Two horses were tethered on the picket line, out beyond the light of the company’s several small campfires. They belonged to the captain and the lieutenant, the only men in the company allowed to ride.

Scully said, “Are you thinkin’ the same thing I am?”

Pete nodded. “The officers have ridden far enough. We ain’t been paid, and we ain’t goin’ to be paid. The least the army owes us is a horse apiece.”

He and Scully gathered up what few belongings they had, including their rifles. Pete led the way to the picket line. He drew a bowie knife from his belt, ready to cut the rope.

His blood went cold at the sound of a gun hammer being cocked. A voice demanded, “Who goes there?”

He saw the dark shape of a guard just in front of him, too near to miss if he fired a shot. Pete shivered.

“Who are you?” the guard demanded again. Pete recognized the gruff voice of a company sergeant.

“Just me,” Pete said weakly. “I was lookin’ for the latrine. Guess I got turned around in the dark.”

“Well, you just turn around again. Already been two men tried tonight to take the officers’ horses. The next one I’ll personally shoot, and I’ll bury him in the ditch we dug for the latrine.”

Pete backed off, bumping into Scully. His fear gave way to frustration as he retreated. It had not occurred to him that other men in the camp were considering desertion, just as he was, and that they had caused a stiffening of the guard detail.

Scully whispered, “What’ll we do now?”

“We’ll walk. Sooner or later we’ll find somebody careless with his horses.”

He found the road that led west. Anger made his stride long and purposeful. His mind went back to the black day that the rangers had caught him and Scully with stolen horses. He wished he had Rusty Shannon here right now. He would gladly beat him within an inch of his life, then shoot him in the belly. Maybe someday.

CHAPTER

SIX

Rusty felt as if a mule had kicked him in the belly. He sank into the nearest chair. “Geneva’s married?”

Clemmie sensed the depth of Rusty’s shock. Her voice was sympathetic. “A man named Evan Gifford. She said she wrote and told you.”

“I never got the letter.”

She pulled a chair up nearby and faced him, taking one of his hands. “I wish I’d known. I’d’ve found an easier way to tell you.”

“There isn’t any easy way.” He could not meet her gaze. He looked down at the rough floor. He lost his voice for a minute. He swallowed hard to get it back. “I hope he’s a good man.”

“You can take comfort in that. He is.”

Both girls spoke at the same time. “He sure is,” they agreed. Rusty got the impression that either would have been happy to have married him.

Too bad one of them hadn’t.

Clemmie said, “Evan took a Union bullet in his chest. They sent him home to die, only when he got there he found he didn’t have a home anymore. He showed up here with one foot in the grave. We cared for him the best we knew how.”