A knot formed in Buck’s stomach. What was going on? Why were they here?
The loiterers greeted him pleasantly as well when he passed by and wished him a good day. He returned the salutation, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss.
The next few hours went by slowly but without incident. They were within five miles of Goose Creek when Buck saw still another stranger, this one riding at a comfortable gait toward the stagecoach. The young man, whose face was covered with freckles, wore a red-plaid shirt. He doffed his hat when he reached the coach, displaying light-brown hair that was almost blond. Most striking, however, was the scar that ran from his right temple to his chin. An old scar, Buck decided, though the man didn’t appear to be more than in his early twenties.
After they exchanged greetings, Buck asked, “You from these parts? I’m wondering if there might be a place to spend the night.”
“Just passing through, mister.”
“Well, thanks anyway,” Buck responded.
Again he had an uneasy feeling. If the stagecoach stop was on this road, the rider must have passed it. Why didn’t he say so? On the other hand, Buck supposed he could have come by one of the side roads between here and there. He was seeing more and more of them as they drew closer to Charleston.
The coach continued down the narrow road, and Buck continued his solitary vigil behind it.
#
Zeke grinned, showing a missing front tooth. “Them folks on the stage are jumpier than a bunch of frogs on a hot skillet. And that man riding that black horse a ways back’s got a pair of binoculars with him.”
“I know,” Rufus said. “I been trailing behind and keeping an eye on him.”
“You only got one, Rufus,” Clem said with a snicker.
Rufus glared at him with it and the other man shut up fast. “Y’all turn in early tonight and lay off the jug. We gotta move out at first light and set our ambush ahead of ‘em.”
“We gonna hit ‘em tomorrow, Rufus?” Hank asked.
“Yep, before they get into Charleston. So get a good night’s sleep.”
#
In his march from Savannah to Columbia, Sherman had bypassed Charleston and mercifully the small settlement at Goose Creek. The accommodations Buck and his party found there were the best they’d encountered in their long, boring trek across devastated South Carolina. The rooms here were comfortable, if not luxurious; the seafood was fresh and expertly prepared, all in stark contrast to the scarce, poor quality fare at other way-stations.
Sarah shunned the non-kosher clams and shrimp, but enthusiastically feasted on the sea bass and porgies in her room with Janey.
Buck and Tracker joined the other guests in the ill-lit restaurant. No dietary restrictions for them. Oysters weren’t in season but clams, shrimp and mussels were, and they made a feast of them.
“I expect we’ll be safe here tonight,” Tracker opined.
The inn was crowded with civilians from Charleston, as well as Yankee officers and their “ladies.” Neither group acknowledged the other. The war was over, but the divide between North and South remained.
“Wes,” Buck said, “how long you reckon we’ll be on the road tomorrow?”
“It’s about three hours to the city,” Wes replied.
“You know the road. If you were going to set up an ambush, where would you do it?”
“Easy,” the coach driver answered. “There’s a spot about six miles ahead on the Cooper River where the road does a switchback below a bluff. Road narrows at that point and sorta juts out into the river. Have to slow down to make the turn. Wouldn’t take much to drop a tree across the path and pick us off while we tried to clear it.”
“I’ll check things out first thing in the morning,” Buck said. “Y’all stay here till I get back. Is there any other route, if we can’t make it through there?”
“Could go to Monck’s Corner,” Wes commented, “but it’s a lot longer. Might not get to Charleston tomorrow, if we go that way.”
“Doesn’t seem like much of an option,” Tracker said. “The longer we’re on the road, the greater the risk. I don’t imagine your lady friend will feel safe till she’s in her own home.”
Neither will I.
#
Buck rose before sunrise the next morning, unable to shake a feeling of apprehension. The hours ahead would bring safe haven in Charleston for Sarah, if all went well, but that was a mighty big if. Wes and Freddie were of a mind that, since Buck had killed four of the gang, the redheaded man and any of his gang who were left had limped back to Lexington County with their tails between their legs. Buck’s gut told him otherwise. The man who’d murdered his brother wouldn’t give up that easily.
Tracker stirred in the other bed and sat up.
“Don’t leave till I return,” Buck told him. “Shouldn’t be gone more than two hours.”
“If you’re not,” Tracker said, yawning and stretching, “I’ll come looking for you.”
“Don’t worry about me. Protect the ladies.”
“I know my job. I’m not called Tracker for nothing, doctor. Remember that.”
A sliver of light was creeping over the eastern rim when Buck started down the road to Charleston. If Snead still wanted to attack, it had to be today. The macadam was level and wide as he trotted at a leisurely pace toward the coast. Did he smell a tang of salt in the still air? Probably his imagination, but he looked forward to spending time in the harbor city where he’d attended medical school.
The Cooper River was at high tide. The shale road skirted the river’s edge at intervals and wound its way through groves of hemlock, pine and bald cypress. Buck found the switchback Wes had described, where a bluff projected out over the racing river.
He headed Gypsy up a footpath to the top of the bluff, which gave him a clear view of the road below. Using his binoculars, he scanned each of the trees, some of them more than once, looking for any sign of Rufus Snead or his men. No one. Yet, if the coach was going to be attacked, this would be the ideal location. For a third time, Buck examined likely and unlikely sites for sharpshooters to ensconce themselves.
Nobody.
He hoped.
Both dissatisfied and relieved that the way appeared to be clear, he pushed Gypsy into a faster trot on the way back to the inn at Goose Creek. The ladies had eaten; the men had packed the luggage onto the roof. All that remained was the mysterious box Tracker had carefully stored in his room every night. Buck had asked what it contained but all Tracker would tell him was that it contained personal effects.
“What did you find?” he asked, after Buck had dismounted and led Gypsy to the water trough.
“Just what Wes had described. The perfect ambush site, but not a soul around.”
“And that bothers you?”
“Rufus Snead hasn’t given up.”
“So what do you want to do?” Tracker asked.
“We’ve come this far. Not much choice. We go on.”
A minute later, the two men joined the driver and guard in the stable where Wes was harnessing the team.
“I found a vantage point up on the bluff you mentioned where I can watch y’all and see if anyone’s following or setting a trap ahead. Do we need to go over the signals again?”
Freddie wasn’t pleased at having his memory questioned. “Like you said, doctor, one shot’s continue on. Two’s stop, and three’s run like hell.”
Tempers were getting edgy, Buck realized. Not a good sign. Angry people didn’t always think straight.