And what in the hell was he still doing here anyway? Word had come days ago that the war was over. What was the use in having an army if there was no longer any war to fight? But the officers were waiting for specific orders from higher authorities. They had not allowed any soldiers to leave.

Scully stared at him from the other side of the small fire. “You tryin’ to poke them coals to death? You look like you’re fixin’ to cloud up and rain pure vinegar.”

“Just thinkin’.”

“They can court-martial a soldier for thinkin’. You’re supposed to leave the thinkin’ to them and do what they tell you to.”

“Right now they’re thinkin’ I’m goin’ to stay here and act like a good soldier, but they’re mistaken. I’m fixin’ to up and leave this outfit. I’m goin’ back to Texas.”

“They shoot deserters.”

“That was when there was still fightin’ goin’ on. They got no reason to keep me now, and no reason to hunt for me if I’m not here when they call the roll in the mornin’.”

Scully looked around furtively to be sure no one was listening. “Would you take me with you?”

Pete hesitated in answering. He felt he could make better time alone, looking out for no one except himself. On the other hand, Scully had always been useful so long as he had Pete around to do most of the thinking for him. If anything, he was a better hand than Pete when it came to handling horses. It was as if his mind were on about the same plane of intelligence as theirs.

“I guess you can go provided you keep up. I ain’t waitin’ for you if you fall behind or get yourself into any trouble.”

Scully’s reply was curt. “The only trouble I ever got into was by followin’ you.”

True, they had a good thing going back home when they were gathering Indian horses from the reservation and selling them in the Texas settlements to farmers or to the Confederate Army. But they had come up short after one trip up north of the river, and Pete had seen no harm in adding a few of the old man’s horses to the mix. Caleb Dawkins was already richer than one man had a right to be.

Pete knew Old Colonel’s temper, for he had felt the lash of it many times, growing up. But he never gave a moment’s thought to the possibility of getting caught, or of Caleb Dawkins giving him and Scully a choice between the army and the state penitentiary.

Choice hell! About like choosing between getting shot and getting hanged.

If it had been anyone except Dawkins’s own son, the outcome might very well have been the rope. Old Colonel was hell on hanging people. Like them Union-loving Monahans.

Scully asked, “If we left right now, how far you reckon we could travel before daylight?”

“Eight or ten miles if we hustle. A right smart farther if we was a-horse-back.”