"You got another name to go with that?"

Kid reached for the cup of coffee his tent mate offered and grinned at the man. "Just Kid," he said.

The soldier shrugged. "All right. Then you can call me Just Murphy."

Kid sank to the ground, giving his weary feet a rest and took a sip from the dented tin cup. He wouldn't exactly call it coffee, at least it was no blend he was familiar with. It carried a nutty flavor that reminded him a bit of the acorns he used to suck on and then crack open with his teeth. But the cup had been generously offered to him and to turn it down would appear ungentlemanly. Soldiers in the field had to make do he supposed and after his walk from Blacksburg, the new enlistee was ready for a cup of most anything wet and a bit of relaxation.

"Where you from, Murphy?"

The soldier reclined back against the tent post and stretched his long limbs, then clasped his hands behind his head and squinted against the last rays of the day. "Louisville, Kentucky. Home of fine horseflesh, sassy women and smooth whiskey. All of which I've had the misfortune to lose money on, but had a damned fine time spendin' it."

Had he been able to keep track of the date, Curtis Murphy would have celebrated the beginning of his thirtieth year three weeks prior, but individual days had lost their meaning somewhere along the line. By the time he realized his birthdate had come and gone, it didn't seem quite right to celebrate. Most likely a good many in the camp were as oblivious to the calendar as he was. If they tried to start catching up all the missed celebrations there would be no time for fighting - not that he wouldn't prefer a good party.

He wore the gray waistcoat of the Confederacy, stained, fraying at the cuffs and missing a few buttons, but his trousers were tinted a decidedly Union hue. Murphy suffered no qualms over wearing the enemy's color - the trousers were made of a sturdier weave than the southern issue - nor did he feel the slightest bit of unease leaving the Yankee who had been stripped of the britches half naked on the battlefield. The dead Yank wasn't going to be needing his trousers and Murphy doubted Saint Peter would think any less of the man if his soul appeared at the pearly gates half dressed. He didn't really think of it as looting though both north and south were guilty of the practice. He considered such items more of a loan or perhaps a hand-me-down. Didn't old Abe Lincoln insist they were all brothers anyway - just one big family temporarily at odds with each other? Besides, from the way those northern boys were outfitted they had more than enough to share. He also considered the twenty dollars worth of crumpled and blood spotted notes written on the Bank of Columbus Ohio found in the trouser pocket to be his as a fortune of war. Murphy had no real desire to visit Ohio, but if he ever did and was able to cash in the notes he vowed to raise a glass to the trouserless Ohioan. He would have taken the departed soldier's jacket, too - blue was a much better color on him than gray - but he didn't want to take the chance his own boys might mistake him as a Yank slipping through the picket lines. Looking good was important but paled in comparison with staying alive.

Murphy's grin was infectious and set the weary new soldier at ease. "I thought Kentucky was neutral," Kid replied and tugged on the cuffs of his own regulation waistcoat. The jacket was a bit small on him - tight through the shoulders and rising a little too high over his wrists - but he supposed joining the ranks at this late date, he would have to make do with what was available.

"Statehouse is . . . but that don't mean that regular folks don't have a strong opinion one way or the other."

"So you're fightin' for what you believe in," Kid stated more than asked, pleased he had found a man with convictions similar to his own.

"Oh, hell no!" Murphy retorted. "My belief is that this war is a tremendous waste of time!"

"Then why are you here?"

"Well . . . " Murphy began and crossed his arms over his chest, puffing himself out a bit to accentuate the seriousness of his story. "It seems the fine mayor of Louisville, Mr. Clancy T. Timmons, a man of strong southern sentiments, engaged in a wager with the mayor of the next township over about who could enlist more men in a fortnight. Now, Mr. Timmons, takin' this bet like a gauntlet slapped across his face, was willin' to do most anything to win. So in the choice of thirty days in jail or fightin' for the glory and sanctity of the Confederacy, I chose the beloved South."

Kid looked at the man incredulously. "Are you sayin' he let you out of jail if you signed up?"

Murphy nodded. "That's what I'm sayin'. Ol' Timmons made soldierin' sound like a big party with plenty of barbeque to go around and a bevy of lovely ladies willin' to do most anything to show their appreciation of a man in uniform. This fight was supposed to only last a week or two. At the time it sounded better than sittin' behind bars for a month. Musta still been drunk or I woulda knowed better."

"Thirty days is a pretty steep sentence for just being drunk."

"Oh, it weren't all for bein' drunk. That was just overnight. The thirty days was for . . . well let's just say that Miss Lolly Weathers' attributes belie her actual age."

Kid bit back a grin. "So how long you been soldierin'?"

"Since shortly after Sumter fell. Didn't do much more'n march around camp like a bunch of fools on parade for the first year or so though. Reckon you've missed out on that." Murphy took a swig of coffee and promptly spit it out, then tossed what remained in the tin cup into the fire. The coals hissed and sputtered for a moment, voicing their mutual disapproval. "Say, how many slaves your family keep, Kid?"

"Slaves? Shoot, we barely had shoes let alone slaves."

Murphy shook his head and snorted his disgust. "Yessir . . . that furthers my theory. I ain't found an enlisted man yet that come from anything to speak of. This here is a rich man's war, but us poor bastards is the ones fightin' it for 'em. They're sittin' home all high and mighty and here we can't even get a decent cup of coffee."

Kid turned to the sounds of footsteps behind him and a voice more likely heard in a schoolyard than an army camp. "Hey Murphy! I got that wood just like you said. Ol' Harper, the ol' coot, traded for it real easy. He's gonna be pitchin' a fit when he finds out that roach is missin' half his legs!"

"Kid," Murphy said and jerked his thumb toward the boy. "Meet Billy Welch. Billy this is Kid. He's gonna be tentin' with us."

"Pleased to me you, Kid," Billy offered eagerly. The boy extended his hand, but the load of wood was too ungainly to be balanced in the other and after juggling the firewood for a moment or two the stack clattered to the ground at his feet.

"Good to know you too, Billy," said Kid. "You say you traded for this wood with a cockroach?"

"Yessir!" Billy beamed and kicked the firewood into a disordered pile. "For the roach races. Murphy here has the fastest roaches in camp and ev'rybody knows it. 'Cept when we trade 'em for stuff, we usually pull off a leg or two to slow 'em down." Billy turned to the soldier reclining against the tent post. "They's 'bout ready to start, Murphy."

Murphy rolled to his feet. "Well, we'd best be assemblin' the critters then," he said and pushed the tent flap aside, disappearing under the evening shaded canvas.

"Say Kid, how long you been soldierin'?" Billy questioned.

"Well . . . 'bout two hours now."

"I got you beat!" Billy boasted. "I been here two weeks tomorrow!"

Kid ran his eye up and down Billy's thin frame and what he saw didn't add up to the eighteen year old age requirement. The sleeves of the boy's jacket hung so low they nearly hid his hands and his trousers were cinched around his waist with a piece of rope to prevent them from sliding off his hips. It seemed the Confederacy had only two sizes of uniforms - too big or too small. The boy looked more like a charade of a soldier - a child playing in grown up clothes. A shock of mousy brown hair fell across his eyes, but did little to disguise his youthful features. His skin was pale, riddled by a bad complexion, and if there was a whisker on his chin it was little more than peach fuzz.

"How old are you Billy?"

The boy ducked his head and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "Promise not to tell?" he whispered from beneath a shaggy crop of hair.

"I swear."

"Honor bright?"

Kid nodded. "I swear honor bright."

Billy leaned in close to impart his confidence. "I been fourteen since this past Jan'wary. But Marybeth, she's my girl back home, tol' me I'd sure look sportin' in a un'form and she'd be mighty proud of me if'n I was to kill some Yanks. So I signed up to be a soldier."

"How did you enlist if you aren't eighteen?' Kid asked.

Billy offered a shy smile. "Well, that's a secret, but I don't reckon you gonna tell nobody. I was standin' in line, waitin' for my turn to come and I heared 'em askin' them boys in front of me if'n they was over eighteen. So I was startin' to get a might bit worried since my ma tol' me never to lie less'n I was in a real fix. But then I saw this feller step outa line and write a number on a piece of paper, then stick it in his shoe. I asked him what he was doin' and he said when they wanted to know if he was over eighteen he could truthfully say yes he was. I don't know numbers myself, so I had him write me a number eighteen, too. When I got to the front of the line, well, I just made like I was pickin' somethin' off the ground, but I stuck that piece of paper under my foot, and stood on it. When they asked me if'n I was over eighteen, well, I just said 'Yessir' and I weren't really lyin'."

"Your folks know where you are?" Kid asked.

Billy ducked his head again and scuffed at the dirt with the toe of a tattered brogan shoe, the frayed laces dangling untied. "My ma's been dead goin' on three years now and I reckon my pa don't even know I'm gone. Don't matter. I'm gonna kill me a wad of blue-bellies and make Marybeth proud."

Full to the brim with adolescent innocence, yet ready to take on the world, Billy Welch reminded him a bit of Jesse back in . . . well, wherever Jesse was. Kid had to admit he hadn't been much older than Billy when he stepped out into the world himself, anxious to make his mark without enough sense to be afraid. But he hadn't plunked himself down in the middle of a war.

Murphy reappeared from the tent with a dirty canvas haversack in one hand and a tin dinner plate speckled with spots of orange rust in the other. "Here you go, Billy. You fish out Varina Davis for tonight. She's the one in the black box," he instructed and tossed the haversack to the boy.

Kid regarded his tent mate slack-jawed for moment, uncertain whether he should admire the man's gall or admonish him for the sacrilege. "You named a roach after President Davis' wife?"

Murphy placed his hand over his heart and lowered his head reverently. "Only out of the greatest respect, Kid. The greatest respect."

"Murphy won a whole pot load of money night 'fore last with Missus Lincoln," Billy chimed in. "Fastest roaches around!"

"You see, Kid," Murphy began, "the rules are simple. Two men square off at a time and the bets are put down. Then each man drops his roach in the middle of his dinner plate and the first racer to the edge of the plate is the winner. Simple as that." Murphy knelt by the fire and laid the tin plate on the grate over the coals. "But even the fastest roach in the Confederacy could use a little motivatin'," he added, grinning. Noting Kid's curious expression he explained, "If'n you were dropped in the middle of a hot tin plate, wouldn't you skedaddle like a bolt of lightnin' to get off it?"

Billy grinned widely, tickled as punch to be privy to the cheating. "Here's Missus Davis, Murphy."

"Good boy, Billy. That's the one," Murphy praised and ruffled the boy's hair. "You hold on to her for me. Now reach in there for one of them others, but not Mary Lincoln, mind you."

"Let's see what we have here," he said after the youngster had pulled an ammunition box of untested sprinters from the haversack. Murphy flipped the box open and sorted through the insects, flicking them aside with his finger until he found one that suited him. He held the racer in the waning light for better inspection, observing it from all angles, its shell slick and russet colored in the dimming light. "Found you a fine specimen, Kid. Yessir. This here roach has a fast look don't you think?"

Kid eyed the insect for a moment, but couldn't see much difference between it and any other roach he had ever encountered - though he had never given one much notice before. Admittedly not well versed on the topic he could only take the man's word. After all, Murphy was evidently an expert on the subject. "Well, I reckon so. Appears to still have all its legs, too," Kid observed. "You have your own racers, Billy?"

"Oh no," Billy said and offered Kid an empty cartridge box in which he quickly deposited the roach. "I couldn't take care of one, so's I just help Murphy."

"Well, boys," Murphy announced and tossed the heated plate into his haversack. "We're off to the races. Now Billy, your shoes is untied again. Sit down there and let's get 'em laced up 'fore you fall over yourself and Varina Davis meets an untimely end." Murphy crouched beside the boy and quickly tied the flapping laces into a double knot. Kid thought it strange for a moment, then realized the boy had most likely only become acquainted with shoes during the past two weeks. The simple motion of drawing up a loop and pulling through a knot was a skill not yet acquired.

"Whatcha gonna name yours, Kid?" Murphy asked. "All fine creatures such as that one deserve a name."

Kid opened the box lid and took another good look at his new prize. Come to think of it, he did notice an unusual swiftness in the roach as it scurried around the edge of the box, rounding each corner without a missed step or loss of speed. He grinned ear to ear and without hesitation offered a name that befit the glossy coated speedster.

"Katy."

August 1862

Although a layer of clouds hung loose and tousled in the sky there would be no rain and the cover they provided was little more than enough to tease. Well past the early summer months that gently shook the earth awake and dressed it in new growth, bright and crisp as a taffeta party gown, August settled hard. Even the air that journeyed across the prairie seemed almost too heavy to move. But born into such a place, drifts of sunflowers turned their golden faces eagerly in the direction of their namesake, basking in the afternoon rays, quite proud of themselves. The wiry stems of Queen Anne's lace held their blossoms aloft like frilly bonnets, nodding their heads to horse and rider as they passed.

A honeybee, its striped jacket gaudy against the muted petals of a pink buttercup, darted about the mare's hooves, complaining of the intrusion. The paint paid little mind to the winged nuisance and flicked her tail in a perfect rhythm to her lazy steps, the soft rustling of dried grass against her legs creating a lyrical passage.

Buck found a spirituality on the plains that rivaled any white man's place of worship. Blending into the earth and accepting one's place amongst nature's gifts had a way of putting life into perspective. Such quiet communion with the open prairie had often served to calm his mind in times of trouble. But that afternoon it wasn't his own perspective that concerned him.

He realized that he had been naïve to believe something as good as the Express could last. In his estimation, good things seldom did. Mile after gleaming mile of railroad tracks, slithering across the plains like a prairie rattler and invisible words magically running through wires in the sky were seen as progress to white men. Even his friends, whom he expected better of, looked upon these marvels of invention with an undisguised awe. Perhaps that was the biggest difference between them. White men embraced change and he . . . well he just didn't.

When the Express closed its doors everything in his life had taken on an air of the temporary. Unable to choose a path of his own, Teaspoon had taken charge and moved him out of the bunkhouse, into a rented room in town and pinned a badge on his chest before he had a chance to contemplate the matter. Whether he had taken the job Teaspoon offered simply out of respect for the man or a fear of even greater change if he didn't, he couldn't say for certain. Probably a bit of both. With Teaspoon and Kid's departure, life had been turned upside down again, but this time with a decidedly more pleasant result.

Kid had offered half the profits of the ranch during the time he was away, though the idea of making money had nothing to do with Buck's eagerness to come to his friend's aid. Buck didn't care much for money - never had, never would. What he gained from their arrangement was far more valuable. How would one put a price on the simple pleasure of taking the day's first cup of coffee across the table from a friend rather than alone in a cramped box of a rented room? Or the knowledge that dinner would be waiting at the end of the day, not because it was ordered from a menu at the cafe, but because that was what a family did? He wasn't so blind not to realize that this too was only temporary. He was merely acting in Kid's stead and his bed in the spare room was only borrowed, not really his. But for now it was enough and for these things he was grateful.

But his gain stemmed from Lou's loss. Although he couldn't completely know what Lou was feeling, he did understand how it felt to have the rug of everything solid ripped out from under your feet. He knew altogether too well the emptiness that crept into the first moments of waking to a new morning knowing the other half of your soul would not greet the day with you. Ike was never coming back, but when North and South agreed to end this foolishness, Kid would. Yes, it was war, yes lives would be lost, but Buck refused to even consider the possibility. Kid would come home. Lou just had to fill the time between now and then.

The paint moved effortlessly under him, the easy sway of her step a flowing canvas on which to lay out his thoughts, and only when she flared her nostrils at the scent of water and moved into an easy lope did her rider straighten and take notice.

There had never been anything particularly remarkable about the pond. The water wasn't really all that clear and a growth of moss circled the shoreline in a band of greenish foam once the temperatures began to climb. But lying flat and calm, calling to him like an open invitation just beyond a line of dancing heat waves, the crystal waters of the Agean couldn't have looked any better.

The sound of approaching hooves broke into Lou's daydream and she dog-eared the memory like a page in a book to mark her place. She twisted from her perch on an exposed root of a willow tree near the water's edge and peered through the drapery of slender fronds. The root was thick and twisted, and with the bank of the pond eroded away it no longer acted as an anchor for the willow, but resembled a gnarled finger inching its way atop the ground toward the water. The glimpse of the painted horse made her heart flutter and for a split second she expected to see her husband astride the mare. Just as she expected to look out the kitchen window and see him tending the horses in the lot or rounding the corner of the house to wash up at the pump at the end of the day or lying beside her in bed. At times, in the blink of an eye, she could swear he was really there and not simply some trickery of her wishful thinking. But then her imagination would come into focus and the man in the lot or at the pump was Buck and the presence she felt beside her in bed at night was only the shadow of the husband who should be there.

"I thought maybe you were gonna stand me up," she called as the rider approached the swimming hole.

"Took a while longer than I expected to finish up that gate," Buck answered. "Too hot to hurry I guess." He slid from the mare's back and reached past the weeks' worth of supplies loaded in the bed of the wagon for a length of rope, then secured the paint on a long tether under the green arch of the willow alongside the wagon team. "I understand now why Kid's so high on her," he added and absently stroked the horse's painted coat. "She's got a smooth step."

A mixture of disappointment, resignation and something else he couldn't quite make out played across Lou's face. "Somethin' wrong?" he asked.

Lou shook her head and smiled, but it was a half-hearted attempt at best. "Nothin' . . . it's just strange to see somebody other than Kid ridin' her." Lou tucked her head, a bit embarrassed at how easily her mind wandered these days. "For a second just now I thought you were him," she admitted.

Buck mentally kicked himself for being so thoughtless. There he was, trying to tend to Lou's wounds, yet in keeping his promise to Kid only rubbed salt into the sore. "Kid asked me to ride her once in a while. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinkin'."

"There's no need to be sorry. I've gotta get used to the idea that he's not here and Katy needs to be ridden. There's no tellin' how long he's gonna be gone and it wouldn't do to have his horse all stoved up when he decides to come home." Lou was quiet for a moment before she went on. "Buck, I wasn't pleased with Kid that he imposed on you the way he did, but I do appreciate you takin' care of her . . . and everything else, too. Don't guess I've told you that."

Had he been truthful, Buck would have said that the past several months had been the best in recent memory, certainly not an imposition. "You didn't have to wait on me," he replied instead.

"I ain't been here long. Thompkins wasn't in a mind to hurry today either. Didn't think he'd ever get my order loaded."

Lou pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. "It ain't the same here without everybody else, is it?" she asked, her thoughts turning back to the dog-eared memory. "I was just thinkin' about the last time we were all here. It was an afternoon just like this. Remember? We all snuck away thinkin' Teaspoon wouldn't find out. Seems so long ago."

It had only been the previous summer, but the world was a gentler place then. Talk of war was just that, only talk and nothing to be taken too seriously for surely the country was smarter than that. Two weeks later a gambler named Neville would ride into town and a few months after that, Rosemary Burke would rip apart the tenuous thread that wove them together and leave their family in frayed pieces. But for that brief and precious moment in time, life was very good. In fact, if not for a shed roof that Teaspoon ordered be repaired on the hottest day of the year, life at the Rock Creek Station would be near perfect. They had all arrived at the idea of sneaking away to the swimming hole as if the message had been passed subliminally from one rider to the next. Teaspoon was occupied with matters of the law, insisting that he would be busy that afternoon. Exceptionally busy. Not to be bothered. So he would never be the wiser if they took a little break from reroofing the shed and one or two at a time, so as not to appear too obvious, the hammers fell silent. But gathered at the swimming hole, rather than plunge into the oasis to revel in the cool water, made all the sweeter by the clandestine nature of the outing, they stood gaping at the "not to be bothered" station manager, floating amidst the lily pads, the stub of a cigar clamped between his teeth. After a moment staring at each other, trying to determine if employer or employees were guilty of the greater offense, the contest was declared a draw and the remainder of the afternoon wiled away with a foolishness reserved for children and the simple pleasures of a rare camaraderie. Wearing a bit too much of the pond to even consider pulling clothing over their soaked long johns, Teaspoon, Lou and the boys cast propriety aside and had a good laugh over what Russell, Majors and Waddell would think of the Pony Express' mail carrying heroes streaking down the trail toward the station in their underwear.

Buck did remember, and like an image made from a photographer's plate, the memory was all the more precious because it was one of a kind. The negative broken now, the likenesses of Ike and Noah lost forever and other pieces scattered, the picture could never be replicated.

"I know," he answered. "It's never gonna be the same, but I don't think the others would mind if we had a good time without them."

Lou had been hesitant to agree when Buck suggested meeting him at the swimming hole after her trip to Thompkins'. Ordinarily a dip in the pond on a hot afternoon would have required little persuasion, but since Kid's departure, nothing sounded very appealing. Brooding had become a habit and not a very attractive one at that. Certainly not behavior she was proud of. But changing a habit required effort and it was just so much easier to stay in the dumps than climb out.

"I suppose not," Lou agreed, but made no move from her perch on the willow root.

A dragonfly dipped and darted effortlessly across the water - its thin body a shimmer of blue dancing on the surface. A warm breeze brushed against a stand of cattails in a soft murmur and a ripple of water lapped quietly against the shoreline in reply.

"Water looks pretty good," Buck said, trying again, but Lou's only response was a nod. He studied his sullen friend for a moment and decided on a direct approach. "Am I gonna have to throw you in?"

Lou smiled in spite of herself at the thought. "You want supper tonight, you'd best not even think about it."

"Just a little effort," Lou told herself. "Just a little effort." She drew a deep breath and slapped her hands against her knees. "All right," she said and pushed herself to her feet. She turned to Buck and began unbuttoning her blouse. "You gonna wait all day?"

Victorious, Buck dropped to the damp ground and began tugging off his boots. His trousers and work shirt followed suit, but when he rose to his feet in his long john bottoms, rather than a fellow former Pony Express rider clad in similar attire, a stranger stood a few feet away with her back toward him, clad in a cotton camisole and pantaloons. His eye traveled from the lace straps draped over milky white shoulders, down the form hugging lines of the camisole to the softly gathered waist of her pantaloons, on to the shapely curve of an exposed calf. He felt himself staring, gawking at the young woman like a schoolboy catching a glimpse of a classmate quite suddenly grown up.

"Lou . . ."

"What?" Lou asked and turned around, a bit puzzled by the hitch in his voice. At the sight of his rather glazed expression, her laughter tumbled out easily. "You didn't think I still wore long johns did you?"

Buck didn't answer, but the pinkish flare coloring his cheeks spoke for him and fueled a tiny spark of mischief hidden away inside her. Lou propped her hands on her hips and struck a coquettish pose. "Why, Buck Cross!" she teased. "Are you blushin'?"

"I'm just not used to seein' you wear somethin' like that. You never did before."

"Well I don't have to hide who I am anymore," Lou answered. "And I like dressin' like a lady." She leaned forward to retrieve her skirt from where it lay puddled on the ground, and try as he might, though he really didn't try very hard, Buck couldn't quite make himself look away when the front of her camisole dipped a bit, exposing the curve of her breasts.

"I like it, too," he mumbled under his breath and wondered what Hickok and Cody would give to be in his place at that moment.

"You go on, Lou," Buck said after collecting himself. "I'll wait until you're done."

"Why?" Lou asked.

"It just wouldn't be right."

"Buck . . ." Lou chided. "Don't be silly. We've gone swimmin' together lots of times. This was your idea, remember? You forget that for two months, ya'll thought I was a boy," she added and headed for the water. His boyish embarrassment was a more effective tonic for what ailed her than any cure on the apothecary's shelf and the spark of mischief glowed a bit brighter. She stopped and turned to him over her shoulder.

"I've seen you in less."

"Guess I was wrong," Murphy growled. "You didn't get out of this damned drillin' after all, Kid. They're still leadin' us 'round like dogs on a leash."

"Quiet in the ranks!" bellowed First Sergeant McCormick and Private Curtis Murphy scowled all the darker.

Murphy wasn't alone in his foul mood. Most veterans of the 43rd Infantry detested drilling and with time to spare waiting on new orders they were doing a good deal of it. Kid supposed that was to be understood though. To veterans who were already acquainted with battle, long hours on the drilling field would feel like dress rehearsal for a play that had already seen opening night.

But while the old guard grumbled their disapproval, Kid reveled in the precision of the drilling field. He had quickly learned the roles each man played. When the drum cadence changed from quick step to double quick - a heated pace that covered a mile in less than eight minutes - the regiment swung open like a gate, transforming a marching column into a horizontal line of battle. The First Sergeant deployed right, the Second Sergeant guided to the left and a wall of gray formed in between the two. It was simple enough when done correctly, but if one man broke step or either sergeant failed to uphold his end of the alignment the advancing wave could separate and allow the line to be breached.

Kid tried to imagine what the drilling field looked like from above and pictured himself peering down upon the 43rd from a lofty vantage point; each step in perfect tempo to the cadence of the snare, bayonets flashing in the August afternoon, the line pivoting upon command like a human hinge. A legion in gray armor. King Arthur's court couldn't have been a more splendid sight. But because green troops were still dribbling into the regiment, these maneuvers were not always executed with perfection. If a man missed the change in cadence and kept marching forward when he should have moved diagonally, those guiding on him would also fall out of formation spelling imminent disaster. More often than not the culprit of such confusion was Billy.

The concepts of left and right, regular step, quick step and double quick seemed lost on the mountain boy and when his fourteen-year-old concentration wavered, it was anybody's guess as to where exactly it went. Placed directly between Kid and Murphy in the ranks, Billy merely had to follow Murphy's movement to the right when the order came to break column. But at times Kid found himself grabbing the boy by the coat tails and pulling him back into line - a misstep that seldom escaped the scrutiny of the First Sergeant.

Sergeant McCormick puffed himself up importantly and headed across the field. After taking a few authoritative steps in the direction of the perpetrator, the officer altered his course as a messenger from the regiment commander appeared at the edge of the field saving Private Welch from another berating. Instead, the burly sergeant barked out the commands to bring the regiment into order arms and the men of the 43rd planted the buttplates of their rifles into the Virginia clay.

Murphy inverted his rifle and stabbed the bayonet into the earth, then leaned on the buttplate as if the gun were a walking stick and pushed the brim of his gray wool kepi off his forehead with his thumb. "Well, Kid, you had enough soldierin' yet?"

"Drillin' ain't so bad, Murph," Kid said and was about to offer his thoughts on the maneuvers when the sergeant returned to the ranks with orders to break camp and be ready to march within the hour.

"We already done whooped the Yanks at Manassas," a man behind Kid grumbled. "You'd think once would be enough."

"Does that mean we gonna see some Yanks, Murphy?" Billy asked and the excitable tone in the boy's voice reminded Kid of a child anxious to view a novelty at the sideshow. He had to admit though, the thought of finally getting down to business sent a spark of excitement pulsing through his veins, too.

Murphy pulled his bayonet from the clay soil and wiped the blade clean across the leg of his trousers. "Yessir, Billy, I do believe you're gonna see your share of 'em right soon. Prob'ly have a real nice party waitin' for us. Looks like you're goin' home after all, Kid."

Murphy might have said more, but if he did Kid didn't hear him. He was already several paces ahead of his tentmates, his thoughts veering toward the turnpike, headed for Manassas, marching home at double quick.

August 29, 1862
Manassas, Virginia

"Have you ever seen it, Kid?" Billy asked, his breath a coarse whisper in the morning air. "Have you seen the elephant?"

The 43rd was assembled now, formed up alongside other companies, other men, other boys, who had ceased with the morning's waking to be an individual and now were massed as a singular being - an enormous living machine. And across the way, past the folds of the field that lay between them, a similar host was congregated, seen only as a blur of movement - a swarming blue beast against the orange blossoms of scattered campfires.

"What, Billy?"

"The elephant. That's what they call battle. Have you seen it?"

Billy's adam's apple bobbed convulsively as he spoke and reminded Kid of a snake trying to swallow more than it could handle. He turned away from the image and followed the boy's unwavering gaze across the valley. "I've shot at people and had people shoot at me. Does that qualify?"

"Dunno," Billy answered, his eyes unblinking and wide as saucers.

A courier mounted on a fine looking bay gelding flashed in front of the line, his posture puffed up with importance. He reined the bay to a stop before one of the regiment commanders with a flamboyant jerk of the bit - hard enough to nearly bring the horse's front legs off the ground - but the animal dug into the dew damp grass and stopped on cue. The courier's bravado didn't impress Kid in the least, but the gelding did and he wondered for a moment what had become of the faithful little horse that had come so close to returning him full circle. But perhaps the loss of the gelding was ordained. He had walked away from Manassas. It was fitting that he walk back.

Kid's spirit had soared during the march to the northeast. Veterans of the 43rd, happy merely to be on the move and away from the monotony of camp life, had readily passed along stories of their earlier encounters with the mysterious men of the North. Their easy banter tossed back and forth, correcting or one-upping each other, helped to pass the long days on the road. To hear their tall tales, one might surmise that the enemy was actually a beast of some sort. Some great multi-limbed dragon best fended off with shield and lance. A crusted gentlemen that Kid knew only by the name of Cooley, insisted that he had been witness to one of the blue-bellies actually breathing fire and had gone so far as to swear upon his sainted mother's grave to prove the point. But Cooley was taken to strong drink and had also sworn to have seen Moses descending with stone tablets in hand from Whitetop Mountain. Other talk of smoke and fire and uncommon courage could be taken a bit more seriously, but still Kid could not place his full faith in the veteran's tales. Fresh recruits were preyed upon like gullible children. But even so, the band of brotherhood between those marching men was unmistakable.

Along the way, through an assortment of hamlets and boroughs, untended orchards and overgrown fields, the wave of gray was met by a variety of citizenry - most of them content to simply watch the parade pass by. But others would line up at the fence rails and urge them forward with a cheer and a wave of a hat or the flutter of a lady's handkerchief and Kid's heart would swell with an exhilarating responsibility and a surety of what was right and true and honorable in this world.

Taking advantage of the Union commander's unwillingness to believe that Southern boys could do the near impossible if General Lee asked it of them, the Rebel forces flanked around General Pope's army and fairly danced upon his rear through Thoroughfare Gap. Their march completed in the dark hours, the 43rd and other summoned companies reinforced an already battle weary force outside Manassas. The afternoon's fighting, centered around an abandoned farmstead, had ended at nightfall with no victor declared. The gray ranks dug into the hillside with only the heavens above to light the night lest their newly bolstered numbers be given away by campfires. Rather than stack arms, they had slept with their weapons in hand, or at least had tried to sleep between the sporadic pop and crackle of gunfire from the picket lines. The shots were random discharges fired from both sides of the valley with no real malice or intent to harm, but rather to simply remind each of the other's presence. And upon at least one weary Confederate soldier, the point was well taken.

Tired as he was, Kid found rest elusive and lay awake in his bedroll searching out portents in the night sky. Not that he really believed in omens and such - he preferred to think a man made his own destiny - but on the slim chance there were such things, surely this would be the time. But the North Star still anchored the movement of the heavens and the moon still hung in its place against the lacquered night sky. Nothing seemed out of order. On the contrary. All seemed exactly as it should be and Kid envisioned himself perched upon the threshold of this thing he had set into motion. Duty was no longer an ideal played upon his conscience, but a reality as alive as this threatened valley, as solid as this trespassed soil, and he was not afraid. Not invincible either. A man who went into a fight without measuring his own mortality would make his wife a widow quick enough. A bit nervous perhaps, surely anxious to be on with it. The waiting for something to begin was always the worst part. But not afraid and the calming certainty of it overshadowed the picket fire. With his fingers wrapped around Lou's photograph, he finally found sleep, only to be rousted out a few short hours later.

Though he had not seen fighting of this particular nature, Kid did consider himself tested under fire. His days with the Express certainly bore testament to that. He was far more comfortable with a sidearm, but handguns were reserved for officers and mounted troops. Instead he had been issued an Enfield rifle - a fine instrument with a polished barrel and richly oiled walnut stock on which he had promptly carved his initials. The wooden stock was outlined in seductively pleasing lines that fairly asked to be touched and admired. In the days of endless drilling, he had become so well acquainted with the contours of the piece it fit like a lover nestled against his shoulder. When the order came to load and prime, Kid tore off the tail of the paper cartridge, poured the powder into the barrel of the muzzle loader and rammed the ball into place with a methodical confidence.

"Blue-bellies in the mornin'," said Murphy. "Ain't they a sight? Looks like we'll be goin' in first," he noted. "Ain't our luck amazin'?"

"You think we can whoop 'em?" asked Billy.

Murphy stroked the stubble on his chin and considered the stretch of open ground that lay before them - grass emerald green and glittering under the morning dew, wild flowers stretching open from a night's sleep, clouds frothed like new buttermilk, a choir of songbirds praising the new day. A pretty place to kill each other. If a man were to die in this valley, he'd already be half-way to Heaven.

"Don't see why not, Billy boy. All we gotta do is just take a stroll across this nice little valley here and ask them Yanks if they would mind turnin' 'round and headin' back where they belong. Ain't nothin' to it." He turned to the boy. "You got that rifle loaded?"

Billy licked his lips nervously and replayed his preparations on half closed eyelids. His mumbled words ran on like a child's singsong rhyme. "One of powder'll charge just right, one of ball, ram it tight." The boy nodded affirmatively.

"But are we primed and ready?"

Billy drew a blank and his brow furrowed, coaxing the remainder of the rhyme to mind. "Firin' cap and cock the hammer, send a Yankee to his Maker."

"Good boy," Murphy said when at last the child's thumb and forefinger cooperated and the Enfield's hammer was lowered and the firing cap put into place. "But let's not be takin' off my foot. I plan to dance again one of these days and I'll do a better job of it with both feet," he added and raised the barrel, hovering inches away from his left foot, to the boy's shoulder. He reached for the youngster's clammy palm and placed it under the butt of the rifle. "Now are your laces tied? Wouldn't do for a fine lookin' soldier such as yourself to go trippin' over his shoe laces."

Billy raised one gangly limb, the raveling laces dangling loose from the brogan boot, then the other for inspection. "Well, half ain't a bad number," Murphy commended and knelt to tie the flapping laces on the boy's left shoe. "All right now. You are good to go. You just stay right here," he added and motioned to his side. "We're just gonna take a little stroll. Ain't nothin' to it."

Murphy glanced over the boy's head to the next man in line. "Kid?"

Kid nodded solemnly. Yes, he was ready. He'd been ready a long time. And then in an instant, a blossom of white smoke rose into the morning from across the valley. The whine of an arcing shell shredded the blue enameled sky and the wait was over.

The shell hit well short of the line - more of an invitation, or possibly an insult, than anything else. The canister exploded in a burst of metal spray, flinging sod and a hail of earth into the morning. As if in reply to the Howitzer's calling card, the band behind the southerner's line struck up "The Bonnie Blue Flag" and the drummers tapped out a steady cadence on the metal rims of the snares. It seemed the very heartbeat of this fraternity of men, of this land, this cause. Kid didn't remember hearing the order for forward march, but he must have because he was moving. He heard a man down the line beseeching the Lord for protection and hurriedly muttered a similar request. He would have liked to have prayed in the fashion he had been taught, head bowed and eyes closed, but the cadence changed to quick step and an open-eyed utterance would have to do. Surely the Lord would understand.

He also would have liked for regiment's flag to furl a bit more proudly, perhaps snap open defiant and purposeful in the morning air, but without a breeze to fan it open, the cloth hung limp around the pole. It appeared almost tired. He hazarded a quick glance in Murphy's direction to comment as much, but something strange had settled over the man. Rather than the light of good humor Kid had become accustomed to seeing in his tentmate's eyes, he saw nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was as if the soldier was an abandoned building, the doors and windows that allowed access inside blackened and boarded over. Vacant.

The scattered fire from the skirmish line drew his attention and Kid set his eyes to the front once more. A naked job out there - the eyes of the company, seeing what there was to see, exposed to the enemy. Perhaps there was glory to be found on the skirmish line, but he was satisfied to be clad in the anonymity of the rank and file. He welcomed the closeness of this brotherhood, found comfort in the press of his friend's shoulders and as the cadence trilled faster, the collective leap as the machine shifted into a higher gear.

The color bearer tilted the flag's staff to the front and the gray wave imitated the posture, straining forward like hounds on a leash, rifles at the ready, bayonets flashing like mirrors in the August morning. Kid's blood danced a bit, ran a little faster in his veins, just for the sheer power of the scene. He never heard the signal. He wasn't even really sure if there was one. But in a heartbeat the barrier was released and the line surged into a charge, the war cry of the Confederacy fanning the flames of their courage.

A banshee scream filled the air to their right flank and erupted in a wooded area that, if not for their good sense to scamper away, would have been home to deer and fox and underbrush creatures. Metal shards, sharper than a lumberman's saw, whizzed through the timber, felling walnut, maple and chestnut that had stood for centuries. Deluged by falling timber as deadly as any bullet, Kid threw his free arm over his head for meek protection. A hurled walnut husk knocked him in the ear and suddenly he was thirteen again.

His mother took the Sabbath seriously. Only the most necessary chores were done and once they were accomplished, the only other thing to do was sit on the front stoop and wait for her to ask him to recite the passage of scripture quoted in the morning's sermon. Once that obligation was fulfilled, Kid filed the verse away with years of others that at some time might come in handy - though he couldn't think when that time might be - and promised to be home before dark.

It was one hundred and twenty three strides from his front stoop to the forts in Mr. Peterson's valley. Used to be more but his legs had gotten longer over the summer. They weren't forts really, at least not ones that anybody but he and Garth would recognize. Just piles of cast off fence rails from Peterson's farm, chinked together with a mortar of straw and mud. But with a little imagination they became fortresses along the Delaware in George Washington's day or the walls of some feudal kingdom. A branch of a tree, broken to the right length, transformed into a lance or musket and a ready supply of acorns and walnuts served for ammunition.

Though a year older, Garth was his best friend in the world. A little bossy maybe, but still his best friend. The thing about Garth was that he couldn't stand to lose. Not at checkers, not at running, not at reciting the most scriptures in church, not at war games, not at anything and sometimes Kid let him win just to keep the peace. But not today. Not after he had teased Doritha in church for mispronouncing "Deuteronomy" - and Kid had a bucket full of the most prime walnuts in the valley to make sure of it.

"Thought you weren't comin'!" Garth hollered from his side of the field.

Kid leaned over, his hands on his knees, breathless from running. "Had to wait for Ma to listen to my verse!" he yelled back. "Thought she was never gonna ask for it!"

"Yeah . . . you forgot it I bet is more like it!"

"Did not!" Kid retorted and an acorn heaved in response sent him ducking behind his fortress.

It always started out that way, Kid could count on it. Garth would badger him about something silly and then they would heave nutshells back and forth until their ammunition was depleted. Then one of them, usually Garth, would give a signal and they would charge the field with bayoneted rifles or lances in hand - depending on the century - for a bit of hand to hand combat.

Being a year older, Garth was the stronger of the two, but Kid's aim was better. Where Garth's volleys went wide or long, Kid's were on target and his timing down to a science. When Garth broke away from his fort Kid naturally assumed the game would proceed as it always did and was surprised when his friend ran for the cover of the timber. His trouser pockets bulging with ammunition, Kid raced to follow, hurdling downed tree trunks and scaring up an occasional rabbit in the thick underbrush.

He caught sight of Garth about fifty yards ahead of him, heard his best friend scream in pain as he went down. Maybe he had gotten tangled in a vine or tripped over a log, Kid couldn't tell. He was certain Garth was hurt though and his friend's cry of "It's broke! It's broke!" confirmed his worries. Gravity and fear took over all at once and Kid found himself plunging down the slope, low hanging limbs and thorned brush scratching at his face and hands as he flew.

"I'm comin', Garth!" he cried out. "Don't move! I'm comin'!"

The smell of leaf mold was heavy and Kid wiped at his nose as he knelt beside his fallen friend. Garth was lying still as death, face down on the damp wooded floor. From outward appearances his arms and legs seemed to be straight. But Kid had seen a mule with a busted leg once. Just to look at it you couldn't tell that it was broken, but it was and they put the mule down on the spot. When he reached for his friend it was with care and more than a little fright.

"Can you hear me, Garth?" he asked and gently tugged at the older boy's shirtsleeve. "Can you hear. . . "

The words of concern faltered on his lips as Garth flipped onto his back and pelted Kid with a king-sized walnut right between the eyes. Garth's laughter erupted when his adversary yelped in pain and fell backwards with a surrendering thud. "I win! I win!" the victor shouted and jumped to his feet. He stood over Kid, straddling his dazed friend. "Lucky for you these ain't real bullets else you'd be dead! You ain't much of a soldier, Kid. No sir! You ain't much of a soldier are you?"

Kid swiped his hand across his forehead, unconsciously paying homage to the old wound. A high pitched squeal rising up behind him signaled the Rebel artillery had joined the fray and he instinctively crouched lower as he ran. It felt good to have their own monstrous guns behind him. There seemed something almost religious in the thunderous roar of the Napoleons - the hand of God hurling his wrath down on the enemy.

The day had quickly warmed and he dripped sweat like a foundry worker, the smoke stinging his eyes raw. Smelling smoke, eating smoke, breathing smoke until he thought he would drown in it. The unfastened lid of his cartridge box bobbed up and down on his hip like the head of a half-witted puppet with each stride and the weight of the box made him feel strangely unbalanced. His lungs ached for want of air, but duty shoved him between the shoulder blades, pushing him forward. The opposition of bushes, burrows, tangles of vines, and the strewn bodies of the newly departed lurking under the broomsedge cover, made what had seemed so simple on the drilling field a test. Failing, the line scattered around the obstacles, breaking into detached clusters. Kid lost sight of Murphy and Billy and muttered a quick prayer that the boy had indeed stayed glued to the older man's side. To his rear he heard an officer command "Dress on the colors! Dress on the colors!" but how the hell were they to line on the colors when they couldn't even see the flag?

Kid felt himself pitching forward, stumbled a step and fell headlong onto the ground. His obstacle was a casualty of some earlier fight, lying in a fantastic contortion of twisted arms and legs, and the sight halted him. He had seen dead men before, but suddenly every detail of the fallen soldier stood out in startling detail. Eyes bulging white. Flies clamoring over the hills and valleys of his face, now and again venturing across the ridge of cracked and swollen lips into the cavern of his open mouth. The edges of a wedding band cutting into a bloated ring finger. A gaping, bloody hole where his belly should have been. Like Murphy, he wore the colors of both countries and gave no ready clue as to which army he belonged. But he was some mother's pride and joy. Some young woman's darling. Kid glanced to the Union line, emerging from the smoke curtain like a blue snake, and pulled himself away from the body. Wherever the dead soldier's lonesome soul had gone he was about to have plenty of company.

The next oncoming wave of gray pushed him forward. Before he had announced to himself it was time, Kid slammed the walnut stock of the Enfield into position and fired - the kick of the rifle as comforting as a pat on the back. Steel ramrods clanged incessantly, furiously pounding new charges into red hot rifle barrels and when loaded, the butts slammed into shoulders already bruised black and blue to fire once more with no apparent target other than the bands of shifting smoke and whatever might lay behind them. And when the field began to clear, there was always the distant thunder and screaming whine of yet another shell and smoke that displayed allegiance to no one.

Kid fumbled through the box bouncing at his hip and withdrew another cartridge, muttering an oath against the weapon. It might be the best the Confederacy had to offer, but the single shot action seemed painfully impotent. He dropped to his knees to reload, cursing his clumsiness along with the rifle when he lost hold of the wad and it dropped to the ground. Each man was only issued forty precious rounds for each charge - a cartridge box could hold no more - and he was loathe to waste any of them. But it was as if the grass had closed around the cartridge. He simply couldn't see it. Kid rubbed at his eyes, but smoke ripped at his eyelids like shards of glass and made them water, his tears running in black streams through the gunpowder staining his face. He grappled blindly through the grass on his hands and knees until his fingers thankfully closed around the wad, then hurriedly bit open the cartridge and readied his weapon. Kid spat a black stream to rinse his mouth of the taste, but the fiery reminder on his lips burned like hot coals and could not be put out. When at last he pushed himself to his feet, he went lurching through the grass like a child taking his first stumbling steps.

He heard the pompous roar of a Howitzer in the distance, then the sizzling whine of the projectile and shut his eyes, waiting to be gobbled up by the metal teeth of the beast. Flaming wings of light burst open around him and the dragon's breath sucked the air from his lungs. Suddenly his legs seemed to die and the ground rushed up to meet him. Kid drew his knees underneath him and curled into a tight ball away from the slashing claws. He pressed his free hand across his eyes, but the blinding flash came from inside his head and the shield offered no protection from its jagged edge. He clawed himself to his feet and squeezed the trigger in one jerked motion, but he had lost direction in the haze, unable to discern one smoke-shrouded end of the field from the other.

"Not much of a soldier are you?"

Confusion danced in circles around him and the paralyzing fear that he had fired on his own men rooted him to the ground. His sense of direction was brought to bear as Captain Muldune, at least he thought it was the Captain, appeared on a frenzied horse behind the remnants of the line, berating, belittling and bedamning his men back into some semblance of order.

A comrade a few yards in front of Kid offered a mournful wail, threw up his hands and bowed down as a sacrifice to the god of some savage religion. A moral vindication boiled like a fever in Kid's veins. How dare they? How dare they desecrate this land with their death and destruction? How dare they force their unbending doctrine down the throat of these good men like a vile medicine? He refused to swallow and when the blue coat flashed before him, he fired and knelt to load again and again and again until the barrel of the rifle broiled in his hands.

The August sun bore down on the battleground with no loyalty to either army. Parched bodies dropped from heat exhaustion and lay as limp and useless as their bloodied cohorts across the field. Although the penalty for desertion was severe, a number of men turned and ran out of mortal fear, preferring to take their chances. Others, too frightened to even run, lay quiet as corpses among the bloody pools and littered bodies, praying to be past over for dead. Clusters of blue lay like wildflowers among the broomsedge and from a distance, the sprawling line of gray could have been mistaken for a stone wall meandering across the field. The clashing waves had no choice but to trample their dead and dying underfoot.

Kid turned his eyes to the outer field and discerned a mass of gray forming at the edge of a timbered incline. He saw the tilted flag fluttering open in rebellion; saw the enemy scurrying for cover when, after hours of indecision, the tide began to turn. The Southern battle cry, echoing across the field in a maniacal chorus of defiance, set his heart pounding against his chest like a prisoner demanding release. And when the Rebels threw themselves headlong into a moblike rush - swinging rifles like barbaric clubs, bayonets clashing in a shrill metallic music - a red rage propelled him toward his countrymen, all the while thinking that surely the doors of the asylum had swung open wide, for these could not be sane men.

The locomotive roarings that had filled the daylight hours dwindled to an intermittent pop and crackle at dusk. The regiment reformed, drawn to the colors of the 43rd like metal filings to a magnet. The bedraggled train trampled across the defended field, past crops of dead mowed down by some giant's scythe, ripening in the sun.

His tongue swollen thick and lips blistered raw, Kid took a little water once the safety of the picket lines was reached, but declined dinner rations. It would be only hardtack and coffee anyway since the supply wagons hadn't reached them yet. Instead, he sought out the welcoming cover of a chestnut that had somehow been spared from artillery spray and sank into the island of shelter. The guns had gone silent now, but in their place came the groans and pained pleas of those left on the field. The ambulance corps clamored across the valley, sifting through the wounded, carting those who might be saved to the surgeon's tents, leaving the hopeless littered on the ground.

Kid's head buzzed a bit and he felt as if he was waking from a long sleep, unfolding little by little to a dawn that was painful to the eyes. Like a lantern slide in a parlor game flashing before him, he saw himself swing the butt of his rifle into a Yankee boy's head. What kind of horrid fascination had lured him to watch as blood and brains spurted from the fractured skull like the seedy pulp of a smashed melon? Had he done that? Surely he hadn't done that. Kid closed his eyes tight against the image, but the next slide flashed blindingly bright. He clenched his teeth, biting back the remembered taste of vengeance that had filled him as he watched a blue clad body writhe on his bayonet like a sinner skewered on a devilish pitchfork. That hadn't been him. That couldn't have been him.

"Here old boy."

Kid jumped at the sound and reached for the Enfield lying beside him before he realized the voice belonged to his tentmate. Murphy knelt beside him and placed a metal flask in his hand, closing the numbed fingers around the container when they didn't respond. "Just a little bit," Murphy instructed. "Just enough to take the edge off. Don't want you hung over in the mornin' when we commence this foolishness again."

Kid looked at the man beseechingly. "Mornin'?"

"We ain't done yet," Murphy said. "I heard some talk that Stonewall's boys over yonder at that railroad grade ran outta ammunition and started heavin' rocks at the Yanks to set 'em back. Rocks? Can you imagine that?" The older man shook his head, pondering over what seemed so far-fetched it was most likely true. "Well, no matter. We'll have at 'em again in the mornin'. You done good out there today, Kid," he added. "First time's always rough. Tomorrow'll be easier."

"Should killin' people be easy?"

Murphy glanced away for a moment, composing his reply. When he turned again, Kid noted the emptiness in his friend's eyes had returned. "What you gotta remember is those dandified politicians can talk all their pretty talk 'bout state's rights and defendin' the homeland. But the thing is, this is war and war is 'bout killin' people, whether by bullet or bayonet or rocks. And if you ain't gona kill them, you can be right sure they're gonna kill you. Plain and simple fact. You do what you gotta do to stay alive."

The older man removed the cap from the flask and placed it in Kid's free hand, then pushed himself to his feet. Murphy nodded toward Billy, huddled by the fire with his knees drawn tightly to his chest, rocking back and forth in a skittish rhythm. "I'm gonna sit with the boy for a while. He is lookin' a might bit green." True to his instruction, Billy had stayed pasted to Murphy's side, but for all his desire to "send a Yankee to his Maker", the child had been unable to pull the trigger and returned to camp with his first load still intact in the gun's barrel. When Murphy finally fired the rifle, releasing the Enfield of its load, the boy cried out and clutched at his middle as if he had been hit himself.

"Just a little of that mind you," Murphy repeated and nudged Kid's boot with his foot. "It's the good stuff . . . not that hog slop these locals brew yesterday and claim'll be ready tomorrow."

The metal flask felt warm and smooth as a woman's touch in Kid's hand. He wasn't much of a drinker - wasn't even allowed to imbibe by Russell, Majors and Waddell - but just a bit to take the edge off wouldn't hurt. He raised the flask to his mouth and took a long swallow, grimacing as the fiery liquid flowed down his scorched throat. Kid coughed and sputtered and wiped his mouth with his coat sleeve, but the smell of sweat and smoke and odors he didn't care to identify, turned his stomach and he clenched his throat tight to hold the liquor down. He tried to replace the cap but there seemed to be something wrong with his hands. They wouldn't stop shaking. They just wouldn't stop shaking. He pressed his eyes closed and tilted his head back to rest against the chestnut, but a rush of lantern slides flashed again, searing themselves upon his memory and he bolted upright.

He had seen the elephant. And it was much bigger than he thought.

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