Faulconer blinked as he tried to make sense of the invitation, then saw in it his chance of salvation. “Of course.” He strode away, calling for his son. Adam had struggled to his feet and was now limping to welcome Starbuck back, but his father demanded his son’s loyalty. “Adam! You’ll come with me.”

Adam hesitated, then gave in. “Yes, Father.”

The two men were helped onto their horses and no one spoke much as they rode away. Instead the men of the Faulconer Legion fed their fires and watched the sparks fly high, but said scarcely a word until the Faulconers had ridden far beyond the flame light and were just two dark shadows silhouetted against the southern sky. Somehow no one expected to see Washington Faulconer back again in a hurry. Bird looked up at Starbuck. “I guess I’m in command now. So thank you for saving our colors, and more important, for saving me. So now what do I do with you?”

“Whatever you want, Major.”

“Then I think I shall punish you for whatever sins you undoubtedly committed today.” Bird grinned as he spoke. “I shall make you Captain Roswell Jenkins’s replacement, and give you Sergeant Truslow’s company. But only if Sergeant Truslow wants a miserable Boston-bred overeducated beardless preacher’s son like yourself as his commanding officer?”

“I reckon he’ll do,” Truslow said laconically.

“So you feed him, Sergeant, not me,” Bird said, and raised a dismissive hand.

Starbuck walked away with Truslow. When the two men had gone beyond the earshot of the soldiers gathered around the officers’ fire, the sergeant spat a stream of tobacco juice. “‘So how does it feel to murder someone?’ You remember asking me that? And I told you to find out for yourself, so now you tell me, Captain.”

Captain? Starbuck noted, but said nothing of the unwonted respect. “It felt most satisfying, Sergeant.”

Truslow nodded. “I saw you shoot the son of a bitch, and I was kind of wondering why.”

“For this.” Starbuck took the silver ring from his pocket and held it out to the small, dark-bearded Truslow. “Just for this,” he said, and dropped the ring into the powder-blackened palm. The silver glinted for an instant in the blood-stinking smoke-darkened night, and then Truslow’s hand closed on it fast. His Emily was in heaven, and the ring was back with him where it belonged.