“I do,” Pritchard said.

“Congratulations, boys,” Sergeant Murphy said. “You’re in the Confederate army.” He shook their hands. “Welcome to B Company, Fifth Regiment, of Shelby’s Iron Brigade. We’re known as Witherspoon’s Rangers.”

It was night, and the company was bivouacked on the western bank of Millwood Lake. They’d ridden all day and encountered no other Union forces.

“My name is Captain Jedediah Witherspoon,” the captain said to them. “All you need to know about me is that I rode into Lawrence with Bill Quantrill and Bloody Bill Anderson. Iffen you boys were lookin’ to fight like proper soldiers, lined up in ranks on the field of battle with bayonets a-gleamin’, you’ll be disappointed. Iffen you came to kill Union men, you came to the right place. Tomorrow we ride for the Oklahoma Territory. From there, it’s back to Kansas.”

Supper was salted pork, beans, and biscuits. Pritchard and Ditch sat with Paul, away from the others, as they ate under a tree. There was a cold wind coming off the lake.

“We’re partisan rangers,” Paul explained to Pritchard and Ditch. “Our standing orders, if that’s what you want to call them, are to travel about at the Cap’n’s discretion and create as much havoc as we can for the Union. We just came down from Missouri, where we killed more Union folks than I could count. We also burned a helluva lot of farms, robbed two banks and a train, and tore up some railroad tracks near Springfield.”

“You fight in any big battles?”

“Only when we can’t avoid it,” Paul said. “We’re guerrilla fighters. We’re supposed to be fast and nimble, and besides, they’ve got cavalry units attached to the regular army for that. There ain’t a man in this outfit, ’cept maybe the cap’n and Sergeant Murphy, who’ve been trained and drilled as regular soldiers. Every rider in this company joined up and signed on the same way you did.”

“The captain said you were his horse wrangler?” Pritchard said.

“That’s my secondary job. Yours, too, Ditch. Most everybody’s got one. Some guys hunt for food, others do the patching up when someone is wounded, others do the cooking. My contribution is to break in the horses we commandeer.”

“Commandeer?” Ditch said. “Ain’t that a fancy word for stealin’?”

“That’s what some would call it,” Paul said. “Others, like Cap’n Witherspoon, would say we’re only takin’ what we need to support the war effort.”

“What do the folks who own what you ‘commandeer’ have to say?” Pritchard asked.

“Nothin’,” Paul said around a mouth full of beans, “iffen they want to stay aboveground. Sometimes we eat lean, like tonight, and other times, it’s beef and whiskey. All depends on what booty we’ve commandeered.”

“Sounds like you’re nothin’ but a band of brigands,” Ditch said.