Janey gave her a broad smile of anticipation.

#

Jake came riding up like there was a Yankee or a revenuer after him. “Hey Boss, they’re still there.”

“Where?” Rufus asked.

“You git vittles?” Clem called out.

“They’re still at the stagecoach depot,” Jake replied.

“How come?”

“Stage manager said a horse went lame, another threw a shoe, then they had to grease a wheel—”

Something was finally going right, Rufus thought smugly.

“They expected to be out of there an hour after sunup, but it ain’t working out that way.”

“Where’s the food?” Clem whined. “I ain’t et since yesterday.”

“Shut up,” Rufus scolded him. “How soon before they get going?” he asked Jake.

“They was almost finished doing all them things when I rode off. I reckon they’ll be on their way in maybe half an hour.”

Rufus shouted. “Everybody, grab a biscuit and eat in the saddle. Here’s our chance to get ahead of ‘em. Don’t go through town on the main road though. I don’t want any of ‘em seeing you. Just follow me. We got to move fast.”

“What’re we going to do?” Clem asked. He was the first to pull a biscuit from the sack Jake had draped over his saddle horn.

Rufus grinned. There wasn’t time to set up the ambush he was hoping for. “We’re gonna have some fun.”

#

A series of minor mishaps had delayed their departure from Holly Hill. It was almost nine o’clock, two hours later than they’d planned, before they were able to get on the winding, sandy road to Goose Creek. As prearranged, Buck took up his mobile sentry duty a half mile or so behind the coach, sometimes staying on the road, sometimes cutting paths through the underbrush that paralleled it. He kept his binoculars out and constantly scanned the woods, especially the upper branches of trees, for snipers. When Wes stopped at one of the frequent creeks to water the horses, Buck had seen no one or anything suspicious. Yet he felt uneasy, as if he were himself being watched. Intensely he continued to survey the territory around them.

Suddenly a ragged, dirty man stepped out of the nearby woods into the roadway, leading a skinny gray mare. Tracker had alighted from the coach, revolver at his side, and was dutifully scrutinizing the stranger. Buck, his senses on alert, continued to watch the scene through his binoculars, his Henry raised in firing position if anything untoward might happen.

From that distance Buck couldn’t hear the exchange of words between the two men, but he saw the stranger remove his hat with a flourish toward the ladies in the coach. After a few more words were exchanged, the man mounted his horse and rode toward Buck and the stage resumed its journey.

Buck considered avoiding the horseman but decided nothing would be accomplished by doing so. He watched the rider approach at an easy trot, scruffy looking, with several-day’s growth of grayish whiskers and surprisingly clean yellow suspenders.

“Morning, stranger,” the man said in a thick drawl. “Sure are some nervous folks around here. All I said was good morning and the fella down yonder pulled a pistol on me.”

“That right?” Buck replied. “Dangerous times. I reckon everybody’s on edge these days.”

“You take care now, hear?” The man touched his hat and continued on his way.

Buck urged Gypsy after the coach, got out the binoculars he’d discreetly hidden from the stranger and continued to observe the countryside around him.

Several miles farther along, the coach came to a crossroads. Sitting on a fallen tree trunk a dozen yards from the intersection were two men, apparently relaxing in the afternoon sun, doing nothing more than talking to each other.

Something didn’t seem right, but as Buck drew closer to them, he didn’t see anything suspicious. They didn’t even appear to be armed, nor, to Buck’s amazement was there any evidence of a whiskey jug. As the stage passed, they ceased their conversation and waved to the lumbering wagon.

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.”