Prologue

Canyon Valley, Texas

May 1861

“He ain’t going to give in, Clint,” Pa said, clapping his son’s shoulder with a robust, leathery hand. “I knew that deal was sideways. I should’ve got my money back from that Mexican—that stallion’s the spawn of Satan!”

Clint Forman threaded his fingers into a pair of deerskin gloves and laced his hands together like he was ready to pray. However, praying would come later—after he survived the fight.

The feisty stallion was almost two years old, based on the brief glimpse of teeth Clint had snatched before Pa almost lost a finger. The horse would’ve clipped Pa’s toes off, too, if he hadn’t moved his boot.

As Clint watched, two of the ranch hands danced around, doing their best to avoid the bucking stallion’s sharp hooves.

“He’s got some vinegar in his veins, I’ll give you that,” he said, watching the men circle the horse warily. “Spirited stock. I like that.”

Squatting outside the corral fence, Clint studied the stallion with dark eyes, trying to work out how best to approach. Shorter than Pa, Clint knew his strength rested more in his muscled arms than his legs.

He scooped up a handful of dusty gravel, rubbing the grit between his gloved palms as he prepared to grip the reins—leather fit easier with a bit of dirt. If that horse don’t want any part of me, I’ll end up backside on the same ground inside the fence as out.

Clint smirked. “He’ll figure out I’m in charge real quick.”

“See you flat on your rear is what he’ll do, or cut you to ribbons with them hooves.” Pa turned away from the corral to face the farmyard. “You better get to it ’fore the sun gets any higher. Got plenty chores—not sure why you figured we needed one more. Where you got the dang fool notion to breed horses is past my knowing!”

The sun rose along the eastern horizon, warming the air. Overhead, a clear, blue sky promised a fair day to offset the late spring rains. Clouds sailed in fluffy puffs, marking shadows on the ground.

Chickens, soaking morning sun on the farmhouse porch, squawked and scattered as the kitchen door opened. Clint’s sister, Anna, emerged from the house, then paused to adjust the collar of her blue calico dress.

Figures she’d come out here—always sticking her nose into everything.

She was two years older than Clint, and never let him forget it. He was already a foot taller than her, which strengthened their playful rivalry. Honestly, though, Clint was glad she’d come to watch; he was eager to prove that ‘little brother’ could tame this wild beast.

Anna had eyes like Ma, with mousy, wavy hair, currently swept up and out of the way for chores. She preferred britches over skirts, but wasn’t allowed to wear trousers except when she was helping drive the herds. Even then, Ma disapproved.

Anna strolled over, joining Clint as he eyed the temperamental horse. The ranch hands had tethered the stallion to deep-driven posts, careful to stay within its line of sight; any time someone stepped outside the horse’s gaze, it whinnied and bucked.

“Ooh, he’s pretty,” Anna said, resting her elbows against the fence. “That the horse you got yesterday from the Mexican family? A Morgan, right?”

“Yeah, and he ain’t even green broke,” Pa complained. “That man got my money and—”

Anna leaned against Pa. “Now, Pa … He’s a pretty one.”

“Pretty or not, he’d kill you just as soon as look at you,” Pa insisted. He tapped the fence, a scowl on his whiskery face. “Come on, son. You ain’t got time to break the beast before we head down to San Antone at the end of the month. We’ll trade ’im out for something not so mean before then. We got enough cattle horses here, an’ I’d rather have you on your feet than on your back with a busted leg.”

Clint flexed his fingers before dipping through the fence panels. “I’ve got my mind set on breeding horses, Pa. No time like now to get started. I’m not about to bust anything.”

“Doris Hinky wouldn’t want that, either,” Anna teased.

“Doris?” Pa gaped, then turned to Clint. “You sweet on Bill Hinky’s girl?”

“More like she’s sweet on Clint.” Anna grinned. “He ain’t but gave her a second look, but she’s always asking on about him.”

“I don’t know her well,” Clint muttered. He wasn’t interested in Anna stirring the pot behind his back while a thousand pounds of trembling muscle awaited him inside the paddock. Shrugging Anna off, he put Doris Hinky out of his mind and watched the Morgan.

Then, he went rigid as the stallion’s eye swiveled toward him. The animal snorted, pawing the dirt as Clint stepped closer.

The ranch hands conversed in low Spanish before one said, “You must be careful, Señor. This one is like demonio.”

“I don’t know, Raul … He don’t look like a demon,” Clint said, never taking his eyes off the horse.

“El Diablo comes in many forms, Señor,” Abel murmured.

“Easy, boy,” Clint said, slowly reaching out to show the stallion his empty palms.

The animal tossed his head, sidestepping, then reared up on his front hooves, sparks flaring in his dark eyes.

“Now, don’t start. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

No matter what Pa says, if I ever want to have my own breeding ranch, I gotta take chances.

In a few heartbeats, Clint had closed the remaining distance. He managed to get both hands on the horse’s neck, stroking the rippling muscles as the Morgan nickered. Clint ignored the murmuring ranch hands, ignored his father and sister. For a moment, it was just him and the Morgan, eye to eye.

Finally, it blinked, giving Clint an edge of possibilities, and he reached for the halter.

***

Pa sat in the driver’s seat while Clint groaned in the back of the wagon. Pain radiated through his body as Anna fussed over his wounded arm, pressing it with a damp, bloodstained towel. Thankfully, after one look, Ma hadn’t insisted on riding along.

“I’m fine,” he said through clenched teeth. “No need to go into town.”

“Don’t be such a baby! If you don’t get this cleaned and stitched up, it’ll get infected. What if it goes gangrene, and they have to chop your arm off?”

“That’ll do,” Pa said without turning around. “We’ll let Doc Addison decide what’s best.” He paused, then added, “Would be a dang shame if Doc needs to hack it off, though. Wonder if Doris would fancy a one-armed groom?”

Anna giggled.

Clint rolled his eyes and snatched the towel from his sister, holding it against his arm. A buckle from the Morgan’s bridle had gouged a wide strip in his flesh—right before the Morgan jerked away, nearly trampling him. He’d wear this scar for the rest of his life.

“We’ll put that horse down soon as we get home. He’s too wild.”

Anna gasped, one hand flying to her mouth.

“It’s not the horse’s fault,” Clint argued. “Yeah, he’s got spunk, but that ain’t the answer. I can break him—it’s just gonna take time.”

“Well, it won’t get any easier, I can promise you that.” Pa drew the wagon up to the picket fence surrounding Dr. Addison’s property north of Canyon Valley, then set the brake. “While you’re in Doc’s, we need a few things from the mercantile. Anna, you come with me.”

“I want to stay and watch,” Anna protested as she helped Clint out of the wagon.

“Mind Pa.” Clint nudged his sister with his elbow. “You’ve got stuff to buy for Ma.”

With a huff, Anna swept back onto the wagon and climbed into the driver’s box beside Pa. Then, she stuck out her tongue at Clint.

You’d think she was ten and not in her twenties.

Pa chuckled, then tilted his head in Clint’s direction. “We’ll come back around after we’ve resupplied.”

From the corner of his eye, Clint noticed an unusual level of activity along the main street; it bustled with more carriages and buggies than on a typically Tuesday. People stood in tight circles, and a big crowd had gathered before the newspaper office.

Looks like something’s buzzing around. Wonder what all the fuss is about. With a shrug, he removed his hat and entered the doctor’s office.

Inside, Mrs. Addison immediately pulled away the bloody towel to look at his injury. “Lord Almighty! What happened, Mr. Forman?” she asked, leading him to the examination room at the end of the small hallway.

Clint explained while she did her best to clean the wound ahead of Doc’s appearance. When the doctor opened the door, wearing a grim expression and ashen skin, Clint figured he must have lost a patient.

It was far worse.

“Is your father in town?” Doc asked without regard for Clint’s injury.

“Yeah.”

“Did you hear?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s happened.” Doc sighed wearily. He bent to Clint’s wound once Mrs. Addison had him remove the shirt, examining it as he continued the conversation. “It finally happened. They finally up and did it.”

“Ain’t got a clue what you’re talking about, Doc.”

“I’ll have to stitch this up.”

As the doctor used a hook needle and thread to stitch the wounded arm, Clint pressed his lips tight. Struggling to keep the pain from his voice—each stitch made his insides scream in agony—he asked, “What happened?”

After the doctor snipped the knotted thread and washed his bloody hands in a water basin, Mrs. Addison returned Clint’s shirt and helped him thread his bandaged arm into the sleeve.

“Troops fired on Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor,” she said quietly, “sometime around the twelfth.”

Two weeks ago. News from the Carolinas was slow to get to Texas, especially when Union forces got in the way.

“They’re calling for soldiers.”

“I need to find Pa,” Clint said, rushing out without settling the bill.

War had come, and it was time to act.

Chapter One

Northern Maryland

September 1862

September winds stabbed at the soldiers’ naked hands and faces as they huddled together in troop carriages. Clint sat sandwiched between a sixteen-year-old boy from Tennessee and a twenty-eight-year-old miner from Arkansas, part of a butternut division headed to Sharpsburg. Their company of sixty-five men had already taken losses along the way, dampening spirits and making it impossible to feel strength in numbers.

Captain Jim Garland was younger than Clint by a handful of years, with no battlefield experience. He’d only become company leader because their commanding officer took a shot of lead to the left eye. Shortly after his promotion, the whelp had diverted from the central division, leading his company over the mountains from the west, always moving at night.

“He’ll get us all killed,” one soldier whispered.

“Hush up,” another snapped.

Clint had stopped trying to keep track of their names. Names, however, were easier to forget than the dead faces looking up from the mud and blood of a battlefield.

“It ain’t right,” the Tennessee teen groused. He’d watched his father die after a cannonball tore through their line, sheering off the man’s leg. “It ain’t right.”

Clint closed his eyes, ignoring the stench of sweat, unwashed clothes, and campfire smoke clinging to their uniforms. He thought about Canyon Valley, longing for the stifling Texas sun to dry out his damp bones. Will I ever see it again?

One by one, horses halted. The carriages stopped, slamming the unlucky souls in the rear against the wagon bed gates. Iron buckles wrapped in cotton or rags kept chains from rattling against wood.

Clint closed his eyes, listening to the hushed grumbles around him.

Captain Garland, his first and second lieutenants, and the sergeant all gathered to the left of the wagon, conferring yet again over the poor direction of travel and burdened horses. Garland had hoped this shortcut might spur them ahead of a northern division after the victory at Harpers Ferry. Apparently, he wanted to lead the charge against the Union-held Maryland territory.

“We’re here, and the gathering point should be four to five miles this way.” Garland spoke with shaky authority. “If we can reach that hilltop by dawn, we’ll see the battlefield.”

Clint kept quiet, as was expected of privates, but he saw the signs. Pa had shown him how to navigate by following the stars when landmarks were impossible to read—a useful skill on cattle drives. However, no one seemed to look up anymore, too busy watching the trees for Union patrols, too fearful of dying from a sniper’s Minie ball.

“What if we don’t?” the sergeant asked, a man named Phelps.

“It’s a matter of principle,” Garland insisted, his young voice rising in pitch as it always did when he got too excited. “We can divide and conquer!”

“We’ve already divided, sir,” Phelps pointed out. He was twice the captain’s age and had bloodied his bayonet during the Mexican War in ’47. “So far, this side trip has only cost us time. Don’t make it cost lives, too. We ain’t anywhere near a battlefield!”

Garland hesitated, giving the sergeant more ammunition against the inexperienced leader.

“We’re lost, sir,” Phelps continued. “No one’s dared to tell you the truth, but we’re in enemy territory. We’re already overdue at Sharpsburg. If we head due east, we might make it to Hagerstown by sunup.”

Clint’s comment slipped out before he could stop himself. “Hagerstown is southeast of here.”

“Who said that?” Captain Garland snapped. “Identify yourself!”

The miner from Arkansas elbowed Clint in the ribs.

Clint sighed. “I did, sir.”

“Come here, private.” Sergeant Phelp’s tone was laced with the threat of consequences.

Clint hadn’t intended to say it aloud, but it was out there; there was no going back. Once away from the carriage, he stretched his legs, limbering himself up as he stepped over marshy puddles to face the scowling officers in the dark.

“What’s your name, soldier?” Garland asked. The captain’s brow constantly prickled with sweat, and only his waxed mustache kept the moisture from beading his upper lip. Even in the September chill, Clint saw the shimmer of perspiration under his hat.

“Private Clint Forman, sir.” He didn’t think saluting the captain in enemy territory would be wise, even if the captain’s stripes didn’t show in the shadows.

“And you’re sure we’re southeast of Hagerstown?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How can you tell?”

Clint sighed, tamping down his frustration, reluctant to show up to the commanding officers. Since he’d enlisted, he’d realized most officers above sergeant were men of means, sons of wealthy families looking to leave legacies when they won the war.

“Even with the clouds, you can see the North Star over there,” Clint said, gesturing to the sky.

The captain and lieutenants looked up, but Phelps only smirked.

Clint extended his hand, closing a fist between the captain and the first lieutenant. “We’re two fists from the North Star to the horizon. That’s twenty degrees, ten for each fist, with latitude running east–west.”

Pointing over the first lieutenant’s shoulder, he continued, “Sharpsburg is that way, so if we want to head toward Hagerstown, we have to go that direction.”

“That’s it?” Garland asked. “That’s how you determine direction?”

Maybe I should salute, see if any Union soldiers are looking to get a promotion through a musket shot. Clint considered it for a moment, but instead, he shrugged lightly.

Squatting, Garland unrolled a map on the ground. “Someone bring me a light.” He looked up at Clint. “Can you find us on this map?”

An aide-de-camp rushed to light the captain’s lantern and held it overhead. The stench of sulfur stung Clint’s nostrils. Kneeling beside Garland, he examined the map briefly, then pointed. “We’re about fifteen miles from Sharpsburg if I’m reading this right.”

Peering over Clint’s shoulder, one of the lieutenants scoffed. “Nonsense! We’re closer than that.” He retrieved a tobacco pouch from the inner pocket of his officer coat. The second lieutenant followed his example. Too dignified to roll tobacco, both unpacked pipes and boxed matches.

The scent of tobacco filtered away on the September breeze.

Clint glanced at the sergeant, waiting for him to reprimand them, but the sergeant remained as unreadable as a stone, not seeming to care that the fragrant smoke might give away their position. Garland, too, was silent as he examined the map while the aide held the lantern.

“We should make camp here,” the first lieutenant said. “We’ll pick up our troops at daybreak. We’re already late for the battle.”

“We’d be able to hear the cannon fire from this distance,” Clint said. “It hasn’t started yet.”

“You’re sure of that? As much as your redskin idea of tracking the stars to find our way?” the aide-de-camp asked. The pipe stem rattled in his teeth as he spoke.

Suddenly, a thunderous crack split the air, and the aide-de-camp stumbled, slumping against the second lieutenant. Oil splashed as the lantern fell from his fingers, landing between Clint and Garland and igniting the map.

We’ve been spotted!

“Get down!” Garland screamed as his boot caught fire.

Another shot rang out—then a third, a fourth, and a fifth. Both lieutenants crumbled to the ground as Clint dumped handfuls of mud on Garland’s boot, dousing the fire.

Flames licked along the trail of spilled oil toward a nearby wagon. The horses shuddered and strained against the wagon brakes while infantrymen scrambled to grab rifles and return fire.

The crack of gunfire grew steady. The screams of men and horses battled with the cacophony of random gunfire as musket balls sizzled through the air.

Instinctively, Clint grabbed Garland’s collar, dragging him into the nearby underbrush. Billowing smoke clouded the ground, coating the carnage.

“We must fight, private!” Garland barked, wrenching free of Clint’s grip. He pulled his saber from its scabbard and unholstered a .44 single-shot pistol. “I order you to—”

Something heavy hissed toward them and landed in the leaves near Garland’s leg.

Clint reached over, pulling the weighty thing from the ground. Acrid smoke fizzled from the object in Clint’s grasp, and he gasped as he recognized it as a Ketchum hand grenade. It hadn’t landed on the pressure plate plunger, which explained why it hadn’t detonated immediately.

Before Garland could take a breath, Clint arced his arm overhead, hurling the grenade out of the bushes. It exploded a few yards away with an ear-shattering boom. Garland flinched, and both he and Clint covered their heads as shrapnel peppered the bushes covering them, raining down on soldiers from both sides.

Garland’s eyes glistened in the firelight, bewilderment causing him to gawk wordlessly. The captain had lost both his pistol and saber.

Pressure squeezed Clint’s head like a vice, and he gritted his teeth as he pulled Garland away from the boots and bodies, sliding down an embankment.

Clint hadn’t bothered with a rifle. The ’53 Enfield rifle musket wasn’t for quick loading, and he had a pouch full of damp firing caps. Besides, it was no good for nighttime return fire either. He still had a bayonet, however, and the Coahuiltecan hunting knife he’d brought from Texas. Both were perfect for silent killing—but preserving the captain’s life came first.

They’d reached the bottom of the embankment, using saplings for cover. Overhead, the gunfire and screams continued. The fire from Garland’s spilled lantern had become a blaze, illuminating the tangle of trees that separated Clint from the carnage. It was still too dark to see, though, especially through the smoke, and animal screams drowned out any commands that otherwise might’ve risen above the rat-a-tat of enemy fire.

Luckily, Clint didn’t need to see. He didn’t want to see. He already knew what was happening around him. Soldiers who hadn’t made it out of the carriages were dying in heaps before they could return fire.

“We should muster the troops,” Garland shouted, his voice quivering like a child calling in the dark.

Clint clapped a hand over the man’s mouth, dragging him against a tree base. “Shut up!”

Before he could clear his head, a shadowy figure stumbled down the embankment toward them, barely righting itself before Clint drew his knife.

He relaxed when he realized the figure was Phelps, then grabbed the man’s sleeve, dragging him near the captain. The sergeant coughed blood, holding his stomach.

“Sergeant, where are the lieutenants?” Garland demanded.

“Dead,” Phelps replied as Clint released him, sheathing his knife. Phelps slumped to the ground, unable to keep his body upright.

He’s not long for this world.

“We must rally the troops.” Garland sounded more desperate than determined.

“You need to get out of here,” Phelps urged, pressing his hands against his stomach.

“My men,” the captain whispered. His eyes shimmered as he stared at the smoke and flames.

“Your men are dead,” Phelps said bluntly before focusing on Clint. “Get this man away from here. He must survive at all costs. Get him to Fredericksburg.”

Garland lifted his voice in protest. “We’re going to Sharpsburg, Sergea—”

“To hell with that!” Phelps snapped, cutting him off. “You’re too important to die here. Your father charged me with—” He coughed again and spat blood, the liquid black in the shadows.

The sergeant swallowed. “Son, what’s your name again?”

“Clint, sir.”

“You are hereby promoted to corporal. You’re to deliver the captain, alive, to Fredericksburg headquarters. Get this man back to his father.”

“His father?”

“Lieutenant General James Longstreet—” The sergeant clearly meant to say more, but Death leapt down into the bushes and claimed him before he could. The crack of the shot prompted Clint to hustle away with Garland, who struggled, calling out to stay with his dead and dying men.