had turned out to be hell with the hinges off. The young blueblood had never before known hunger or pain or terror such he had experienced. The irony of it all was that he was captured carrying a dispatch in an area that was supposed to be controlled by the Confederates.
Rand flexed his shoulders again, trying to find a comfortable position in the saddle. Lieutenant Colonel Dimon led the patrol across the gray-green buffalo grass toward a small creek where stunted willows grew. Rand had lost track of where they were; somewhere near the Knife River, maybe. At least they would get a minuteâs rest while they watered the horses.
âHey, Rand, you suppose thereâs any Injuns out here? We ainât seen any, and weâre ridden clean through that area where we might have seen Hunkpapas and Sans Arcs.â
âMaybe weâll be lucky and not see any. Dimonâs a glory hunter, but medals donât mean much to me.â
The other man shuddered. âAfter what them Eastern Sioux did to them settlers in Minnesota, Iâve had some nightmares about beinâ taken alive.â
Taken alive. Rand didnât want to think about it. Three years ago, after years of starvation and mistreatment, the Santee Sioux had revolted. When it was over, eight hundred white people lay dead. In the largest mass execution in American history, the government had hanged thirty-eight Sioux warriors.
Rand frowned. âThe Yankees forgot to tell us about that possibility when they were looking for volunteers.â
âDo you suppose the war is over yet so we can go home?â The last we heard, it looked like Lee was nigh surrounded.â
âWho knows?â Rand shrugged. âIf Dimon knew, he wouldnât tell us; afraid weâd all desert and leave.â
âWhy didnât your rich folks bribe someone and get you out of Point Lookout?â
Rand made a noncommittal grunt. In truth, heâd sent a couple of messages and hadnât gotten any answers. Maybe his mail wasnât getting through. Now that he was stuck in the Dakotas, mail was almost impossible to send and receive anyway. Maybe that was why heâd heard so little from Lenore.
âRich boy, what you gonna do when the warâs over?â
Rand didnât bother to answer the ignorant lout. What was he going to do? As expected, heâd go back to Kentucky, marry the Carstairs heiress and return to the aimless, idle life that being one of the local gentry afforded him. Somehow now that he thought about it, that life didnât seem as appealing as it once had. As much as he hated to admit it, the freedom of this trackless wilderness and wild, windswept prairie was beginning to grow on him. He was even beginning to feel a little empathy for the Indians, who, like the Southerners, were fighting against invaders and a changing way of life.
They rode toward the thicket along the creek. Rand thought how a fine cheroot and a tumbler of good Kentucky bourbon would taste about now on the spacious flagstone veranda of his family plantation. Beautiful, dark-haired Lenore Carstairs might be there to visit.
Maybe it was that sixth sense that some men seem to have that sent a sudden warning prickle up Randâs neck as they rode into the willows. Whatever it was, he cried out a sudden alarm and reined in his rearing bay mount, even as the brush ahead of them seemed to explode with gunshots. Startled horses neighed and reared as men around him toppled from their saddles.
Young Colonel Dimon shouted orders, but no one seemed to hear him over the thunder of guns. Horses screamed and kicked while riders fought to control the terrified mounts. The men appeared ready to panic and retreat in disorder. Without even thinking about it, Rand found himself coolly shouting orders. He might be considered an arrogant and privileged dandy, Rand thought grimly as he directed the men around him to dismount, seek cover, but he was no coward.
âGet