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to Hollister and stuck out his gnarled right hand.
    “Captain Hollister,” he said. “My name is Allan Pinkerton.

Chapter Three
    H ollister knew the name. He reluctantly shook Pinkerton’s proffered hand, but returned quickly to attention. Whitman turned around to look at him, and he was determined not to do anything that would bring the colonel’s wrath down on him. At least not yet.
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain Hollister,” Pinkerton said, with a trace of a Scottish brogue.
    “ Private Hollister,” the colonel corrected.
    Pinkerton glared at him. “For now, Colonel. For now,” he said. He stomped back to his chair, picked up a leather satchel, and placed it on Whitman’s desk.
    Out of the corner of his eye, Hollister saw Whitman blanch and press his mouth into a straight line at Pinkerton’s growing list of violations of proper procedure.
    “Please, Captain Hollister, at ease, at ease,” Pinkerton said as he rifled through the satchel. Jonas glanced at the colonel for approval before allowing himself to go to parade rest, his posture relaxed but on the alert. He was concerned. This wasn’t about McAfee and the fight. This was something unfamiliar. One of the most famous men in America was here to talk to him. But not knowing why made Hollister edgy.
    “Yes . . . yes here it is,” Pinkerton said, pulling a small ledger out of his case and thumbing it open.
    “Jonas P. Hollister, captain, United States Army. Born in Tecumseh, Michigan. Graduated from West Point in 1864, assigned to the Seventh Michigan Cavalry under the command of General George Armstrong Custer. Awarded medals for valor at Cold Harbor, Petersburg, and the Winchester Campaign. Received a field commission of lieutenant colonel directly from General Ulysses S. Grant. Court-martialed for assault on a superior officer, found not guilty but reduced in rank to captain in March 1865.” Pinkerton paused. “What exactly happened there, Captain?”
    Hollister was quiet for a moment. He squinted at the man. He still didn’t know what this was about. The colonel had returned to staring out the window, giving him no indication as to how he should proceed. All right, then.
    “I punched George in the face, sir, because he was responsible for the death of thirty-seven of my men.”
    “When you say George, you mean General Custer?” Pinkerton asked. Hollister nodded.
    “General Custer was your superior officer and you assaulted him . . .” Lieutenant Colonel Whitman said, staring in disbelief. Pinkerton held up his hand and he stopped talking.
    “Go on, Captain,” Pinkerton prodded.
    “General Custer, sir, was a glory-seeking jackass,” Hollister said, making sure he was speaking directly at Pinkerton. Knowing full well the colonel still held all the cards as far as his future was concerned.
    “I see. What is your opinion of Custer’s performance at the Little Bighorn?” Pinkerton asked.
    “I wasn’t there,” Jonas said.
    “But you must have an idea. Some thought about your former commander. An opinion?” Pinkerton went on.
    “From what I heard and read, sir, he divided his command against a far superior enemy with a clear tactical advantage. It’s no wonder he got everyone killed. I’m just surprised it didn’t happen sooner,” Hollister stated. He saw Whitman’s shoulders tense.
    Pinkerton said nothing, looking down at the ledger again.
    “Tell me about Wyoming, Captain,” Pinkerton said.
    “No, sir,” Hollister replied.
    “God damn you, inmate, you will answer his questions,” the colonel turned from the window and roared at Jonas as he stormed around the desk.
    “It’s all right, Colonel,” Pinkerton said. He had a tone about him that both shut Whitman off and took him down a peg or two. Whitman was about to say something else but decided against it, choking on the words, and spun around, returning to his spot at the window.
    “I might be able to help you, Captain,” Pinkerton said
    “Help me with