FORT PILLOW

The sun was up, bright and cheerful, promising a day much warmer than the one just past. Bill Bradford wished it would have stopped in the sky before it ever rose. But he was no Joshua, to turn his wish into a command. He would have to make the best of things-if he could.

He still had no horse. He hadn't found a chance to steal one. He hadn't even found a place to buy one, though he would gladly have used the double eagle he'd managed to keep in his pocket. Staying on foot, in a country patrolled by Bedford Forrest's troopers, was asking for trouble.

If I can get past Covington… But he'd already had to duck off the road three times to keep mounted Confederates from spotting him. If he was careless even once…

And things could go wrong even if he wasn't even slightly careless. Bradford found that out the hard way early in the morning when a shout rang out behind him: “Hey, you! Yeah, you in the scruffy clothes! Hold up, there!”

He whirled. He almost jumped out of the sutler's clothes he'd taken. Four troopers in butternut and gray came trotting toward him. Two carried rifle muskets, or possibly carbines (he wasn't drawing fine distinctions just then), the other two revolvers. He couldn't possibly have seen them, because they'd just ridden out from in back of a stand of oaks he'd passed himself only a couple of minutes before. They must have turned on to the southbound road from a smaller crossroad, because they hadn't been following him before.

What to do? It boiled down to running or bluffing. If he ran, they would ride him down and shoot him. That was only too plain, for he saw no good hiding places he could reach before they caught him. It would have to be bluff, then.

He waved to the Rebs and waited for them to come up. “Mornin',” he said.

His smile didn't seem to warm their hearts. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?” one of them demanded.

“Well, my name's Joe Peterson.” Bradford picked something ordinary, but not, he hoped, so ordinary that it roused suspicion. “I'm home on furlough from Braxton Bragg's army. And I was out sparking my girl last night, if you want to know the truth.” He smiled again, his expression this time half embarrassed, half ingratiating.

All his acting talents were wasted on the hard-faced Confederate. “On furlough from Bragg's army, are you? Let's see some papers, then.”

Bradford went through his pockets. He found no papers of any sort. Even if he had, he couldn't have displayed them-they would have authorized his presence at Fort Pillow. That was the last thing he could afford to do. It was, he judged, much worse than showing that his name wasn't Peterson.

“I seem to have left them in my other pair of pants,” he said sheepishly.

“Oh, yeah. I just fuckin' bet you did,” the trooper said. He was one of the pair who carried revolvers. He aimed his at Bradford's face. “That other pair of pants-was it gray or blue?”

“I don't know what you mean,” Bradford got out through lips numb with fear.

“Hell you don't, you lying son of a bitch,” said one of the Confederates with a longarm. He pointed his weapon at Bradford's midsection. “Sure as shit, you done run off from somebody's army. Only question is, you a deserter from our side or the Yankees'?”

“You've got me all wrong,” Bradford said. “I-”

“Shut up,” the Reb with the pistol said flatly. “We're rounding up deserters. Too damn many fair-weather soldiers reckon they can disappear whenever they find somethin' better to do. That ain't how it works, not when there's a war on. We got three, four other sorry bastards waitin' down in Covington. Take you down there, too, let Colonel Duckworth cipher out what to do with you.”

“What to do to you,” the other rifle-toting soldier added. His voice held a certain grim anticipation Bradford could have done without.

Bradford also could have done without meeting Colonel William Duckworth. The commander of the Seventh Tennessee Cavalry (C.S.) was much too likely to recognize him. And that won't be good, Bradford thought desperately. No, that won't be good at all.

“You've got me all wrong,” he said again.

“If the colonel says so, I'll believe it,” said the Reb who did most of the talking. “I wouldn't believe you if you told me it was daytime. Roy, why don't you hand me your six-shooter there? That way, this bastard can ride behind you without getting any smart ideas.”

“I'll do it,” Roy said, “but I'll make damn sure he's not carrying anything, either.” He got down from his horse, handed over his revolver, and then walked up to Bradford. “Stick your hands in the air, whoever the hell you are.” Numbly, Bradford obeyed. He wasn't armed, so he didn't have anything to worry about on that score. Roy frisked him with a skill that suggested he had practice-and with no respect for his person whatsoever. The Reb nodded. “You'll do. Get up on my horse and slide back of the saddle. You can hang on while I tend to the horse. “