They spent their morning working alongside Union prisoners. Instead of digging individual graves, they dug a large trench. The work detail was guarded by a dozen Confederate regulars and supervised by a tall, burly sergeant with two Remington revolvers in his belt and a bullwhip in his meaty fist.

“I don’t know about you,” Ditch whispered as they dug, “but I didn’t leave Missouri just to dig holes in Arkansas. First chance I get, I’m bustin’ Snake outa that corral, grabbin’ my rifle, and getting the hell out of here.”

“I’m with you,” Pritchard said. “But haven’t you forgotten what that uppity lieutenant told us they do around here to deserters? He said first sign of us skedaddling, we’d catch a ball. I’ve been shot once already, Ditch. It ain’t no fun.”

“You’ve gotta be in the army to desert,” Ditch said. “We ain’t exactly Confederate soldiers. We’re wearing dead men’s coats and digging holes at gunpoint alongside Union prisoners. Far as I’m concerned, it ain’t desertion; it’s escape.”

“Did you see that map in the colonel’s tent?” Pritchard asked.

“I did,” Ditch said, “but I didn’t pay it any mind.”

“There were little pins with flags stuck in them,” Pritchard explained. “The flags represented different Confederate and Union units. There was a big gray one with a star on it, which I took to represent where we are, north of Fort Smith. The good news is, Shelby’s Fifth looks to be in southern Arkansas, near someplace called Washington.”

“The bad news?” Ditch said.

“There’s a helluva lot of blue pins surrounding the big gray pin with the star.”

“All we have to do,” Ditch said, “is get out of here and get down to Washington, wherever that is.”

“Easier said than done.”

They dug silently for an hour before Ditch spoke again. “What’s with the alias? Joe Atherton?”

“Samuel Pritchard is no more. Far as anybody knows, he was headshot and buried down by the river a mile outside of Atherton. Nobody’s going to hunt for somebody who’s already dead and buried.”

“I see your point.”

There was a loud crack, and a bolt of agony, like a knife cut, flashed across Pritchard’s broad back. He twitched so hard he dropped his shovel and fell to all fours in the trench. A diagonal tear appeared along the length of his tunic, and a line of blood began to form beneath it on his skin.

“More digging,” the sergeant said, coiling his whip, “and less talk. Unless you want another taste of the lash.”

Pritchard cursed and started to rise. A dozen soldiers lowered their rifles, their bayonets pointing at him. Ditch raised his hands and stepped in front of them.

“Don’t,” Ditch said to his friend. “They’re lookin’ for a reason.”