“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. “

“You've got no business doing this to me,” Bradford said as he mounted. “I'm on furlough, and I was just going about my business. You've got no right.”

“Hell we don't,” said the trooper who seemed to be in charge. “Furlough, my ass. You're somebody's runaway nigger, sure as I'm a Christian. Don't know whether you ran out on Abe Lincoln or Jeff Davis, but I reckon we'll see.” He nodded to Roy, who'd seated himself in the saddle and taken hold of the reins. “You ready?”

“Ready as I'll ever be,” Roy answered. The Confederates booted their horses forward. They went at a walk, so as not to wear down the animal carrying double. They care more about the horse than they do about me, Bill Bradford thought bitterly. That wasn't quite true. The Secesh soldiers cared about whether he escaped and whether he could do anything to the man he rode behind. They cared very much about such things. But, without a doubt, they liked the horse better than they liked him.

Because they rode slowly, they took more than an hour to get to Covington. That only gave Major Bradford more time to worry. The seat of Tipton County put him in mind of a lot of other county seats in western Tennessee. The courthouse faced the central square; the couple of blocks around it were given over to businesses. They grew more cotton around Covington than almost anywhere else in Tennessee, and several plantation owners had second houses in town almost as fine as their homes out in the countryside.

The troopers rode down Main Street toward the courthouse. They tied up their horses in front of the brown brick building. Even the columns of the portico were faced with brick. Bradford thought that was excessive, then wondered why he worried about such trifles when his neck was on the line. He supposed it was to keep from worrying about his neck-but he did anyway.

Sentries in front of the door called, “Who y'all got there?”

“That's what we're trying to find out,” Roy answered. He gave Bradford an elbow in the ribs. “Get down, you.” As Bradford awkwardly dismounted, Roy went on, “Is the colonel inside?”

“He sure is,” the sentry answered. He eyed Bradford with a frown on his face. “This fellow looks familiar, hell with me if he don't.”

“Hell with you anyway, Boone,” Roy said. The sentry laughed, which meant they were friends. Roy got down from the horse, reclaimed his revolver, and aimed it at Bradford's chest. “Go on in, you. Colonel Duckworth'll decide what to do with you.”

As Bradford walked to the door, he fiddled with his hat, tugging it down as low as he could. That might not do him any good, but it couldn't hurt. The troopers herded him along toward the courtroom. A Confederate junior officer stood outside that door like a gatekeeper, which was probably just what he was. “Who's this fellow?” he asked.

“Reckon he's a deserter, Lieutenant Witherspoon. Says he's with Bragg's army and on furlough, but he's got no papers,” answered the other soldier with a pistol-Bradford thought his name was Hank, but wasn't sure. “Colonel ought to have a look at him. “

Witherspoon rubbed his chin. He was so young, his brown beard was soft and thin. After a few seconds, he nodded. “Well, all right. Bring him in. One way or the other, it won't take long. “

“Right,” said Hank, or whoever he was. “Come on, you.” When Bradford hesitated, another Confederate trooper gave him a shove.

William Duckworth sat behind a table, as if he were a judge. He didn't look like a judge, though. He looked like a Scottish Covenanter, or perhaps more like a slightly deranged Biblical prophet. He was about forty, with dark hair and a dark, scraggly beard that tumbled down his chest to the third pair of buttons on his double-breasted tunic. For reasons known only to himself and possibly to God, he shaved his upper lip. His eyes… Bill Bradford would have said they were the coldest and grayest he'd ever seen had he not made the acquaintance of Nathan Bedford Forrest only the day before.

“Well?” Duckworth said, and Bradford had all he could do not to burst into startled laughter, for the Rebel colonel's voice seemed much too high and thin to spring from such a stern, forbidding visage. “Who've you got here?”

“Says his name's Peterson, sir. Says he's on furlough from Bragg's army,” Roy answered. “We came across him north of town. Says he was sparking a girl last night, and that's how come he was on the road.” Colonel Duckworth's left eyebrow rose, which only made him look

more formidable. “Tell me another one,” he said.

Roy nodded. “Yes, sir. That's what we thought. He done run off from somebody's army, sure as hell. Don't know whether it's ours or the damnyankees', but somebody's.”

“No doubt.” Duckworth studied Bradford with those January eyes. Bradford looked down at his shoes, as he had at Fort Pillow the night before while talking to the lieutenant who let him leave. It didn't work this time. “Shed the lid,” Duckworth said sharply. “Let me see who the devil you are.”

A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Bradford took off the slouch hat. He looked straight at Colonel Duckworth. If the Confederate officer didn't know him by sight, he still had a chance. But if Duckworth did…

And he did, damn him. He did. That eyebrow jumped again, now in surprise, not sarcasm. His eyes widened slightly. He nodded to himself, as if to say that yes, he really was sure. Then he spoke aloud: “You're Major Bradford, aren't you?”

Behind Bradford, Roy and Hank and the other two Rebs all inhaled on the same startled note. The Federal stood there for a few seconds, wondering if he had any chance to brazen it out. He wished he thought he did. Deciding things would go worse for him-if they could go worse for him-if he tried to lie, he gave a weary nod. “Yes, I'm afraid I am.”