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the garden and alighted on the scarecrow to survey what the birds considered to be their personal domain. He stepped out onto the porch and clapped his hands together to frighten the crows away. They merely studied him with disdain.
    Peter Abbot retrieved his hat from a row of pegs set in the wall. He glanced at the man in the bed.
    “I’d better start back to the hotel. I don’t want to make anyone suspicious.”
    “I wish you’d tell Cap I’m all right. We go back a long ways. He was having dinner with you when I got shot, for heaven’s sake. The man loves me like a brother.”
    “A little knowledge can be dangerous,” Peter said. “Cap Featherstone can’t hold his liquor. He talks too much when he’s drinking.” Abbot crossed the room to the door. “I’ll be back,” he said with a salute, then he patted Ben’s shoulder and left the room. A moment later he joined the captain on the porch. “I’m not going to order you to go, Jesse, but just think about it. Talk to your father. And don’t worry, nothing is going to happen to him.”
    Jesse glanced sharply at the major. “Something already has.”
    “Yes,” the major concurred as he stepped off the porch and headed for the barn where he’d kept his horse out of sight.
    Jesse watched the officer depart. The shadow of a cloud glided soundlessly over the house and garden as Peter Abbot proceeded through the shifting sunlight and at last disappeared inside the barn.
    “Don’t be too hard on him, son,” Ben called out.
    Drawn by his father’s voice, Jesse returned to the room and his father’s bedside. The curtains ruffled by Ben’s bed and a breeze fanned his cheek. The open door created a refreshing cross-draft.
    “It’s not right, you being alone and hurt,” Jesse said.
    “I’ve Sam Colt for company,” Ben said, patting the Dragoons beside him on the bed. “And one of my sons, until it’s time for you to hit the trail south.”
    “How do you know I’ll go? I might just stay here and look after you,” Jesse said.
    “No.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I don’t need you. And your country does.”
    Jesse slumped defeatedly in the chair next to the bed. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
    “I’m not telling you anything you didn’t already know. Uh!” He winced as a white-hot jolt of pain flashed across the small of his back.
    Jesse looked on, helpless as his father struggled with the pain. Ben refused to allow it to best him. His eyes closed; his countenance grew pale and chalky. The whole spell lasted no more than fifteen seconds, but it seemed like hours. Ben’s color gradually returned, and he sighed and unclenched his fists.
    “See. No problem,” he weakly chuckled. “Easy as falling off a log, as Cap would say.”
    “Is that Cap Featherstone, of Andrews’ raiders?” Jesse asked. In April of 1862, Abbot had dispatched twenty-one men under the command of James Andrews to travel undercover into Georgia, steal a train and drive it north, tearing up Confederate railroad lines from Atlanta to Chattanooga. Most of the raiders were eventually caught and hanged. A few escaped. Cap Featherstone had been one of the lucky few.
    “One and the same,” Ben said. “I knew him during the Mexican War. We trailed together. He’s a man to ride the river with. Just steer him clear of whiskey and women. Both have been his undoing more than a few times.”
    “But you trust him?” Jesse asked.
    “With my life,” said Ben.

Chapter Five
    “I PAID YOU TO kill Ben McQueen, not hang around town getting into trouble,” said Cap Featherstone to the one-eyed gunman he had just paid Deputy Hiram Hays to set free.
    Cap was a robust, burly individual standing just under six feet tall and topping the scales at three hundred pounds. His immense girth was firmly encased in a dark green frock coat and trousers, and a bandanna covered his head where streaks of pink scalp showed through his thinning brown hair. In his early forties, Cap Featherstone