#
From her hidden vantage point in the tangled shrubs under the pine trees, Sarah had watched Tracker, wearing Buck’s coat, dash out into the road and then back, only to do it again. But the second time, instead of darting into the woods a dozen yards from her where he’d started from, he zigzagged down the road to where it curved beside the fast-moving river.
He was nearly there when a report rang out. Tracker was moving as fast as any horse she’d ever seen. The bullet missed him and kicked up a gout of sand on his left.
She waited for the sound of Buck’s rifle up on the bluff. But none came. Either he wasn’t yet in place when the mankiller had fired or he hadn’t been able to establish his location. The trees were dense at the top of the bluff. One shot would be difficult to isolate.
She’d overheard Buck and Tracker making their plans, so she knew that Tracker was safe but trapped where he was. Any attempt on his part to get back up on the road would expose him. Since Buck hadn’t yet gotten his prey he would still be searching for the killer. What she had to do now was keep the sniper’s attention focused on the road until Buck was in position.
She listened for another minute. Except for the distant rush of the river and the songbirds twittering around her, all was silent.
Taking a fortifying breath, she reached between her legs, gathered her skirt and bolted out onto the roadway. She couldn’t run nearly as fast or deviously as Tracker, but perhaps the sight of a woman would unnerve the sniper sufficiently to affect his accuracy—and miss her.
#
A second shot.
This time Buck spied movement and a small wisp of smoke high up in a tree less than twenty yards to his right.
His heart pounded and euphoria coursed through him. At last, Buck had Rufus Snead in his sights.
Carefully he aimed. Slowly he tightened his finger on the trigger. A raven fluttered from the branches of a nearby pine. Buck fired. A scream erupted. An eternal five seconds elapsed before the redheaded man tumbled from his perch to the ground below.
Buck realized he was panting, as if he’d been running for miles. At last he’d killed the man who’d murdered his brother.
But Clay was gone forever. Was this justice? It didn’t bring his brother back. Buck tried to console himself that this misanthrope, as Clay had called him, wouldn’t be killing anyone else.
The winding footpath brought him closer to the sniper. He approached cautiously, smoking Henry still clutched in his right hand . . . just in case.
He heard a groan.
My God!
As Buck drew nearer, he realized Rufus Snead was still alive. The bullet had pierced his chest. Blood was oozing from the wound. He was still breathing but he didn’t have long to live.
Suddenly an emotion Buck thought he’d lost somewhere in the many battles of war again manifested itself. Kneeling beside the dying man, he cradled him in his arms the way he’d held his brother.
The redheaded man’s one eye gazed up at him, not so much in pain or anger, as in sorrow. “Sally Mae . . .”
“What about her?” Buck asked softly.
“The . . . only . . . good . . . thing . . . I—” He coughed. “I . . . wanted . . . to . . . help . . .”
Suddenly choked, Buck squeezed out the words, “I understand.”
Blood trickled from the corner of the dying man’s mouth. “Take . . . care . . . of . . . Job,” he whispered.
“I will,” Buck replied, his voice still husky. “I’ll take good care of him.”
“Em-ma . . .” Buck pictured Job coming out onto the porch and climbing onto the old woman’s lap. “Em-ma.”
“Emma too. I promise.” Buck’s throat burned. “They’ll be all right.”
“I’m sor—” His eyes closed.
The mankiller was dead.
Chapter NINETEEN
Sarah pushed her way through the underbrush and stopped. Buck was on his knees, tears running down his face as he cradled his victim in his arms as if he were a sacred treasure. What kind of man was this who cried over the death of his brother’s assassin? Could she weep for her father’s murderer? A knot formed in her chest when she saw the agony contorting his face. How can I ever be worthy of such a man?
Fighting the impulse to rush to his side, she started to turn away, filled with shame for her lack of compassion. She’d give him another minute to collect himself.
Tracker appeared at her side, his face stoic. They exchanged wordless glances.
For a moment Buck remained motionless, then lowered the dead body of his archenemy to the soft forest floor and slowly rose to his feet.
“Why are you here?” he asked Sarah.
He seemed so distant, she wondered if he would even hear the answer. “I thought . . .” But she didn’t know what to say. All she could do was envelop him in her arms. They wept together.
After a discreet interval Tracker shook a nearby branch, the distraction enough to raise their heads.
“Mrs. Drexel,” he said, “you’re a remarkably brave woman, but please don’t ever tempt fate like that again.”
Buck looked from one to the other. “Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”
Over the next few minutes Tracker explained what Sarah had done to draw Snead’s second shot. She stood by, occasionally nodding, but said nothing.
When Tracker was finished, Buck looked at Sarah then grasped her hands. “Now that I’ve found you, I don’t want to lose you.”
She smiled up at him. “You haven’t.”
#
Over the next several hours, everyone was busy. Falling back on old habits, Buck took charge. He told Wes where Gypsy was tethered and sent him to the settlement three miles away where he could hire a wagon and team to convey the ladies into Charleston. Meanwhile, he and Tracker buried the redheaded man. Janey was still trembling from the morning’s ordeal. Sarah did her best to assure her the danger was passed. Freddie, feeling useless, insisted on standing guard in case there were more members of Rufus’s gang around. Buck seriously doubted any survivors would be willing to show themselves, but he appreciated the young man’s concern and dedication.
The ordeal was over. The redheaded man was dead. Thank God the killing had ended. Buck knew he should be exhilarated. Instead he felt depressed, let down and strangely sad. He’d killed another man today. He prayed it was his last.
It was late in the afternoon when the weary travelers finally pulled up in front of the Greenwald home on Charleston’s Battery.
“Goodness me,” Janey said, staring up at the massive three-story clapboard mansion. “This is where you live?”
“It’s the only home I’ve ever known. My father had it built when he married my mother. It won’t be the same now without him.”
She invited everyone inside, where they were greeted by a butler and housekeeper, who offered their simple but heartfelt condolences on the death of Mr. Greenwald. They inquired after Sarah’s mother and were given directions to pack an additional trunk of clothes to be sent to her in Columbia. Janey was also introduced, assigned a place in the servants’ quarters and made a part of the household staff.
Meanwhile Buck attended to Freddie’s arm in the back parlor, where he and Wes were then served supper. Before they left for their lodging house on East Bay Street, Sarah presented them with generous purses, which they happily accepted.