“Didn’t even have sense enough to get rid of the casing,” Taylor said. “Bring him along, boys.”

Taylor formed the men up in a gauntlet in the sandy street outside the house. Dan Wright stood uncertainly at the foot of his stoop, rubbing his maimed hand. His wife looked on from the stoop, weeping.

Taylor said, “Run to daylight, boy.”

Wright hesitated. “Cap’n?”

“You heard me. We’re letting you get away.”

The men cocked their rifles.

“Have mercy, cap’n! I told you, I shot into the air.”

Sam said, “You’re not actually going to—”

“You’ll get the same mercy you showed Bill Mayo,” Taylor said. Wright stood fast. Taylor put his pistol to Wright’s forehead. “Or I can give you a third eye right now.”

Wright squinted his eyes closed and held his breath.

“Go on, run, boy. It’s the only chance you’ll get today.”

Sam wanted to grab the black man and wrestle him to the ground, save him. He wanted to shout, protest, put a stop to what was about to happen. But he just stood there, mouth open.

Dan Wright put his head down and ran hard, grunting, through the gauntlet. He passed one man, another, gray and red blurs out of the corner of his eye. He kept his head down. His feet sank into the deep sand. He struggled for footing, running in slow motion. He would make it, he had to. He could see daylight at the end of the street.

And then a rifle butt punched him in the side, and he went down. His mouth tasted sand. A bullet shattered his knee. Another took part of his maimed hand clean off. He lay in the sand as nine more bullets kicked his body.

Sam fell to his knees and threw up. The infantrymen stood around and watched, curious about what they had just done. One of them poked Wright with a rifle barrel, and he moved. He was still alive.

After he collected his wits, Sam said, “You can’t just let him lie there! For Christ’s sake!”

J. Allan Taylor said, “Boy, don’t crowd me.”

They let Dan Wright lie in the street for half an hour. When it was clear he wasn’t going to die anytime soon, Taylor had him taken to City-County Hospital, so his men could get on with their business. In a ward three hundred feet away from where Bill Mayo lay wounded, Dan Wright lingered till sundown the next day. He never lost consciousness. He never admitted shooting anybody. He uttered no last words.