CHAPTER ELEVEN

Buck Stuart

Whiskey and Bull sat in front of the man before them, staring into his shocked face. He was older, probably fifties or sixties. His clothing was well-made but not expensive. The boots on his feet told them he was born in the twentieth century.

“My name is Whiskey, and this is my friend Bull,” he said. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Buck. Buck Stuart. Your name is Whiskey? And you’re Bull?” he frowned.

“My real name is Wade, but my friends call me Whiskey. Bull’s real name is William. People thought he was wide as a bull and hit like one,” smirked the man. Buck nodded, grinning at the two men.

“I’ve been hit by a bull or two in my day. I think,” he frowned.

“What do you remember, Buck?” asked Bull.

“I’m not sure,” he said, shaking his head. “I was down here to sell some horses from my farm in Mississippi. I raise, raised racehorses. Lord, my wife must be worried sick about me.”

The two men looked at the man, then down at their feet. He would catch on in a minute that his wife was probably long gone. Perhaps she was somewhere waiting on him, but it wasn’t Mississippi.

“It’s not 1951, is it?”

“No, sir. It’s not,” said Bull. “What do you remember? Anything could be helpful for us to help you get to where you need to be.”

“I came down here with four horses to sell. All beauties. They were the fastest on the farm and had already won several local races. There used to be a big horse park near the city. Is that still there?” he asked.

“I don’t believe so,” said Whiskey. “I’m not originally from here, but we’ve lived here a long time.”

“Strange,” whispered the man, looking around the property. “I always camped when I was selling my horses. It was cheaper, and I’m not a fancy man. I can wash up in a river or creek. I had a few interested buyers, but for the life of me, or death of me, I can’t remember their names.”

“Hopefully, we can help with that,” said Bull. “Unlike all the others in your position here, you were born in an era with decent newspapers, even radio coverage. If you disappeared unexpectedly, I would guess that your wife had someone looking for you. Did you have children?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “My Vera couldn’t have children. Didn’t matter to me. The horses were my babies, and she was all I needed. Funny. I remember nothing else, but I do remember how much I loved that woman.”

“The love of a good woman is hard to forget,” smiled Whiskey. “That’s my wife over there. She’s an attorney.”

“A lawyer? I’ve never heard of such a thing,” he smirked.

“My wife is an art historian,” said Bull, pointing to Lily.

“Imagine that,” smirked that man. He stared off toward a group of individuals, then looked back at Whiskey and Bull.

“Something you want to ask us, Buck?” asked Whiskey.

“Well, sir. I mean no disrespect, but you’ve got coloreds on this property. Is that normal?”

“We don’t see color, Buck. We believe all men and women are created equal. The men and women you see here are the finest in the world. Smart, loyal, strong, and courageous to the ends of the earth. So, if you don’t mind, sir, don’t mention color again,” said Bull.

“As I said. I meant no disrespect. The boys I had helping me on the farm were the best men I’d ever known. All but one were col- uh, men. Like those.” Whiskey nodded.

“We understand that you’re from a different time, Buck. It will take time for you to get used to this. We want to find out what happened to you. What are the last things you remember?” asked Bull.

“Well, sir. I was supposed to take one of the horses to the track to have him run for someone. Damn if I can remember a name. I remember it was early. The sun was just coming up, and I had gone down to the creek to wash up.” He looked around the property, then at the big house. “I sure don’t remember any of this being here.”

“Maybe you were near Blood Creek,” said Whiskey. “It’s about ten miles from here, but that’s a long way from New Orleans.”

“No. No, I was close to the city. No more than five or six miles,” he said, shaking his head.

“Well, that helps us out a bit. Maybe someone wanted to steal your horses. If they were as fast and as good as you say, perhaps that’s what they wanted, and you put up a fight.”

“Can’t fight much with this,” he said, raising his left arm. Whiskey and Bull stared at his hand, seeing the gold wedding ring gleam on his ring finger. Buck looked at the men, then back at his hand. “No. How can this be?”

“How can what be?” asked Bull.

“I was born without my left hand,” he said. “I couldn’t serve with all my friends and my own brother in World War II. It devastated me. Made me feel less of a man.”

“Maybe in the afterlife or in-between life, you’re whole,” said Whiskey, shrugging his shoulders.

“Are you gonna help me to find my Vera?” he asked with watery eyes. Buck wasn’t worried about himself, or where he was supposed to be. He was only worried about his Vera.

“I assure you, Buck. We are going to find a way to get you to your wife. I’ll bet she misses you terribly, and I’m going to bet that she was very concerned when you didn’t come home to her.”

“She musta’ thought I ran out on her,” said the man.

“Would she have reason to think that?” asked Bull.

“Never! I woulda never run out on her. She loved me for who I was, and I loved her for who she was. We used to joke that we couldn’t have babies, and I couldn’t write left-handed,” he chuckled. “We were a match made in heaven.”

The weight of his words was heavy between the three men. They could tell that he adored his wife, loved her, and missed her in this moment. Everything was awakening for him, and the memories would soon come flooding back to him. He looked off toward the river, raising his head in the air as if he heard something.

“Smoke.”

“Smoke?” asked Bull.

“Someone was smoking near the creek. I don’t touch the stuff. Never did. Someone was smoking tobacco near the river. I can still smell it.” Whiskey nodded at the man.

“Buck, you might have just given us a very important clue.”