Faulconer gazed through the flames, flinching from Starbuck’s horrid appearance. The northerner’s uniform was dark with blood, stiff with it, black in the flame light with the blood that had soaked into every stitch and weave of the gray coat. Starbuck looked like a thing come from a nightmare, but he nodded pleasantly enough as he blew a stream of cigar smoke into the night. “Evening, Colonel.”

Faulconer said nothing. Bird lit himself a cigar, then looked at Starbuck. “The Colonel was wondering how Ridley died, Starbuck?”

“Got hit by a shell, Colonel. Nothing left of him but a mess of bones and blood,” Starbuck said, his voice careless.

“Is that what you want me to put in the book, Colonel?” Thaddeus Bird asked with a studied innocence. “That Ridley died of artillery fire?”

Still Washington Faulconer did not speak. He was staring at Starbuck with what seemed like loathing, but he could not bring himself to say a word.

Bird shrugged. “Earlier, Colonel, you ordered me to arrest Starbuck for murder. You want me to do that right now?” Bird waited for an answer and when none came he looked back to Starbuck. “Did you murder Captain Ethan Ridley, Starbuck?”

“No,” Starbuck said curtly. He stared at Faulconer, daring the Colonel to contradict him. The Colonel knew he was lying, but he did not have the guts to make the accusation to his face. Men had come from the Legion’s other camp fires to watch the confrontation.

“But the Colonel saw you commit the murder,” Bird insisted. “What do you have to say to that?”

Starbuck took the cigar from his mouth and spat into the fire.

“I assume that expectoration signifies a denial?” Bird asked happily, then looked around the men who were crowding into the flame light. “Did anyone else here see Ridley die?” Bird waited for an answer as sparks whirled upward from the burning rails. “Well?”

“I saw the son of a bitch get filleted by a shell,” Truslow growled from the shadows.

“And did Starbuck fire the fatal shell, Sergeant?” Bird asked in a pedantic voice, and the men around the fire laughed aloud at the major’s mockery. Faulconer shifted his weight, but still kept his silence. “So I reckon, Colonel, that you were wrong,” Bird went on, “and that Lieutenant Starbuck is innocent of murder. And I further reckon you’ll be wanting to thank him for saving the Legion’s colors, isn’t that right?”

But Faulconer could take no more humiliation from these men who had fought while he had been swanning across the countryside in search of fame. He turned away without a word, only to see the staff captain watching him from horseback. “What do you want?” he snapped bitterly.

“You’re invited to supper, Colonel.” The staff captain was understandably nervous. “The president has arrived from Richmond, sir, and the generals are eager for your company.”