“Hell if we didn’t,” Pritchard said. He removed his hat, and the bandage underneath, to reveal the circular scar at his hairline above his right eye.

“That’s a ball hole, all right,” the lieutenant whistled, “if ever I saw one.” The enlisted men leaned in to examine the still-angry wound. “Why aren’t you dead, boy?”

“I’ve still got a few more Union men to kill,” Pritchard said.

The lieutenant frowned. “Well, boys,” he said, “you’ve just been captured by a platoon of Upton Hays’s Eleventh. The outfit you seek is further south. Come on along, and I’ll introduce you to our commander. Maybe he’ll find some use for you.”

“Are we prisoners?” Ditch asked.

“You’re guests, for now. Depending on the colonel, that could change for better or worse.”

Ditch and Pritchard were led through the foggy forest by the soldiers. Before long, they began to smell decomposing flesh. Soon the scent became overwhelming.

They entered a clearing. As the sun rose, the fog began to dissipate, and the scene before them unfolded. Dozens of horses, and countless men in both blue and gray uniforms, lay dead in the tall grass of a large meadow.

The soldiers spread out and kept their weapons ready. They crossed the meadow of dead men and animals unmolested, and within a quarter mile of reentering the forest again were challenged by a sentry supported by a line of riflemen.

Once the password was accepted, the soldiers and their “guests” were allowed to pass the pickets and enter a bivouac area where dozens of tents, and several hundred more Confederate soldiers, milled about. A sizable herd of horses was rope-corralled at one end of the camp. The scent of decomposing flesh from the meadow blended with the odor of cooking food.

Four enlisted men remained with the lieutenant, who went directly to one of the larger tents. The sergeant and the other soldiers took Snake and Rusty in the opposite direction, toward the corral.

“Those horses belong to us,” Ditch said. “And that’s my daddy’s rifle.” The lieutenant ignored the comment. He parted the tent flap and saluted.

Seated at a folding table covered by a detailed map, surrounded by several other Confederate officers, sat a thin, bearded, long-haired man in a braided uniform with colonel’s insignia on the sleeves. He was smoking a pipe. He casually returned the lieutenant’s salute.

“Good morning, Colonel,” the junior officer announced. “Lieutenant Gabel, back from the morning patrol. No sign of enemy about, sir.”

“They’re out there, all right,” came the reply. “Even if we can’t see them. Better than an entire brigade to our regiment, I’m afraid. Who are these two men?”