“May I offer you a hand?” Buck said.

He received no response.

Ruth came around to his side of the carriage. “Jacob,” she ordered loudly, “we’re stopping here for the night. You need to get down. Now.”

Buck expected the elderly man to resist her as he had in the ship’s dining room, but this time he complied with a mumbled, “Yes, dear.”

The inside of the inn was no more inviting than the outside, but at least they weren’t confined to hard seats and jangling motion. The proprietor came out from behind a raised counter and asked them to sign the register. Buck meanwhile sought out the driver and guard.

They weren’t difficult to find. The saloon was plainly visible through two sets of double doors. Buck entered, walked up to the round table where the pair had already consumed half the contents of quart-sized glass mugs of beer.

“Bring in the ladies luggage, John,” he ordered the driver, “and take it to their rooms.”

“Soon’s I finish my beer,” he replied dismissively.

Buck pretended to ignore him and turned to his companion. “You, too, George.”

“Mister,” the guard growled, not even bothering to look up, “I ain’t your nigger.”

Buck’s heartbeat begin to accelerate, his breathing slowed and deepened, and his chest expanded. He reached out, picked up the two mugs and poured the contents on the sawdust floor. “You’ve finished your beers. Now bring in the bags.”

Both men jumped up. The guard reached for his shotgun, propped up against the table, but Buck kicked it away before he could grab it. Simultaneously he snatched his Colt from the inside pocket of his coat and pressed it to the man’s cheek.

“The next thing I spill won’t be your beer.” He glowered at the driver who’d retreated at the sight of the handgun. “Understand?”

“All right. All right,” the driver wheedled. “Calm down, mister. Don’t know what difference a five-minute delay would’ve made, but you want them bags in now. . . . Sure.”

“You have anything to add?” Buck asked the guard who was now wide-eyed.

“I never argue with a loaded Colt. I’ll get the damned bags.”

“Wise decision.” He released the sweating, foul-smelling drunkard, who backed away and ran out the door.

Buck watched him leave. Sarah and her mother were standing in the other doorway. Neither flinched when he approached them.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, ladies.”

“Some men are slow learners,” Ruth observed.

“I’m afraid you just received a glimpse of the infamous Thomson temper. I’ll do my best to shield you from it in the future.”

From the expression on Sarah’s face he knew his actions had reprised unpleasant memories. He hoped with all his heart he hadn’t driven her away.

#

Business was brisk at the Whiskey Jug Saloon in Lexington County, South Carolina. Rufus Snead slid off the nag he’d rented in Charleston. After being ridden to exhaustion over the last two days, the gelding’s head hung between his forelegs. Rufus didn’t bother hitching him to the post. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The barroom smelled like a combination of outhouse and chicken coop. A few faces glanced at the new arrival, then returned to their cups.

“Rufus, that you?” Floyd bellowed from across the room. “Damn, it’s good to see you again.” He weaved his way between indolent patrons and threw his arms around his older brother.

Rufus was surprised the teenager was almost a head taller than the last time they’d been together. Same scrawny build though. Same rust-colored brown hair. Skin darker now. His slouch hat and clothes looked like they belonged to someone else, especially the leather belt with a silver buckle. Rufus wondered who he’d robbed for it.

“I feared you was a gone coon in the war.” Floyd released him and stepped a half pace back. “But since you ain’t dead, welcome home.” He held Rufus at arm’s length. “What happened to your neck? Yankee’s git ya?”

Better not tell him I was a sniper for the Yankees. Not that Floyd would care, but he always had a big mouth.

“You ‘member the Thomsons, don’t you?” Rufus responded. “Well, I got that son of a bitch Clay for what he done to Sally Mae. It was his fault she died. He killed her, so I blowed his pretty yellow head right off him up there in Virginia.”

“He done that to your neck?”

“Not Clay. His brother Buck.”

“Buck Thomson? I thought that momma’s boy was a doctor? Ain’t he?”

“If you call lopping off people’s arms and legs doctoring. But he still knows how to shoot, I can tell you that. If he’d aimed half an inch to the left, I’d be a dead man. Don’t matter though. Now it’s pay-back time.”

Floyd grinned. “What you got in mind? You want to kill him?”

Rufus squinted at his brother with his good eye. “I’m thinking that’d be too quick. Be more fun to make him feel some pain, like he done me. Figure I could shoot him in the elbow, maybe blow it off, see how good he is at hacking people up with one arm.”

Floyd snickered. “Speaking of one-arm. . . . You remember Chopper Willems?” He nodded to a scrawny farmer in overalls at a corner table. “You mighta noticed, he lost his right hand in the war. Talking now about selling his chicken farm near Gadsden since he ain’t no good at chopping off the heads of live chickens with only one hand. Too much trouble wringing their necks first, so’s he can hold ‘em down. Ain’t affected his ridin’ or his shootin’ though. Can still knock a circling buzzard out of the sky with that rusty old piece of his. Tip a jug too. He’d be much obliged if you’d ask him to join us. He’s plain sick of chasing them chickens. But back to Buck Thomson. I ain’t heard of him being round here since way before the war.”

“He’s on the way here from Charleston with some folks in a rented surrey. They should be spending tonight in Gadsden and get into Columbia sometime tomorrow.”

“Why Gadsden? Ain’t that a little out of the way?”

“Yep, but the road’s better.” Rufus scratched his head in deep thought. “Tell you what, call Chopper over here. I got a job for ’im.”

“Sure, brother. What you got in mind?”

“Need him to do what the army calls re-con-oy-ter.”

“Sounds like a disease.”

“Means to look around.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“I did. Now call Chopper over here and Fat Man too. I need to find out which way Thompson’s coming, and fast. Him and the people he’s with’ll be here tomorrow.”

“They’ll want to know what’s in it for ‘em,” Floyd said.

“And for you, brother?” Rufus asked with a sneer.

“Maybe you ain’t heard, but the costs of things’s gone up considerable since the war began. Thomson got money?”

“He’s a doctor, ain’t he? Besides, I ’spect the folks he’s traveling with have plenty too.”

“You always could sniff out the soft touches, Rufus. I’ll get Chopper and Fat Man.” The sixteen-year-old motioned to the proprietor behind the plank bar. “Two more beers, Shifty, for me and my brother here.”

“He better have cash. You still owes me for the last two.”

Rufus snorted. “Still free loading, huh, brother.” He removed a leather purse from inside his shirt and produced a small silver coin.

Floyd let out a whoop. “Yankee money! Where’d you get that, brother? Ah, never mind. It’s better than rebel paper.”

“Enough for another couple of rounds, you think?”

“Ooo-eee! Come on, Shifty. Start pouring.”

“Speaking of Sally Mae,” Rufus said after his first gulp, “how’s the boy?”

“Job? Oh, he’s still with old Emma, far as I know.” Floyd snickered. “Favors his daddy, they say, with that yellow hair of his.”

“His daddy’s hair ain’t yellow no more.” Rufus picked up the foamy tankard of beer and downed half of it in one gulp. “Ain’t yellow now.”