“Where’s your manners?” he said. They bowed jerkily and murmured an apology to Gray Ellen. “That’s fine. Now, boys, go on back to your seats.” He slapped a hand onto the preacher’s shoulder. The Red Shirts melted toward the back of the car, grumbling. The conductor squeezed by the soldier and disappeared into the forward vestibule.

The big soldier guided the preacher into his seat, handed him back his crushed hat, and winked at him without smiling. To Gray Ellen, he said, “Ma’am, I’m sorry as I can be. Some folks just get carried away.” He grinned wryly, looking even more like Colonel Roosevelt, moustache and all. He was older than she’d first thought—his hair was silver, brush-cut. His broad nose was a florid map of whiskey nights. But he looked fit—deep-chested and blocky in the shoulders. He held out a big red hand. “Captain Bill Kenan, ma’am. A pleasure.”

“Likewise,” she said, then introduced herself and Sam.

He glanced at the many bags in the overhead rack. “Coming to settle in our town, are you?”

Sam said, “We’ve heard there’s lots of opportunity.”

Kenan nodded. “So they tell me.”

Gray Ellen said, “Would they really have thrown him off a moving train?”

“Don’t let this give you the wrong impression. It’s a good town.”

“Are you just back from the Cuban war?” Sam asked to get off the subject. He might as well find out if the man knew about him.

Kenan laughed. “My war was over years ago. Now, I train the state militia.”

Sam relaxed. “What’s your specialty?”

Kenan beamed. “Guns,” he said happily. “Ordnance.”

That was the other smell, Gray Ellen realized: gun oil. Her father kept silver-plated shotguns in a glass case and cleaned them every Saturday.

Kenan went back to his seat, leaving the aisle clear. Gray Ellen was relieved. She squeezed Sam’s arm—he had stood by her.

Across the aisle, old Waddell smiled enigmatically, narrowing his gray eyes but never losing his smile. A couple of miles down the track, he observed, “That Captain Kenan, he has quite a reputation in these parts. He was the sharpshooting champion of the entire Confederate army.”

“Looks like a steady man,” Sam said.

“The Duplin Rifles advanced closer to Washington than any other company in the Forty-third, and him out front.” This was a story Waddell liked to tell, about a time of glory, of honor.