all them things when I rode off. I reckon they’ll be on their way in maybe half an hour.”
Rufus shouted. “Everybody, grab a biscuit and eat in the saddle. Here’s our chance to get ahead of ‘em. Don’t go through town on the main road though. I don’t want any of ‘em seeing you. Just follow me. We got to move fast.”
“What’re we going to do?” Clem asked. He was the first to pull a biscuit from the sack Jake had draped over his saddle horn.
Rufus grinned. There wasn’t time to set up the ambush he was hoping for. “We’re gonna have some fun.”
#
A series of minor mishaps had delayed their departure from Holly Hill. It was almost nine o’clock, two hours later than they’d planned, before they were able to get on the winding, sandy road to Goose Creek. As prearranged, Buck took up his mobile sentry duty a half mile or so behind the coach, sometimes staying on the road, sometimes cutting paths through the underbrush that paralleled it. He kept his binoculars out and constantly scanned the woods, especially the upper branches of trees, for snipers. When Wes stopped at one of the frequent creeks to water the horses, Buck had seen no one or anything suspicious. Yet he felt uneasy, as if he were himself being watched. Intensely he continued to survey the territory around them.
Suddenly a ragged, dirty man stepped out of the nearby woods into the roadway, leading a skinny gray mare. Tracker had alighted from the coach, revolver at his side, and was dutifully scrutinizing the stranger. Buck, his senses on alert, continued to watch the scene through his binoculars, his Henry raised in firing position if anything untoward might happen.
From that distance Buck couldn’t hear the exchange of words between the two men, but he saw the stranger remove his hat with a flourish toward the ladies in the coach. After a few more words were exchanged, the man mounted his horse and rode toward Buck and the stage resumed its journey.
Buck considered avoiding the horseman but decided nothing would be accomplished by doing so. He watched the rider approach at an easy trot, scruffy looking, with several-day’s growth of grayish whiskers and surprisingly clean yellow suspenders.
“Morning, stranger,” the man said in a thick drawl. “Sure are some nervous folks around here. All I said was good morning and the fella down yonder pulled a pistol on me.”
“That right?” Buck replied. “Dangerous times. I reckon everybody’s on edge these days.”
“You take care now, hear?” The man touched his hat and continued on his way.
Buck urged Gypsy after the coach, got out the binoculars he’d discreetly hidden from the stranger and continued to observe the countryside around him.
Several miles farther along, the coach came to a crossroads. Sitting on a fallen tree trunk a dozen yards from the intersection were two men, apparently relaxing in the afternoon sun, doing nothing more than talking to each other.
Something didn’t seem right, but as Buck drew closer to them, he didn’t see anything suspicious. They didn’t even appear to be armed, nor, to Buck’s amazement was there any evidence of a whiskey jug. As the stage passed, they ceased their conversation and waved to the lumbering wagon.