He could hear the two soldiers shouting back and forth to one another, the sergeant shouting at both of them. The one who had taken the sword’s edge in his leg was evidently in pain. His voice had a pleading tone. The other was mostly angry. The sergeant was livid but did not move closer.

Son of a bitch is a coward, James thought. Sent those other poor bastards to do the job.

He remembered Andrew’s warnings about caution, about watching what he said and to whom he said it. Andrew had been right. But if the situation arose again, James knew he would do nothing differently. All his growing-up years, he had remembered how sternly Michael had faced whatever challenges came along, and he had tried to follow that example. He might sometimes wish things would turn out in another way, but anybody waiting for him to apologize had better bring enough vittles for a long camp.

At last the soldier still on his feet began moving toward the one who was down, leading his horse, keeping the animal between him and James. By this time the wounded horse was dead. The led horse snorted and tried to jerk back, spooked by the scent of blood. It was all the soldier could do to hold him. The wounded man began crawling on hands and knees, which only frightened the animal more. James could hear the man cursing.

James shouted, “Put your gun down and I won’t shoot you.”

The soldiers did not understand him. He tried a couple of times making motions as if to lay down his rifle, then pointing toward the blunderbuss. The message got through, finally. The soldier laid the weapon down at his feet, and James rested his across the stack of logs, in plain sight of the soldiers but well within his reach if he needed it. He had no intention of letting sympathy for a wounded man jeopardize his own survival. They raised them smarter than that in Tennessee.

The soldier who had held the rifle used a knife to cut away part of the other’s trouser leg and bind it around the wound. Then he helped his wounded companion up into the saddle. The wounded man pointed toward his own saddle, still buckled to the dead horse. The second one struggled with the animal’s weight and managed to worry the saddle loose and take the bridle. He handed them to the wounded man to hold while he swung up behind him on the horse, the blunderbuss in his hand.

The sergeant made no move to help them. He held his distance, sulking over their failure.

James wondered how far they had to travel. The wounded one was going to have a mighty sore leg before they went many miles, and they’d have a very tired horse, carrying double. The second soldier would probably have to get down and walk a right smart of the way. The sergeant probably wouldn’t help them any more than he already had. The privilege of rank, and the arrogance.