Tanner came up from the corrals to meet him. “You look like you’re cloudin’ up to rain. Catch hell from the captain?”

“No. I’m catchin’ a little hell from myself.”

He spent the next few days doing chores around camp, raking out the corrals, pitching hay, helping with the cooking. He even shod several horses, a job he would have expected to be particularly hard on the weakened leg. He was gratified to find that the leg was stronger day by day. It was coming back to normal, though the wound was leaving a frightful-looking mark. He had heard that Indians took pride in their scars, sometimes outlining them with paint to make them more noticeable. His was private, to remain forever concealed by the leg of his trousers.

Any damned fool could get himself wounded. The real object in a fight was to win without getting wounded, or worse.

Because of the frequent comings and goings of strangers, he paid little attention to a buggy pulling up to the captain’s tent, accompanied by several men on horseback. He was currying a horse when an adjutant came into the corral. “Shannon, the captain wants to see you.”

Rusty brushed off some of the dirt and horsehair from his clothing and followed the adjutant to the center of camp. He asked no questions. He had found that when the captain wanted the men to know something, he told them.

A broad-shouldered man sat on a chair facing the captain. His back was turned to Rusty.

Whitfield said, “This is Private Shannon.”

The big man turned. Rusty’s stomach seemed to sink to his feet.

Caleb Dawkins.

Dawkins was pale and seemed to have lost some weight. He pointed his heavy chin at Rusty. “That is the man, captain. Indeed it is. I saw him enter the room just before I was shot.”

Rusty was speechless, his tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth. His hands shook a little.

The captain said, “Shannon is not the man who shot you.”

“No, but he was an accomplice.”

Rusty began to find his voice. “I wasn’t. I went there to try and stop it.”

Whitfield said, “Private Shannon told me he took the culprit prisoner but due to disability was unable to hold him.”

Rusty took comfort in the tone of the captain’s voice. Evidently Whitfield believed him if Dawkins did not. “I’ve told the truth, sir.”

Dawkins said, “You ran off and left me for dead.”

Whitfield said, “Private Shannon was of the opinion that you were dead. He left in pursuit of the man who shot you.”

“That man was a Monahan, and Shannon has been thick with the Monahans all along. Are you aware, Captain, that they are union sympathizers? I suspect Private Shannon is, as well.”

“We do not inquire into our men’s politics. Our only interest is in their ability and willingness to face the Indians, and whatever other assignment we give them.”

“You have a duty to run down fugitives from conscription.”