“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” the preacher said. Sam was transfixed by the man’s calm demeanor—he himself would already have shoved a fist into the Red Shirt’s eye. A sober man could always knock down a drunk.

Gray Ellen squeezed Sam’s arm and whispered, “Do something.”

“None of our business—local stuff.”

“Help him, before it gets out of hand.”

“Let it go by.”

But instead, Gray Ellen turned and rose half out of her seat.

The Red Shirts grabbed the preacher by the coat and hauled him into the aisle. “You ought to be riding in the colored car, boy—didn’t your mama ever learn you your place?” The preacher’s hat fluttered to the floor and was lost under boots.

“Sam!” Gray Ellen whispered urgently.

The Red Shirts were manhandling the preacher up the aisle. Gray Ellen suddenly moved to block them. “What’s going on here?” she demanded. “This gentleman, he was just minding his own business.”

“That’s right, ma’am—and you just mind yours.”

Another of the Red Shirts said, “He’ll just have to hoof it the rest of the way.” “You can’t just throw a man off—”

One of the Red Shirts clutched her arm. “You best not—”

Take your hands off my wife.” Sam was standing now, and he edged out into the aisle, crowding Gray Ellen. The river flashed by through gaps in the trees, hung with gray Spanish moss. The Red Shirt released her arm, uncertain what to do. Sam was tall and lanky, but he had a reach. The Red Shirt looked him in the eye, then looked away.

Other people in the coach were craning their necks to see what was going on—they murmured and pointed. Sam couldn’t tell whose side they were on.

“Gentlemen. Ma’am.” It was one of the soldiers who had been sitting up front. Now, he loomed over their shoulders. Spreading his arms, he gathered Sam and Gray Ellen together like children. Gray Ellen smelled whiskey and horse sweat, mixed with cigar smoke, bay rum, and another odor she couldn’t quite place.

“Just please take your seats, folks.” He pressed a big hand onto Sam’s shoulder and practically forced him into his seat. With Gray Ellen, he was gentler. “Please, ma’am,” he said. He reminded her of pictures she’d seen of Colonel Roosevelt with the Rough Riders. She relaxed and sat—something about his touch made her defer to him.

“Now, boys,” he addressed the Red Shirts, “this ain’t the time or the place. The preacher here may not be aware of our customs.”

The way he looked at the gray-suited preacher, hung between two Red Shirts like laundry, made it plain to Gray Ellen that the soldier didn’t believe for a second what he was saying—he was just trying to keep the peace.