Trapper grinned to himself. His bad luck might have started at birth, but he chose to remember his childhood as easy, not the hard reality it had been. Maybe that was how he made it through the war. Maybe that was why playing the part of a gambler at night fitted him well. No one knew him, so he could be whoever he wanted to be.

As he moved down the main street of Jefferson, Trapper saw two soldiers walking toward him. The war had been over for two years, yet he still came to full alert when he saw Yankee blue.

He leaned forward, patting Midnight’s neck so the soldiers couldn’t see his face. “Easy now, boy,” he whispered as he had a thousand times during the war. The horse seemed to understand to remain still and not make a sound.

Trapper never wore a uniform in the war. He’d first been assigned as a dispatcher. He rode from camp to camp delivering messages. He was tall and lean at seventeen. Young enough, or maybe dumb enough, to think it fun to tease danger. He’d cross the lines, play the part of a farmer when he was questioned, and set traps so that anyone following him would be sorry.

Often the traps caught game, and as the war lingered on, the fresh meat was much needed. That was when the men began to call him Trapper. By the end of the war, he barely remembered his given name or the life he’d once had.

“Hello, mister,” one of the soldiers yelled, drawing Trapper’s attention. “Mind telling us why you’re out so late? Shouldn’t you be home having dinner?”

Trapper had no idea if this town had a curfew. When the soldiers came in after the war, they set all kinds of rules. Jailed people for pretty much any reason. Most of the Yankees were just doing their job, but a few, who came south to make a fortune, liked to cause trouble.

Trapper kept his hat low. Few could identify him from the war, but if someone did, he was a dead man. He’d been a spy many times. He’d traveled through northern states, picking up information. Men who crossed the lines were sometimes called gray shadows. They were the only Southerners not pardoned.

“I ain’t got no wife.” Trapper made a Southern accent drip from every word. “I’m heading to the saloon for my dinner. Heard it’s only two bits.”

One soldier moved closer. “Did you serve in the war?”

“I did.” Trapper straightened. “I was one of the cooks for General Lee. They call me Trapper ’cause I can trap a rat, roast it with onions and greens, and you’ll think you’re eating at your mother’s table.”

Both men laughed. “My mother never cooked rat,” one answered.

The other soldier waved him off.