“Another detail we need to discuss,” Tracker said. “That box I’ve been carrying.” He’d stored it in the corner of their bedroom every night and lashed it securely to the top of the coach every morning. “It contains an
equalizer— grenades and explosives.”
“Explosives?” Wes exclaimed.
“Just some black powder, nitro and fuse cord.”
“Nitro?” Wes backed away and stared at him. “Nitro? You’ve been carrying that stuff with you this whole trip? Are you out of your mind? You trying to kill us all?”
Buck was bewildered. “You’re carrying nitroglycerin? My God, man!”
Wes was less contained. Sputtering with rage, he threw his hat on the ground. “Dadgummit, I thought you were supposed to be protecting us. If this coach . . . had turned over when that wheel seized up back at St Matthews—” he paused to catch his breath “—Sweet Jesus, we’d all be singing with the angels.”
“Hold on and listen. You’re not thinking straight,” Tracker said emphatically. “First off, I’m no more anxious to die than you are. Second, we’ve hit enough bumps in the last three days to have already set it off by your standard. And third, even if the coach had turned over back there, this stuff wouldn’t have blown.”
Buck shook his head. “You should’ve told me.”
“If y’all will listen to me a minute,” Tracker said with exaggerated patience, “I’ll explain. This concoction’s no more dangerous than the cartridges in your rifle.”
“Nitro? Are you kidding?” Wes nearly shouted. “The way the coach bounces, it’s a miracle we’re still here talking about it.”
Buck stood by listening to the exchange, puzzled by Tracker’s rash behavior. “I’m still waiting for an explanation, Mr. Bouchard.”
Tracker narrowed his eyes and spoke slowly. “Dr. Thomson, I was the explosives ordnance officer on Colonel Canby’s staff in the Mexican War. I used this formulation every day and never lost a finger.” He held up his hands and wiggled the digits to show they were all there and functioning. “Each component’s separately wrapped, and the nitro’s been mixed with sawdust so even if it fell off a moving wagon, nothing would happen. It’s perfectly safe to transport because only a fuse will set it off.”
Wes huffed. “Well, we’ve come this far without being blown to smithereens,” he conceded, obviously still not pleased by the explanation. “I guess we’ll have to take you at your word. After all, you have been riding with us. But I can tell you I’ll sure be glad when this trip’s over.”
Tracker relocated the box to the inside of the coach. A minute later, the ladies joined them. Before they climbed aboard, Tracker motioned Janey to one side.
“We’re almost there,” he said, “but if we run into trouble, I’m counting on you to protect Mrs. Drexel. Get her down on the floor of the coach and get on top of her, if you have to.”
“You ‘spect something gonna happen?” Her eyes widened with excitement and fear.
“I want us to be prepared. We’ve gotten this far. A few more hours and you’ll be home with your mistress.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Tracker. Yes, sir. You can count on me, sir.”
“Good girl.”
#
As the ladies were boarding the coach, Buck nudged Gypsy into a gentle trot ahead of them. He could make faster progress on horseback than the heavy Concord could and wanted to use the opportunity to scout out the trail one more time.
Sarah’s journey was almost over. Within a matter of hours she would be home and free of the danger of being associated with him. It was because of him she was in danger; it was because of him her father was dead. She should hate him. He didn’t understand why she didn’t. He was only grateful. But that made the burden he felt even heavier. His mission now wasn’t exclusively to kill the man who’d killed his brother. As important as that was, more important for him was to protect her. A few hours to go. Until this moment he hadn’t realized the depth of his feelings for her. These past years he’d insulated himself from anyone or anything. He did his job the best he could, but as time went on he experienced less and less connection to the people he treated. Until she came along.
With the smell of a salt tang in the air he knew he was drawing close to the river. Wes was right. The switchback ahead was the perfect site for an ambush, but maybe Rufus thought it was too obvious. Maybe he’d decided to pick another spot to waylay them. Tracker also had a valid point. Rufus was no General Lee, more like General Custer who had a reputation for sacrificing his men to achieve his objectives. But Rufus Snead was clever in his own way.
Buck was perhaps fifteen minutes ahead of the coach when he reached the footpath that led to the top of the bluff. He continued to advance slowly, examining every tree and shrub along the narrow trail. He was vulnerable, he knew that, but the hair on the back of his neck wasn’t telegraphing any alerts. He kept going.
At the top of the promontory he removed the binoculars from his saddlebag and began scanning the terrain below. It seemed as peaceful and quiet as it had been two hours earlier. Nevertheless, something was making him feel uneasy. He surveyed the trees again.
Nothing.
He scanned once more.
And once more he couldn’t detect any movement.
Still he wasn’t convinced.
Dismounting, he tethered Gypsy, removed the Henry from its scabbard and crouched down behind a tree stump. He peered yet again through the lenses of his binoculars. In the quietude between bird calls and the buzz of insects, he began to discern the rattle of the approaching stagecoach. His heartbeat accelerated.
Lowering the binoculars he took in the broader perspective.
Suddenly in a tree that had been outside his restricted telescopic view he glimpsed movement. A bird? A squirrel? He raised the lenses again and focused on the spot.
A man with a rifle!
His pulse quickened. He willed it to calm.
He peered more closely. A man with a jagged scar across his cheek. The youth he’d met in the woods yesterday. No coincidence. And no innocent. One of Snead’s people.
Exchanging the binoculars for the Henry, he propped his elbow on the stump and took careful aim. Slowly he applied pressure to the trigger and squeezed off a round. Birds squawked and fluttered into the sky. For a moment his target remained motionless. Had he missed him? Then as if in slow motion the man tumbled to the ground.
Once again he’d killed a man. But there was no time to think about it. He levered in another cartridge.
Movement. This one closer. Almost directly below him.
Without conscious thought, he repositioned his rifle and fired again. Another man fell.
Two down. Neither had red hair. How many were left? Rufus Snead certainly. Somewhere.
Suddenly Buck became aware of an unnatural silence. What was he not hearing? It took a moment for him to figure it out. The coach.
The coach had stopped just before the entrance to the bend. Why? More precious seconds passed before he realized what had happened. He’d fired two shots in quick succession. The signal to halt.
Now the very people he’d vowed to protect were easy prey. Especially for a sharpshooter like Snead, who shunned moving targets.
Chapter EIGHTEEN
He had to get them moving. Fast. Buck lifted his rifle and fired into the grove of trees on the other side of the road. Three shots in rapid succession. Get the hell out of there.
Four things occurred almost simultaneously. The coach jerked forward into a full gallop. Another rifle shot sang out. Freddie rolled over on the top of the coach, clutching his left arm. His rifle fell to the roadway.