"What you gonna do Cap'n?"

Morgan considered the question silently. What would he do? The two had pulled back far into the trees, the blaze of Confederate firelight a twinkle in the distance. Making a dry, fireless camp they settled down to rest and sleep. Hel was on first watch, but neither man would sleep much this night. Anger was burning hot and thick in his heart, but he was a cold realist, and knew their chances of survival were minimal at best. But even as he thought of that, Hel knew he'd never cut and run. O'Brien, De Costa, and the others, they deserved more than that. When he looked over at Private Cotton the swarthy man knew what his Captain would say.

"We're going to hunt them Cotton, and they're going to pay."

He glanced up at the sliver of pale yellow moon, missing the wide-open spaces of the vast plains, the clear star-filled skies of the untamed west. When this war was ended he'd go back, and never come closer east than Texas again.

"Get some sleep while you can Cotton. I want you sharp in the morning, first light." The order was soft but flat and Elijah Cotton dared not argue.

"Yessir."

Hel was awake long after he heard Elijah fall into a restless, fitful sleep. He was remembering Magdalena De Costa, Manuel's beautiful, vivacious, openly affectionate sister. He'd have to tell her, he'd have to go back in person and tell her about her brother. It filled him with bitterness to think of the tears in her eyes, and her soft shudder of breath because he knew she'd be brave and try not to cry in front of him. Oh yes, those Reb's would pay dearly for the slaughter!

He opened blurry eyes in the morning, tired but ready to move. Private Cotton was up and stretching, his dark eyes surveying the area. He glanced over when Morgan got up, working the kinks from his body.

"I think they done pulled out Cap'n," Cotton pointed into the distance. "Bit of dust in the air yonder."

Morgan followed the line of the man's finger, his eyes seeing the haze in the distance. He frowned, irritated.

"Let's go see Private. We'll bury the bodies."

The walk back was cautious, slow, neither soldier trusting the enemy to have vanished so soon. All was silent when they reached the small bench, the stand of trees, the now charred area where the fire had burned bright. Hel's lips tightened into a hard, grim line. Piled up like garbage were the bodies of his men, tossed aside like refuse waiting to be disposed of. Their weapons and boots were gone, the horses taken as well. Even as he swore with venomous anger something inside him leapt, hope flaring up. There were only five bodies here, and his sharp eyes soon realized Turner and O'Brien were missing.

"Cotton," he started, but the Private was already ahead of him.

"There's a blood trail here Cap'n, leadin' off thata way." He pointed.

"Nothing we can do for these poor boys now. They'll wait a bit." He resettled his Henry over his shoulder, easing the strap. "Let's make a sweep for survivors."

Moving slowly the two followed the blood trail. It was plain at first, then only a spot or two here and there, then two hundred feet from where it started, it vanished. Puzzled Morgan paused, his eyes searching the ground. A wounded man could not up and disappear like that, so where was he? Hel looked around, sending Cotton out in a wide loop, circling the area, trying to pick up the trail. A droplet of sweat formed on his brow and ran down his temple and Morgan brushed it away. Just then he caught a flicker of movement and dropped into a crouch, rifle ready. It had been a shadow, a wave of displaced light among the trees, and his green eyes swept the vegetation, searching. A rustle of branches made him look up and his jaw dropped.

Braced among the high branches of a tree hung Turner and held in place by a leather belt and a short length of rope was O'Brien. Swiftly Morgan called to Cotton and shimmied up the tree, reaching the heavier Irish man just as the worn leather gave way with a snap. Hel caught the Sergeant Major by the scruff of his neck, the cotton of his clothing ripping.

"Let 'im go Cap'n, I got 'im!" Cotton was on the ground looking up, his arms spread and ready.

Hel let go, watching the slim form of the black man vanishing beneath the deceptively muscled bulk of the Irish soldier, hearing a muffled oath as Cotton struggled to get free. Chuckling, Hel reached for Turner. The man was grey, sweating, more than half-dead. His eyes were glazed, settling on Hel with a look close to disbelief.

"We was outgunned Cap," his voice was hoarse, ragged.

"Easy old son," getting a hold on the lanky Tennessee man, he wrapped a powerful arm around his chest. "Let's get you to ground and patched up, easy now,"

Cotton was already working over O'Brien, and Hel went to work on Turner. It was incredible that the two had escaped the slaughter, but they had not gone unscathed. Mic O'Brien was hit twice, both body shots, and he'd lost a lot of blood. Sampson Turner had been winged, a through and through in his right shoulder, his face coated with dried blood from a bullet path against his scalp. One inch to the left and the soldier would have no need of doctoring. Hel marveled at the man's tenacity, his ability to drag a wounded companion away and get them up a tree without being discovered.

Morgan made several trips back and forth to the water, a small, shallow winding stream, forming a bowl of sorts from a soft bit of tree bark. They bathed the wounds, packed them and ripped bandages from their own uniforms to wrap them. A thought was forming in his mind, a taste for revenge, a desire to strike back. The day had nearly waned, and Cotton sat between the two wounded, alternately giving them sips of water. He looked at his Captain and both men knew the truth. Without food and medicine, neither man would live more than a day or two. Morgan stood suddenly.

"I'm going to bury the others, stay here and stay sharp."

He turned on his heel and stalked away, needing to be active, to keep his body busy so his thoughts would not drive him mad.

It took him until after sundown to finish his grisly task, having to shovel the ground with his bare hands and a sturdy thick oak branch he'd found. He dug the holes deep and wide, his muscles aching, his back screaming, sweat pouring from his body, but Hel didn't pause. One by one he lifted each man and gently put him in his place, side by side, those fallen from the first strike, and those from the slaughter. With determination, he scooped the dirt back in place.

It would not be enough to deter hungry scavengers drawn by the smell of decaying flesh, but Hel couldn't think about that. He'd done what he could, all he could, and that would have to be enough. The rest of his paid respects would have to be the destruction of the men responsible. Of the fourteen buried in the ground, only nine had died instantly, the others had been wounded, but later killed as they lay helpless and bleeding on the ground.

Morgan staggered to the stream and dropped to his knees scooping water into his mouth, slaking his raging thirst. He suddenly realized he was starving, not having eaten for more than twenty-four hours. Stripping to the waist Hel bathed his body and washed out his hair. Picking up his shirt he walked slowly back to his men, Cotton on watch and challenging him quietly as he came close. He answered, filled with resolve upon seeing the faithful Private guarding the wounded.

"What's it look like Cotton?" he asked.

The man's eyes were sober and grave.

"Ain't good Cap'n. They won't last like this."

"Okay, we move out in the morning."

His words were greeted with surprise.

"Where to Cap'n? Tain't nothin' nowhere's near here." Elijah Cotton was no coward, nor was he resigned to death, but he had accepted the reality he would likely not live through this.

"If I recall correctly, the stream eventually widens out as it heads west. There should be good fishing, plenty of water, and we'd be able to rig a shelter of some kind. Closer to the water, closer to finding help, and those boys need help." He looked at Cotton, something ugly and cold shining in his eyes. "Besides, the Reb's headed west, and they have my horse."

They alternated taking watch, Cotton on the first shift, and Morgan stretched out in the grass and fell into an exhausted sleep. He dreamed of Magdalena, her warm brown eyes soft and deep, the curve of her lips when she smiled at him, the musical sound of her laugh. When Cotton shook him awake in the dark hours of the night he sat up, feeling the warmth of Señoríta De Costa's lips on his. She was not his girl, nor had they ever spoken of such things but he knew she liked him and flirted shamelessly with him at every opportunity. He'd allowed her to attempt to seduce him, but never had fully permitted her to succeed. Magdalena knew as well as he that Morgan had no interest in settling down. He dreaded having to tell her of Manuel.

Hel got to his feet and stretched, rubbing the haze of sleep from his eyes. Before Cotton went to sleep Morgan headed to the stream and brought back more water for the men and some for himself and Elijah. Only then did Cotton fall asleep and Morgan was left alone in the night, his eyes surveying the area around his small, broken group of men. They were on their own, for the unit was not anticipated back for another week. By that time arrived, Hel and his men would either be dead or meeting up with the rest of the company closer to the fort.