Creed.â
âKeep telling yourself that. You seem to need it.â
Just beyond the fire, the horses and Creedâs other six men were dark shapes, outlined by the orange flicker. The six stretched out, assuming positions that favored their bandaged wounds. Their talk was all worn-out sneers.
Fuller took hold of Creedâs horse, pulling the bottle of sipping bourbon from the saddlebag, where it was tucked next to the shotgun rig. Little of the bourbon was gone.
Fuller said, âCaptain, you thinkâ?â
âEach man gets one swallow to keep out the chill.â
âIâll make sure.â
Fuller walked to where the guns were stretched out, and handed off the bottle to Fat Gut, who guzzled deep. Fuller snatched it back, wiped the top, and passed it on to the next.
Fat Gut leaned against his Winchester like a crutch, bourbon wetting his chin. âYouâre really pushinâ it with me, boy.â
Fuller said, âNo, I ainât,â before letting the next one drink and throwing Fat Gut some more words. âI outranked you during the conflict, so I figure I still do. Wanna try? Iâll even help you stand up.â
Fat Gut rubbed his leg wound, shrugging. âItâs too damn cold. Lucky for you.â
Bishop watched Fuller pass the bourbon among the hired guns before saying to Creed, âYour bottleâs getting some real use. Grantâd be proud.â
Creedâs voice was in the back of his throat. âI expected better of you than cheap jokes. Weâre bundled around a campfire, not sitting back in front of a fireplace. Men who served are supposed to have a better fate.â
âWho claimed that?â
âItâs not policy. Itâs what you hope for: that sacrifice will be rewarded.â
âLike the money youâre going to get for us?â
Creed said nothing, just let the flames bounce across the dark amber of his glasses, outlining the edges. Finally, Bishop said, âThereâs a bounty on me, and I never robbed a bank or a train.â
âYou killed a man.â
âThat you said needed killing. You agreed with me.â
âI still do, but that donât change whatâs going to happen.â
Bishop felt the piece of arm that remained through his sleeve. âSo how the hell do you know about Beaudine ?â
Creed took warmth from the fire. âBecause he tried to join my regiment. The manâd worn the grey, claimed he had a change of heart. But then we found out he was wanted for strangling some strumpet, arrested right after heâd signed his papers. Not even Southern-born, but claimed he was a plantation ownerâwith acres of cotton and a hundred slavesâwho felt the need to serve. He never served anywhere, except in prison or the crazy house.â
Bishop let Creedâs words sink in before he said, âYou told me something, Creed, but itâs not enough. Itâs just a hell of a coincidence.â
âOne of Godâs jokesâthe war connects us all.â
âMore than the war. I want Beaudine dead.â
âI know the feeling.â
âYou lost your eyes, I lost my family.â
âAnd your limb.â
âI donât care about that.â
âI wouldnât give it no never mind if I found the replacement you did.â
Bishop paused, and then, âYouâve known me a hell of a long time. Youâre really thinking you can play with me like this?â
âIâm in command, and youâre a prisoner.â
The back of Bishopâs left hand smashed into Creedâs jaw, sending his glasses flying into the fire. Bishop grabbed Creedâs blue lapel. âYouâre talking in circles! Tell me what the hell your intentions are!â
Creed smiled, his scarred-over eyes meeting Bishopâs. âOnly give the enemy enough information to confuse.â
The barrel of Fullerâs rifle was sudden, and steady, over
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