“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.”

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.”