Rusty had treated bullet and arrow wounds, but he had never cut off an arm or leg. James held the blade of a skinning knife over a campfire, then handed it to him. Sweat trickling down his face and burning his eyes, Rusty severed what remained of the arm.

Young Oldham screamed. His brother turned to come back, but his friend held him. “We both need a drink, Clyde.”

Rusty felt sick at his stomach. He fought to keep everything in it from coming up.

James said, “You’ll need to tie off those veins.”

“I’d better let you do it.” Rusty walked out of the tent and leaned against a tree while his stomach emptied itself. Barlow joined him, kicking dirt over the vomit. “There’s a spring down yonder. You can wash the blood off. Then I know where there’s a jug. It ain’t good whiskey, but there ain’t no good stuff to be had.”

Rusty doubted he could keep the whiskey down.

Barlow said, “The kid ought to live, if shock don’t kill him, or blood poisonin’. Or he don’t bite himself like a rattlesnake.”

Kneeling by the spring, actually just a slow seep in the bank of the nondescript creek, Rusty dipped his hands into the cold water. The blood would wash away, but not the memory. “Why did that button have to play the fool?” he demanded. “This damned war. . .”

“Some people are bound to be fools, war or no war. Buddy-Boy never did have brains enough to pour water out of a bucket. You said somethin’ about headin’ for your farm.”

“We were, ‘I’ll we ran into this outfit.” Rusty looked to the west, where the sun was rapidly sinking toward the horizon. “Are we prisoners?”

“Depends on how you look at it. Some of the boys probably wouldn’t want to see you leave just yet.”

“Clyde Oldham might decide in the middle of the night to shove a knife between my ribs. Especially if his brother takes a turn for the worse.”

“I’ll keep an eye on Clyde. Anyway, if he wanted you that bad, he could follow and kill you the first time you stopped.”

Rusty clenched a fist. “He could’ve sat on that little brother of his if he’d tried to.”

“It’s like I said about fools. Those two tried to kill an army recruiter. That’s when they skedaddled to the brush.”

James came out of the tent, his hands bloody. Rusty started to approach him, but an angry look in James’s face turned him back.

Damn it all, Rusty thought, I didn’t ask for this.

He wanted to ask James about Geneva and the rest of the family, but he decided it would be prudent to wait.

Somebody shouted, “Yonder comes Old Man Timpson.”

Rusty squinted. He made out the figure of a rider leading two pack horses a quarter mile from camp.

Barlow took joy in the sight. “The old man brings us supplies. People here have got folks back in the settlements. They send what they can . . . flour and salt, powder and lead. And news . . . the old man is our main way of keepin’ up with what’s goin’ on back yonder. Him, and now and again Preacher Webb.”