“Hell no. How far you think one measly jug of that stuff lasts with three thirsty men?”

Rufus removed another silver coin from his pocket and tossed it to him. Chopper may have been right-handed once, but he had no trouble catching with his left hand now.

“Get yourself some beer to clear your head. We’ll be back in a few hours.”

“What you gonna do?”

“Take Floyd and Fat Man with me to Cedar Creek, where we’ll welcome Dr. Buck Thomson home.”

A moment later his brother and a big, round man came out of the saloon and joined them.

“Remember,” Rufus told them after explaining the situation, “you can shoot and kill any of ‘em, but not the guard. The doc is all mine.”

#

The wagon had traversed the flat coastal plains of South Carolina and was now rolling over forested hills and through swamps. Swarms of insects bombarded them without relief. There was no breeze and the humidity was suffocating. The ladies fanned themselves incessantly with little effect, while the men slapped and scratched themselves with equally poor results.

They’d been on the road nearly two hours when the surrey descended into a shallow valley. The narrow sandy road wound between the tall pines and scattered oaks that towered over tangled brambles and impenetrable underbrush. Upon coming to a shallow stream, the driver halted the horses to let them drink. Clouds of biting insects immediately attacked. Everyone was swatting ineffectually at them when the driver flicked the reins of the horses and moved on. They’d barely cleared the creek bed when Buck heard the all-too-

familiar flat crack of a rifle shot. The image of his brother’s exploding head flashed before his eyes. A moment later the horse directly in front of him dropped in its traces, blood gushing from its head.

The two women screamed.

Buck swung around and caught a glimpse of Mr. Greenwald frowning in bewilderment.

Before he could raise the Henry from across his knees, a hairy brute stepped from behind a tree on the left, leveled a pistol and at point-blank range shot the driver dead.

Chapter NINE

“Get down,” Buck shouted. He swung his rifle to the left and fired. The assassin’s face widened with disbelief as he was blown backward by the impact of the bullet piercing his chest.

“Stay low,” Buck ordered the people behind him.

He was scanning the woods ahead, searching for the hidden rifleman who’d shot the horse, when Sarah and her mother screamed again. Buck whirled around on the seat in time to see the two women dive for the bottom of the wagon. Mrs. Greenwald reached up for her husband who continued to sit calmly, apparently unfazed by the terror around him. Buck was about to order him to take cover when a thin, disheveled man, wearing a slouch hat, stepped out of the woods on the right side of the road. He pointed his revolver and fired. As the old man slumped from the bench, Buck ended the gunman’s life with a single rifle bullet to his chest.

Sarah, sprawled protectively on top of her mother, was reaching toward her bloodied father when another rifle bullet tore a path across her right shoulder. She made not a whimper, and Buck was convinced she too was dead.

The infamous Thomson temper roared through him. He leaped from the wagon and stood crouched beside it, emptying his rifle into the distant grove at the forward curve of the road. In the wake of the resulting shower of leaves and bark, he spotted a man with long red hair scrambling frantically to the ground.

Images flashed. His brother’s golden head ruined. The crippled boy hiding in a hickory. The desecrated bodies of Martha Hewitt and her children.

“Sarah,” her mother screamed, “you’re bleeding. Help. Help.”

Buck spun around at the same time he heard Sarah moan. She was still alive, thank God. Mr. Greenwald was draped over the side of the wagon, obviously dead. Mrs. Greenwald was pinned beneath her daughter, blood from Sarah’s wounded shoulder dripping onto her bodice. Quickly Buck surveyed the woods once more to insure no further attack was imminent. There was no movement. No jiggling of tree leaves. The air was still, without the hint of a breeze.

Assuming their attacker or attackers had left the scene, he gently raised Sarah off her mother. Dazed, bleeding and undoubtedly in pain, the young woman nevertheless climbed down from the carriage on her own.

“Get behind that rock. Quick,” he instructed her.

Older and less spry, her mother required Buck’s assistance to negotiate her descent.

“Poppa—” Sarah implored.

“There’s nothing we can do for him now, sweetheart,” her mother said tenderly, as she ripped a piece from her skirt. “But you’re bleeding. Hold this tight on your wound.” She asked Buck. “Are they gone?”

“I believe so, or they could be playing possum. We need to get out of here, fast. Stay where you are and lie as flat as you can until I have everything ready.”

He hurriedly detached the harness from the dead horse, then urged its partner to back up far enough to maneuver around it. Untying Gypsy from the rear of the wagon, he led him forward and buckled him into the traces.

Before climbing into the wagon himself, however, he walked over to the burly dead man who’d killed the driver. Bending down, he examined him more closely. He’d never seen the shooter before. The other killer, the thin one, was sprawled on his back in the middle of the road. Buck removed the shapeless hat from the teenager, exposing short, kinky hair with a reddish hue. Buck pulled the killer’s collar aside. There was no scar on his neck. Two red-headed men? What were the odds? It didn’t make any difference. What did matter was that Clay’s killer was still at large, deep in the swamp by now. Buck muttered an oath.

He hoisted the bodies of Mr. Greenwald and the driver into the bottom of the buggy, then, removing clothing from the luggage stowed behind the back seat, he used it to cover them. Meanwhile the two women were clinging to each other. Sarah was sobbing, while her mother held her in her arms and rocked her gently, whispering a rhythmic refrain in a language Buck didn’t recognize.

Praying there were no other gunmen in hiding, he mounted the front seat, gathered the reins, and urged the horses into a brisk trot.

#

Soon they entered the total devastation inflicted by Sherman’s legions upon Columbia. Row upon row of formerly majestic houses had been burned to their foundations. Broken furniture littered ruined lawns. Charred cotton bales, obviously used to obstruct the streets, were strewn like giant burned pillows. Buck drove for blocks without sighting a single inhabitant. Where were the people? Had they all perished? Had they all fled?

Dominating the landscape was the smoke-streaked capitol building, pock-marked from the impact of cannon balls. General Washington, the father of his country, molded in proud bronze, still guarded the front steps, but now his cane was crippled. Only Trinity Church, across the street, seemed to have escaped the wrath of victorious Yankee troops.

Buck came upon a solitary white man in a torn maroon frockcoat scavenging through the rubble of what may have been a parlor. As Buck drew nearer he heard the old man mumbling, “I’ve got to find her picture.”