Charles didn't know how to extricate himself peacefully. More memories came back, including Venable's cadet nickname. It was Handsome, usually spoken sarcastically. No one liked the little bastard. He was too correct, a fanatic perfectionist.
"You had to lie to get in the cavalry again," Venable said. "West Point graduates are excluded from the amnesty."
"Colonel, I have to earn a living. Soldiering's all I know. I'd be in your debt if you could overlook —"
"Overlook treason? Let me tell you something. It was men from your side — John Hunt Morgan's men — who overran my mother's farm while I was serving on General Sherman's staff. Those men ran off our stock, burned the house and outbuildings, cut my mother down with sabers, and committed —" he reddened and lowered his voice — "sexual atrocities on my twelve-year-old sister, God knows how many times. Then they killed her with three minié balls."
"Colonel, I'm sorry, but I'm not responsible for every Confederate partisan, any more than you're responsible for all of Sherman's bummers. I am truly sorry about your family, but —"
Venable slammed Charles's shoulder with the palm of his hand. "Stop saying sorry like some damn parrot. Sorry doesn't begin to pay the bill."
Charles wiped whiskey from his cheek. The tent was very still. "Don't push me again."
Venable quickly surveyed the crowd, saw Hazen and his friends ready to help. He flexed his fingers at his sides, closing them in a fist. "I'll push you whenever I please, you fucking traitor." He gut-punched Charles.
Charles wasn't expecting the blow. It doubled him. He grabbed his middle, choking. Venable pounded his jaw, spinning him sideways. Hazen and the other two noncoms jumped forward to seize Charles as he flailed, off balance.
Venable signaled toward the tent entrance. The noncoms dragged Charles the length of the bar and threw him outside. Still off balance, he landed in the mud.
Venable by then had removed his dress sword. He unfastened his brightly polished buttons and stripped off his dress coat. To the crowd he said, "Before that lying reb gets a bad-character discharge, he's going to get a little something from me. Come help out if you want."
Most of the soldiers and civilians grinned and clapped, although the burly man in the beaded coat said, " 'Pears to me those odds are kind of unfair, Colonel."
Venable turned on him. "If you don't want to join in, keep quiet. Else you'll get what he gets."
The burly man stared and restrained his growling dog as Venable strode out.
In the light rain, Charles struggled to rise from the mud. Hazen darted past Venable, yanked Charles's head up by the hair, and smashed his nose with his other hand. Blood spurted. Charles flopped on his back. Hazen stamped on his belly.
"I want him," Venable said, pushing the corporal away. He gazed down at Charles, who was clutching his middle and trying to sit up. Venable's mouth wrenched as he drew his right boot back. He kicked Charles in the ribs.
Charles cried out and fell on his side. Venable kicked him in the small of the back. Flushed, he said, "A couple of you get him up."
Hazen and a companion grabbed Charles under his arms and pulled. Charles's head rang. His ribs ached. Usually he could take care of himself, but, taken by surprise, he'd lost the advantage.
On his feet, he wrenched away from the noncoms hanging on him. He was slimy with mud. It glistened in the lamplight and dripped from his hair and mingled with the blood running from his nose. He swayed in the circle of rain-slicked faces, most of them laughing; few took this with the unsmiling ferocity Venable displayed. Charles knew his second chance in the Army was lost. All he could do now was extract some punishment. Like a bull, he lowered his head.
He charged Venable, who leaped back. Charles pivoted and caught the startled Hazen, as he'd planned. Teeth clenched, he pulled Hazen's head down with both hands while raising his knee. Hazen's jawbone cracked like a firecracker going off.
The corporal reeled away, shrieking. One of the other noncoms flung himself at Charles from behind, battering Charles's neck with the side of his hand. Charles staggered. Venable punched his head twice, kicked his groin. Charles flew backward into the crowd. They pushed him forward again, laughing, jeering.
"What happened to that ol' fighting spirit, reb?"
"Got no more rebel yells left, reb?"
"Pass him around the circle, boys. We'll get a yell out of him."
So they began, one man holding him while the man on the right punched him. Then the holder passed him to the next man and became the one who punched. When Charles sagged, they pulled him back up. They were about to pass him to a fourth man when someone said, "Leave him be."
Venable started to swear. Something hard and cool slipped across his throat and, from nowhere, a hand shot under his left arm and up to his neck. He was caught between a callused palm pushing on the back of his neck and a hand holding the cutting edge of a huge Bowie against his throat.
It was the man in the beaded coat. He smelled of wet buckskin and horses. A civilian snarled, "Another goddamn Southron."
"No. And I don't even know this fella. But you wouldn't treat a four-legged cur that bad. Drop him."
The men holding Charles watched Venable. With the knife at his throat, he blinked rapidly and whispered, "Do it." The men released Charles. He toppled facedown, sending up splatters of mud. With a contemptuous shove, the bearded man let go of Venable, who started to swear again. The bearded man stopped him by laying the point of the Bowie against the tip of Venable's nose.
"Anytime, little man. Just anytime, one to one, 'thout a platoon to help you."
Venable shook his finger at Charles, sprawled in the mud. "That son of a bitch is through in the U.S. Army. Done!"
The bearded man twisted the knife. A little ruby of blood appeared on Venable's nose. "Light outa here, you slime. I mean right now."
Venable blinked and blinked and somehow managed a sneery smile. He turned and limped into the Egyptian Palace. "Follow me, lads. I'm buying this round."
They gave him three cheers and a tiger, carried Hazen inside, and didn't look back.
The rain fell harder. The man in the beaded coat sheathed his knife and watched Charles struggle to rise, fail, and flop back in the mud face first.
The man, who looked to be fifty or so, walked toward the lee of the tent. The dog, trotting after him, was good-sized, gray with white and black markings. A circle of black ringed its left eye, a piratical touch. It shook itself twice, showering water. Then it whined. Its owner merely said, "Shut up, Fen."
Standing in the shadows by the tent was a large, fat boy of fifteen, pale and beardless. He wore an old wool coat and jeans pants, heavily mended. His limpid dark eyes had a slight slant, and above his eyebrows and ears his head was much larger, round and almost flat on top, resembling a section of fence post.
The youngster looked frightened. The man laid a hand on his shoulder. "You're all right, Boy. The fightin's over. There won't be no more. You don't need to be scairt."
The boy reached out with both hands and clasped the right hand of the older man, a pathetic look of gratitude on his face. The man reached over with his left hand and patted the boy's, reassuringly. "I'm sorry I gave in to my thirst and made you wait out here. But you can stop bein' scairt."
The boy watched him, eager to understand. In the lane, Charles groaned and jammed his fists in the mud. He raised his head and chest two feet off the ground and wearily looked toward the speaker. The man in the pony-bead coat knew the soldier didn't see him.
"Determined cuss," he said. "Plenty of sand. And he sure can't go back in the Army now. Maybe we found our man. If we didn't, we can at least do the Christian thing and shelter him in our tipi."