The summer of 'sixty-eight was hot in Denver, hotter than the recruits had imagined when setting out from Jefferson Barracks, Missouri, a week before. Some had disappeared already - probably absconded themselves in some small desert station, deciding that scorpions and Indians were better than the stifling special transport, more like a cattle car, they had been travelling in from St. Louis. Two had fallen ill and had had to remain behind. Since the railroad stopped in the middle of nowhere, the squad had been given rented horses, and there had been a further selection: three of them hadn't been able to stay still on any kind of horses or the horses to stay still under them, raising legitimate doubts about what the hell they had been asked to do at Jefferson Barracks, if not to mount a horse. They were hastily sent back with a note to employ them in some more welcoming branch.
    Of the twenty-five remaining, it was requested that they would learn to sit on a horse as if it were an extension of their body, no matter the weather, sore bottom, smell, enemy fire. They were entering the US Cavalry.
    Duane Winters had no problem with horses. Though being somewhat of a city mouse, he was familiar with them; his father had put him on a horse at a very early age, hoping to get rid of him by sending him West to try his fortune. He hadn't imagined his youngest son would decide to try his fortune in the Army, but then again there were many things he didn't imagine about his youngest son.
    Duane snorted the thought away. He was doing his best not to feel homesick. He suspected he would have felt homesick even if his home had been a gallows house. Three months before, it had been the first and last time he had left his family, and this was the last leg of the journey, and nothing would ever be the same. Which probably was just as well - but right then, it hurt.
    "Wish they had left us the horses," panted Eddie Markham, walking at his side with his sack on his shoulders. "Damn bureaucracy."
    "Come on, Eddie!" Winters answered cheerfully. "A few yards on foot won't kill us."
    They had left their rented mounts at the depot, to be sent back, and were walking through the town to reach Headquarters. Sprawling in the treeless high plain, ringed in the distance by the jagged Rocky Mountains, Denver was more than just a frontier outpost. The fast growth it had enjoyed in its ten years of life as a mining settlement had slightly subsided, but it remained a large city of brick and stone. The troopers saw the busy building yard for the railroad that - it was hoped - would reach it in another couple of years, walked beside the Colorado Seminary, the churches, theatres and banks, and stared open-mouthed at the lone steamboat along the South Platte. People and carriages bustled about, colourful and noisy, with that rough edge long since smoothed in Eastern cities. Winters was taking in all of it with wide-open eyes.
    Despite fatigue, Eddie kept on a steady commentary about what he thought a few yards was, and damn the weather, and so much for the Cavalry if they made them go on foot. He had met Winters at Jefferson Barracks, and the two had formed a tentative friendship during the first stages of their training. Eddie liked Duane's straightforwardness and felt protective towards him, even though he was just two years his senior; while Duane was fascinated by all the things Eddie knew. Eddie's people had money, they had given him a good education until he was of age, and then had chosen for him the Army as the destiny of a second son - something else to bring him closer to Duane, although the latter had five brothers before him. It was all right for Eddie, just another way of earning a living, while the younger soldier was in utter awe at parents sending their son into the Army. His had been crying and wringing their hands all the time.
    The doors of Headquarters opened wide, letting them into the vast courtyard. They were accompanied by an impatient corporal who formed them into a line and gave them a quick once-over, making them spit their tobacco and straighten their hats. Then he left them waiting under the afternoon sun.
    "God, I think I'm about to collapse," Eddie said under his breath. "What is this, some endurance test? I wish they'd just give us the damn horse and be done with it."
    Winters was tired too. "Guess the horse'll be the last thing they'll give us," he said. "Come on, I saw a coupla nice places along the way. Soon's we get some time off, we'll check 'em out."
    "I'd rather check out my bunk now," Eddie complained.
    It felt like ages, but it must have been just five minutes before three NCOs came towards them. One was a sergeant major, close to retirement age, with a stern stony face which seemed to have acquired something of the people he had been fighting all his life. With him was a corporal who could have been at home in the belfry of some cathedral. No wonder, then, that the third member of the party, another sergeant, with the fair open face and strong build of a healthy country boy, stood out as the only human presence of the three. Winters was vastly relieved when it was this man who stepped forward to address them. The sergeant major just wanted to have a look at the new recruits; the corporal remained in the wings.
    "I’m Sergeant Terence McKay," the young NCO introduced himself, hands on his hips. "Welcome to Denver Command." His manners were as rough as his looks, but conveyed simplicity and frankness. He had the whole squad in the palm of his hand at once: he was one of them, and yet blessed with that natural and unpretentious superiority that marks very few soldiers and singles them out for command.
    I’ll be like that, one day, thought Winters.
    "You're here to finish your training as soldiers of the US Cavalry," Sgt McKay stated. "You'll be posted here, ready to be sent onward to the farthest outposts. You're on the frontier here. It'll be a hard and merciless life. You'll be asked to take part in the defence against Indians. If some of you have heard something about it, well, it's worse. I'm quite ready to provide you with the details. They say there's peace in the North now, but I don't believe it. You're allowed second thoughts - but only until your training's over." He crossed his arms and started walking along the line, looking at their faces enquiringly. "After that, you'll be asked to give your all, which could mean your life, and get thirteen dollars a month in return - or be punished, which could mean your life too."
    To Duane it made sense - he wasn't usually given to second thoughts about anything, and McKay's picture fit with what he knew of the Army. Yet he could not help but think he hoped to get more than that out of the Army. Thirteen dollars a month - and his pride. A fair deal.
    McKay turned at the end of the line and made another passage, this time looking more closely at the men. He asked one how he had gotten a certain scar, he warned another that his boots were in poor shape, and a soldier must always take care of his footgear, as of his horse's. Whether they were awed or scared or just plain tired, they couldn't do much more than grunt some answers, but apparently he understood what they were saying and was satisfied. Then he came to stand before Winters.
    "How old are you?" he asked bluntly.
    "Twenty, sir."
    McKay lifted an eyebrow. "Honest?"
    The private reddened, then squared his shoulders. "I didn’t enlist in the US Cavalry to tell lies, sir."
    There was some snickering in the ranks. McKay’s eyes raked over them, and quiet returned. Then he looked at the young man with a touch of increased regard.
    "What’s your name, kid?"
    "Duane Winters, sir. D-U-A-N-E."
    "Oh my God. Are you Irish?"
    "No, sir, I’m from Baltimore."
    "Gotta warn you, Private Winters, you may get some surprises here. Not everybody shares your ideals of truthfulness, quite the contrary."
    Winters lowered his eyes, then looked up again. "No matter, sir. My answer stands."
    "So why did you enlist in the Cavalry?" McKay asked seriously.
    The private blinked, too earnest, excited and worn-out to recognise a joke at once. "To be useful, sir."
    By his side, Eddie snorted softly, and Duane felt his blush deepen. Eddie never had any qualms about showing him the harsh truth. Which in this case meant how pitiful he sounded.
    But Sgt. McKay didn’t seem to think the same. He shot a calm, questioning look at Eddie, and Duane felt him stand at stiffer attention by his side. Then McKay looked back at Duane, with the faint trace of a smile. "Good, Winters. I dare say we’ll find somethin’ useful for you to do." Then he moved on to survey the rest of the line.
    Winters felt his heart bursting with happiness. McKay had actually taken his side against Eddie! A torturous knot of doubt deep within him was beginning to unravel and melt away. Could it be that this was actually the right decision? Could it be that he had finally found a place where he fitted in? He had to bite the inside of his cheek to restrain himself from sticking out his tongue at Eddie.
    
    At dusk, Sergeant Major Hopkins was at his desk at headquarters, reviewing the sentries' shift. McKay came in, dusty and sweaty after the first hours of training out in the courtyard. He handed a sheet to his superior. "Preliminary evaluation of the new squad, sir."
    "You gave 'em a good grindin' today," said Hopkins, nodding at a chair.
    "They gave a good grindin' to me," McKay answered, sitting down. "Tough batch. Promisin' - but a lotta things'll havta be smoothed out."
    "Reckon we'll lose some more."
    "Better to lose 'em durin' trainin' than on the field."
    Hopkins gave a look at the paper. "That recruit you talked to this mornin’," he added, "the Baltimore kid, he got some wit," he said.
    "Indeed," said McKay with a smile, recalling similar occurrences in his youth, when he had been at the receiving end of the chain of command.
    "He could turn out well. Something I haven’t noticed in many others of this batch."
    McKay nodded. He also had noticed that.
    "Keep an eye on him," Hopkins concluded.
    McKay cast him a dour look. "Preferential treatments seldom work, sir. The men don’t like it. It’s self-defeatin', ultimately. If the kid’s really good, he’ll show it on his own."
    The hard-faced sergeant looked paternally at his young subordinate. "Encouragement is never self-defeatin', McKay. Ain't askin’ you to favour him against the others. Just follow him, check on his progress. That ain't too hard to do, is it?"
    "No, sir."
    Sgt. Hopkins nodded and went back to his paperwork.
    
     Did I ever look that young? McKay wondered as he returned to the NCO's quarters. The answer, he thought amusingly, was a dismaying yes, and more, if he remembered the first advice his commander, then Lieutenant Marlowe, had ever given him - "cut your hair an' grow somethin' on your face". He couldn't recall if someone had ever asked him why he had enlisted, and he wondered if his answer would have been much different from Winters'.
    He stripped to his trousers, took a bucket of water and a chunk of soap to the back of the barracks and started to get summarily clean, still immersed in the youthful recollections triggered by his meeting with the young private. His strict Presbyterian father had raised him with the knowledge that this world is full of evil and that a righteous man's duty is to uphold justice with any means. Moreover, he had been born a fighter, literally - he had held on with his still-non-existing teeth through a long and difficult delivery which had almost killed his mother but hadn't made him a sickly child, quite the contrary. In school he had always been one of the strongest boys, and bullies feared him, unaware of his fundamentally temperate nature. He had found himself involved in brawls, and it had felt damn good to be able to solve situations by coming out on top. This was the factor his father hadn't taken into consideration, when he had envisioned young Terence contributing to humanity's cause as a lawyer, or a teacher, or maybe a doctor like Uncle Michael. At eighteen, bursting with energy, the boy had decided to put into practice the teachings of his father in the way that fitted him best.
    He had come to distinguish theory from truth quite soon. The war had reinforced his view that men are wolves to each other, and the best a soldier can do is to keep them from each other's throat, with brute force, if necessary. He had learned the concept of necessary evil, which had cleared any possible idealism from his heart. And yet he had always felt at home in the Army - somehow he needed the order, the comforting shelter of law, and he was convinced the world would fall into the dark ages again without him and his fellow soldiers - as distasteful as this was most of the time.
    How much of this did that kid imagine? He seemed still brimming with ideals and hopes. McKay liked him for that. It would have been good to see how he turned out, to give him a hand, maybe spare him some painful mistake with the help of experience. Wasn't that exactly what Sgt. Hopkins had suggested to him?
    McKay sighed. He finished his wash-down and started getting dry, and suddenly he felt a deep-seated fear come back to the surface with a cold shiver. He went back into the barracks and hung his towel over his bunk. He sat down, taking a clean shirt from his trunk, and stared into nothing, trying to push the thought away. The first rule of survival - Don't get too fond of anybody. Don't come to depend on anybody. And most important, don't let anybody come to depend on you...
    
    After dinner, the recruits were herded towards their new home, the South barracks. Part of it was already occupied by the more experienced soldiers, who greeted the newcomers boisterously. Luckily for the exhausted recruits, the others were back from a punishing training too, so everybody called an early night - not without scheduling a visit to the local casino as soon as possible - and they reached their tightly packed rows of bunks.
    "I made a good impression, today," Winters said, climbing onto the creaky upper bunk while the lamps were being turned down.
    "Of course, D-U-A-N-E," Eddie answered ironically. "You made the impression of a sixteen-year-old liar."
    "That ain’t true! Sgt. McKay was interested in what I had to say."
    "Big deal."
    Duane looked down from his bunk, eyes hard. "Yes, big deal, Eddie. Spare me your cynicism. Nobody ever did that at Jefferson Barracks. We were just told to put on our uniforms an' do things - but he’s the first who actually cares 'bout who we are."
    Hands behind his head, Eddie looked at him with affection. "You know, Duane, I believe he’s the first to ask you something before asking some brother of yours."
    "That means nothin’."
    "Oh, it does. But don’t be blinded by this. He’s just like all the rest."
    "That ain’t true. He cares about us. We’re lucky he 's our instructor."
    Eddie shrugged. "They’re all one and the same to me." He thought about it some more. "And tell you what, I’m glad he didn’t ask me why I enlisted... I wouldn’t have known what to say."
    Winters was silent for a while. "Maybe I wouldn’t either, had he asked me in Jefferson Barracks. But you’re right... he’s the first to ask my opinion... an’ this uniform, these are the first clothes I own that haven’t been passed on to me by someone else."
    "Just because you’re your usual lucky bastard. Mine is Civil War leftovers."
    Sometimes Eddie’s sarcasm really got on his nerves. "I’m on my own here, Eddie," Duane snapped. "I wanna prove I'm good at somethin'. An’ I’d rather prove it to Sgt. McKay than to any of those old sticks in Jefferson Barracks."
    "You don’t need to prove it to somebody else, Duane," said Eddie sleepily. "You have to prove it to yourself, if ever."
    Winters shrugged. "Good night, Eddie," he said, and rolled up in his scratchy blanket. In a moment, he was asleep, despite the heat, the stale smell and the coughing of the other men.
    

    They had found an attractive resort not far from Holladay Street, where most of the brothels were located. The place looked like a spiced-up casino, with tables to play cards and roulette, a billiard at the back and a piano playing softly. One could also drink and eat; some cowboys were wolfing down their steaks in a corner. There were people of all kinds, from soldiers to gold diggers to wealthy adventurers and prostitutes, German and Irish immigrants in search of a job and some Arapaho or half-blood traders who had kept up their dealings with Whites despite the recent bloody memory of Sand Creek.
    Winters quickly lost Eddie in a crowd of riotous soldiers around the poker table. He skirted the loudest groups, while with uncanny precision he spotted and classified all the women in the room, storing the information for future use. He bought himself a sarsaparilla at the bar, then wandered towards the piano.
    The player was good, an old man with red hair who seemed to relish his polka even though few were listening to it. Noting the interest of the young soldier, he looked up and smiled, without missing a beat. "Hello, Private. Are you a musical soul?"
    "Not really," Winters answered. His mother was in love with classical music, and sadly hadn't found anybody to pass that love to, being devoid of daughters. He had cherished listening to her play the piano, however. "I can't carry a tune. But you're good."
    "Thanks. Want to hear something?"
    In search of inspiration, Duane scanned the smoky crowd, and found it. One of the local girls, one that had ranked quite high on his list, apparently interested in baccarat, was looking straight at him. He lowered his eyes instinctively, then raised them and smiled.
    "You know 'Red is the Rose'?" he asked to the pianist.
    "Sure. But you'll have to help me with the lyrics."
    "The music'll be enough."
    The man started the ballad. Actually, he knew it well. Come over the hills, my bonny Irish lass, come over the hills to your darling... Winters downed his sarsaparilla as though it had been fiery alcohol, and locked eyes with the girl. She was young and pretty, rather conservatively dressed for the place, and looked bored. He wanted to put a smile on her face. He knew he had captured her attention; he had no use for false modesty.
    To his dismay, he found out he wasn't the only estimator of romantic ballads. Other troopers gathered around the piano and joined in the song. The look on Duane's face must have been eloquent, because the girl smiled.
    He would have wanted to remain aloof, but the mix of beauty and music won him over. He joined in the last refrain. He had difficulties with the melodious tune, but his voice was good. Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows, and fair is the lily of the valley... darn high notes... clear is the water that flows from the Boyne, but my love is fairer than any!
    The end of the ballad was greeted by clapping and whistling. Someone he didn't know slapped him on the back. He smiled vaguely, thanked the player and put a few cents' tip on a small saucer, all that he could part with. Then he expectantly looked in the crowd once again, and the girl had disappeared.
    Had Winters been a dog, his ears would have brushed the floor. But he wasn't one to be dumped so easily. He plunged in the crowd, ignored some comment thrown at him by Eddie who had found a seat at the poker table, and looked around. No girl.
    Suddenly, all the other ladies weren't interesting enough. He had to solve the mystery. He wandered towards the back, where the stairs were, and sure enough there was the girl, coming out of the kitchen with a plate of vegetables. He noticed the white apron that went with her white mobcap. She was a waitress! She wasn't just another saloon girl. But was she respectable? That was no obstacle to Winters, one way or the other. If she needed a hand to get out of that place, he was there for her. In a vertiginous acceleration forward, he already saw the two of them married with two children and one on the way. He followed her until she had put down the vegetables in front of an ascetic cowhand, then arranged to find himself in her way.
    "Hi," he said, and was pleased to see the light of recognition in her eyes. "You liked the song?"
    "Yes," she said shyly.
    "Chose it just for you," he added, and thought, groan. Then he pulled himself together. "Take a break. Come outside with me."
    She followed him demurely on the porch. There she stood with clasped hands, looking around. Winters was puzzled. He was sure she liked him. If she didn't appreciate his attentions, why didn't she say so? He attempted a smile. "Been workin' here for long?"
    "Two years," she said.
    "Uh-huh."
    Silence.
    "Gotta go back," she said.
    By now, Duane felt she needed some subtle encouragement. He took her hand. "Not yet, please," he whispered. She didn't pull back. He looked down at her: she was as beautiful as life itself. He smiled and bent his head to kiss her.
    Someone grabbed him and drew him back. Winters whirled about and found himself face-to-face with one of the biggest cowboys.
    "Leave my girl alone, soldier."
    Winters stared. "Your girl? Why, she got a flag planted on her?"
    "Don't need one. Get out of the way."
    "Wa-wait, hey, I don't understand," the private interjected. He turned to the girl. "You like me better! Tell him!"
    "I don't know..." she said.
    "Good enough, I'll explain to you," the cowboy said, and grabbed the girl's arm.
    "Hey, you let her go!" Winters cried, grabbing him. The cowboy turned and tried to pull a punch on him. Despite his boyish looks, the private was almost six feet tall, and his deceptively slim frame hid good muscles and even better reflexes, a legacy of having had to fight with five older brothers since childhood. He avoided the punch and answered with one of his own. In a moment two friends of the cowboy's had joined the fray, and also three troopers, one of whom Eddie, who was trying to pull his friend out. Before anybody could get seriously hurt, the military police showed up and bundled the brawling troopers up for a sobering night in jail.
    

    "I don't get it," Eddie said, rubbing his livid cheek. "You got to fight, at least fight for something worthy. You chose the most mousy, dumb, boring girl..."
    "Don't you dare, Eddie," Duane warned him from the bench in front. The night in prison and some sleep had barely dimmed his quite becoming but undoubtedly painful blue eye.
    "You just can't get a real woman, can you? You're afraid you wouldn't be up to it."
    "All right, insult me if you want, but leave her out of this."
    "Gladly. You're a fool. You're a walking trouble bag. You..."
    "Look who’s here, Private Winters, ain’t it?"
    They raised their heads. A soldier was standing just outside, his head outlined in the barred square of the door. There was a screeching of locks, and the door opened. Sgt. McKay looked in. "Get out, all of you," he said.
    They filed out, and he turned to Winters. "What happened?"
    Duane was glad of having been recognised, but mortified that McKay should have found them out so soon. "Brawl in town, sir."
    "Yeah? How come?"
    "Those cowboys started it," Eddie said. Duane shot him an angry look - he didn't need to be defended. McKay seemed to register the fact and Eddie's loyalty to the younger man, then turned back to Winters, questioningly.
    "A girl, sir," the private said. "My fault."
    McKay lifted an eyebrow, then a corner of his lips. "Happens to the best. Try not to overdo it, though."
    "No, sir."
    "Now, get back to the barracks, clean up an' get somethin' to eat. I want all of you here for the trainin' in ten minutes."
    "Yessir. Thank you, sir."
    "Get movin'."
    They sprinted towards the main body of the compound. "Whew, now I'm sure glad you're the sergeant's pet," Eddie said.
    Duane grabbed his shoulder and made him stop. "Hey, Eddie, how did I progress from a sixteen-year-old liar to the sergeant's pet??"
    "Let me go, or we won't eat." Eddie shrugged his hand away and resumed running.
    Duane looked after him, scowling. "You really don't get it, do you, Eddie?" he said softly.
    
    That evening, after a day of lying low, Winters had not the slightest appetite, despite the usually gruelling training. He trudged towards the mess with Eddie, stood in line and got his metal bowl filled with an unholy liquid and a slice of stale bread. Behind him, some soldiers were anticipating loudly the moment when they would be finally sent out to kill Injuns, get some scalps to sell and prove their manhood to 'em squaws.
    "Just like at Sand Creek," one said.
    Duane felt uneasy. He should have shared those feelings; he had been as outraged as any other soldier in knowing that the Army had made peace with Red Cloud in the North and were abandoning the forts along the Bozeman Trail. And yet the words of his comrades held such a promise of blood and pain that he was upset. He looked at Eddie for guidance, but Eddie did not even appear to have heard. Winters shook his head and walked away, his fingers getting hot, looking for an empty place in the long tables.
    "We're late as usual," Eddie complained under his breath. "Your Sgt. McKay doesn't believe we've got to eat like everybody else."
    Winters shrugged. A group of troopers waved loudly at Eddie from a table. Winters recognised some of those that had been in town the evening before. They motioned to a free chair. Eddie dived towards it, and Winters felt a bit left out. Besides, he hadn’t been terribly impressed by the rowdy soldiers. Eddie settled comfortably among them.
    "Tell your friend we can squeeze him in, if he finds a chair," said one of them.
    "Sure, Duane, come on, join the fun," called Eddie.
    Another soldier made a vulgar joke about the girl at the casino. Duane felt his ears grow hot, but he had promised himself to avoid brawls for a while - and besides, it would have been entirely inappropriate to start a scuffle at the mess. He gave the soldier a colourful suggestion, which had them laughing coarsely, then turned his back and started weaving among the troopers, careful of his bowl and cup. He saw an empty chair near the end of a table and walked to it.
    He put down his plate. "May I?"
    "Sure!" smiled the trooper in front of him. He almost didn’t wait for Winters to be seated to extend his hand. "I’m Travis. I think I saw you with the training group. You new?"
    Winters grasped the hand, noting the young man’s marked Southern accent. "Yeah. Hi, Travis. I’m Duane."
    "Ah yes, D-U-A-N-E. Heard you had fun in town last night."
    "Yep," he said, dejected, thinking he had made a total fool of himself. Very few of his comrades were able to spell their own name, so why worry? But his Ma had always insisted on it, in honour of an ancestor who maybe was Irish after all.
    Travis was probably a Southerner who had re-enlisted after the war. He started offering a funny commentary of life in Denver. Instinctively - like most of the things he did - Winters liked his easy-going manners. This one looked like the kind to stick to, better than Eddie’s new friends.
    While they were talking, they saw Sgt. McKay advancing with his plate, in search of a free chair. Travis waved at him. "Here, Sarge!" He got up and offered him his chair. "Have this, I’ll look for another one."
    "Thanks, Travis," McKay said, sitting down at the head of the table. "Hey, Winters. Feelin' better tonight?"
    Travis was back after pinching a chair somewhere. "Yeah, Duane, tell the sergeant, I bet he’s had his moments too, eh, sir?"
    McKay shot him an amused look, then started eating his soup. On closer examination, Winters noticed the sergeant was older than he looked at first sight - he could even be over thirty! It was all in his eyes and the line of his mouth. Well, he wasn't older than his eldest brother, Winters thought wistfully. As usual, he felt saddened by his ability to read himself so lucidly and so ruthlessly - if your own brothers disappoint you, look elsewhere. But providing a substitute family wasn't exactly what the Army was for, was it?
    He looked down at his soup. Since their arrival, the cooking had been steadily deteriorating. The hideous broth he was looking at, where whitish clumps sank and surfaced randomly, looked and smelled nothing like food, and Winters had to get a good grip on himself to swallow some of it. Even worse, it was hot. When the wind wasn't blowing from the mountains, Denver was stifling even during the night. Winters was relieved to see that his comrades seemed to think the same. Travis pulled at his neckerchief, McKay got rid of his cap and hung it on the back of the chair. Winters would have been entitled to do something like that, but he decided to suffer in silence.
    "Hellish weather," McKay grumbled. He too spoke with a slight Southern inflexion, Winters noted with some wonder. "Wish it'd rain."
    Travis nodded. "The summer of sixty-two was like this. Or was that sixty-four?"
    "They all were," said McKay, downing the last of the soup and cleaning the bowl with the bread. "In weather like this, Captain Marlowe used to say since both sides claimed God was with them, He was roastin' Unionists an' Rebels alike - then He'd personally decide which were his."
    Travis grinned. "Some wit, Captain Marlowe."
    "He said it was the words of some medieval inquisitor or somethin'."
    Winters lifted his head, pushed by his curiosity. "Who's Captain Marlowe?" he asked of Travis.
    The private gallantly gestured towards McKay. "Ask him - I was of the other persuasion, so to speak."
    "My commander until a few months before the end of the war," McKay explained fondly. "Damn best officer I ever knew."
    There was something wistful in his tone. "I'm sorry," said Winters, "is he dead?"
    "Dead?! Naaah." McKay took the blunder humorously. "Transferred in the North to fight the Indians. Musta been promoted to Major by now." And yet that sad note was still there. Winters abstained from other questions. Why had such a fine officer been transferred before the end of the war?
    McKay seemed to sense his wonderment. "Maybe a bit too good, Marlowe was. Always going his own way - which was not always the way his superiors had chosen."
    Duane realised he was gaping at him, burning for a story. McKay was drawn to a quick smile. "Shoulda seen him before Gettysburg. Claimed he knew what was gonna happen - we'd have gone into the mouth of Hell with him, had he given the order, but Buford, he wasn't gonna listen to a lowly captain, an' well he did, 'cause..." He stopped suddenly. "Sorry, Travis."
    "Oh, you go ahead , sir," Travis said lightly, "I’ll be here to adjust the figures."
    McKay looked thankfully at him. He pushed back his chair and settled more comfortably. "So, as I was sayin', Captain Marlowe had gotten his own idea of the situation..."
    
    Winters cleaned his crockery in a murky basin as best as he could. McKay was doing the same. He smirked, nodding at the basin. "Dammit, drinkin’ that woulda probably been better ‘n tonight’s soup."
    Encouraged by being treated as an equal, Winters spoke up. "May I ask you somethin’, sir?"
    "Sure."
    "It wasn’t really like that, was it? The war, I mean. It was worse."
    McKay didn't look up at him. "It was worse alright, kid. Did you believe otherwise?"
    "No. Fact is - I was too young to enlist. None of my brothers did, actually - too taken with their business to choose between North and South. But I’ve met people who treated me as if I had the misfortune of my life, bein’ born when I was. As though it was less than patriotic."
    They started towards the barracks. "People who weren’t there either, I guess," McKay said.
    "Most of ‘em, yes."
    "It had nothin’ to do with patriotism, Winters. Remember me to tell you what it was about, when I have a couple of days to spare. Don’t let ‘em make you feel bad. You were lucky to be out of it."
    Winters lowered his eyes. "That’s what I thought, sir. I don't even know which side I would have been on. But I felt guilty for that."
    "Don’t. It’s natural an’ sensible. An’ it’s good that it comes from you, who haven’t been there. Often it’s those who have, who wish they hadn’t."
    "You too, sir?"
    "Yes," McKay said simply. "You know, Winters... the war showed us who we really were. For better or worse. Some things we discovered were precious - an’ some are still hard to take. I’m talkin’ of the survivors, at least."
    Winters nodded.
    "It must happen to everybody - but I really hope it’ll happen to you in good time, kid. For us it happened fast an’ brutal. Like havin’ your own heart torn out an’ crushed into your face. Can’t help noticin’."
    The private flinched. The image had come unbidden to McKay too, because he blinked and looked upset.
    "I think I’ll take the slow road, thank you, sir," Winters said.
    After that, they walked in silence for some moment. At the barracks, they saluted, and the private turned towards his barracks and walked away.
    McKay shook well his plate and cup on the porch before entering. As soon as he was alone, his worries began crowding around him, sudden like an ambush, all but poisoning the tranquillity of the evening. Hell, one can't always treat everybody like an enemy. Relaxed and disposed to friendliness, he had let down his guard: it was easy talking to Winters, who wasn't in awe of him and liked a good conversation. But what if Winters started to get too needy of his esteem? Everybody knew what that could bring.
    No, much better to disillusion him at once. No matter that the kid was a notch above the others, as a soldier, and maybe as a human being. Well, too bad. But that was war, wasn't it?
    

    The word had gotten around: that afternoon they would start dismounted sabre drills. Most of the recruits were excited as they marched towards the training area in a corner of the big courtyard. Winters was smiling like a cat on the prowl.
    "Don't know why you're always so happy of being massacred," Eddie whispered from the side of his mouth.
    "Ain't always happy. I'm happy today. I don't need the sabre drill."
    "What?"
    "I got ahold of a drill manual when I was fourteen. It had been left behind by the Unionist army stationed in Baltimore. I learned all combat positions an' movements. Used to practice with a stick in the backyard of my brothers' sawmill. They never knew what I was doin'."
    "You're crazy."
    "Hey, what did I have to do with my time? I hadn't discovered the best sides of life yet. Did that quite soon, so I stopped my drillin', but at least I had learned the theory."
    "Be careful. People don’t like to be outdone. At my school we had a bad name for wonder boys."
    Duane shot him a withering look. "Good for you, Eddie, at mine we had no wonder boys, just ignorant louts like me."
    "Silence in the ranks," Sgt. McKay called from the top of the column. He made them stop in front of the straw dummies with pumpkin heads, then assemble in line. "Quite lively this mornin', are we? Alright, let's use this energy. I see you already covetin' our targets, but that'll have to come later. Before thinkin' of killin' someone with this," and he drew his own sabre, "you gotta know how to use it. An' even then, you may never be required to draw it for the rest of your life. However," and he started walking around with the sabre on his shoulder, "there may come a moment when your pistol's out of ammo an' your carbine's stuck, an' this thing could make the difference between your life an' your death. So you must be able to use it efficiently an’ without thinkin’." McKay looked at them for a moment in silence, to impress that fact into their minds.
    "Now, I guess they already taught you the basics at Jefferson Barracks - Draw Sabre, Carry Sabre, Present Sabre an' so on. First thing, never look bad in front of the officers, hm? Now I'll show you the basic combat positions. They’re numbered, so watch carefully, repeat an' memorise. I'll ask 'em by number."
    He saluted them, then started going through the motions with ease, explaining each position. Winters wasn't able to judge if McKay was good, but he thought that was surely better than his own attempts. It was the advantage of having someone to train with, instead of your own shadow. But the private was happy to discover he had gotten all the numbers and positions right and still remembered them.
    "That's the beginnin'," McKay said, concluding his demonstration. "Now, let's see how you do. Baker, Wesley an' Moore, you go first."
    The young recruits stepped forward, drew their sabres and tried to imitate McKay's moves. In turn, they all did, with mixed results. Eddie did his best, a little miffed at Duane's advantage and wishing to show him that even starting from zero one could do well. When his turn came, Winters couldn’t hide his superior expertise - first of all, most of the others hadn't memorised the numbers, and what little drilling he had done as a boy came back easily. McKay pursed his lips and nodded in approbation, then made a short gesture and dismissed him to call the next trio.
    When all had shown the extent of their grasp of the theory, McKay looked at them. "Good. Very good - for a first try." He didn't look at Winters as he said that, but the private's overanxious ears detected some irony. Was McKay irritated by the fact that he had made the others look bad?
    "Now," the sergeant said, "we'll get down to business. How to attack an opponent an' to parry such an attack. I need a volunteer to demonstrate. Anybody?"
    Winters couldn’t resist. What concern he had for his comrades faded with the awareness that he was there exactly to be good at something, as he had never been allowed to do at home. It was just the occasion he was waiting for. He stepped forward. "I'll do it, sir."
    The sergeant turned towards him - with a look that was the weirdest thing Winters had yet seen in his brief career. It wasn't annoyance: it was more like surprise and disappointment. Winters was stunned. He had hoped McKay would look with understanding on his desire to obtain a success. Instead, for a brief, unexplainable moment, McKay looked like he was searching for a reason to turn Winters down.
    "All right, you do it, Private," he said finally, reluctantly.
    Winters drew his sabre again and followed McKay’s instructions as the sergeant demonstrated the best way to combine the positions to parry an attack or disable an adversary. He suddenly felt uneasy and sorry for overstepping some limit. He thought he had the answer: of course, McKay already knew he was a good trooper, and had wanted to give the other recruits the occasion to prove themselves. Winters was afraid of having been pushy. Well, he'd do it in the best possible manner, then he'd let the others have a go at it.
    "Thank you, Private," McKay concluded at the end of the sparring drill. "Now you do it, kids. Pair up an’ show me what you learned."
    The "kids", some of whom were older than the sergeant, complied. Winters paired up with Eddie, searching for a friendly face, because he felt that most of the others would try to run him through. Eddie started exchanging blows with him, glowering.
    "Keep your arm higher for the parry," Winters suggested him in a whisper.
    "Stuff yourself."
    "Right." Chastened, he remained in silence for the rest of the exchange.
    After some time, McKay made them all stop. "Well done, a good start," he said. He looked at the sky, then produced a watch and checked it. "Trainin’ hour’s almost up. So, you’d like to have a go at our dummies?"
    Sweaty and bursting to be set free, the recruits cheered.
    "Don’t make a mess. One at a time for each dummy. Remember what I told ya, an' pretend the dummy's about to strike you."
    The recruits attacked the dummies with fury, hacking away at the pumpkin heads. "Use the moves I taught you!" McKay shouted over the din. "Don’t try to cleave heads. Smashin’ a skull’s harder ‘n you think - on foot."
    They didn’t really listen to him. Winters had remained behind. When his turn came, the dummies were all but destroyed. He sheathed his sabre and waited for McKay to dismiss the trainees. As the others walked off in little groups, hiding their fatigue with bravado and male solidarity, he felt he had to let McKay know he understood what had passed.
    He ignored Eddie’s warning look. "Can I have a word with you, sir?" he asked McKay.
    The sergeant looked at him, and this time his discomfort was evident. Winters was at a loss. McKay had always been so easy-going, so approachable, so patient with his questions about the war. Now he was just cold. Something had changed, but what?
    Winters plunged on. "I - I'm sorry, maybe you wanted someone else to demonstrate. I knew the moves already."
    "I noticed," McKay answered, with a faint amusement.
    "I didn't mean to cheat or show off. I..."
    "No problem, Private."
    The words were comforting, but McKay’s attitude felt off-key. He didn’t even try to make eye contact. He was positively cringing, and Winters couldn’t figure out why.
    "You sure? There are many things I don’t know, an’ I don’t wish to do somethin’ wrong..."
    "You do somethin’ wrong, Private, someone’ll let you know. Have a good day." And McKay started straightening up the dummies.
    "Can I give ya a hand?" Winters asked impulsively.
    The sergeant turned. "Thank you, but I can do it."
    "I know you can, sir, I just -" He dried up.
    McKay looked at him with eyes like slabs of lead. "You're dismissed, Private."
    Winters blinked. "Yes, sir," he said softly. He saluted, then turned. His face was burning. He rejoined Eddie, who was waiting for him hat in hand, pulling out his hair with the other hand.
    
    McKay lifted a pumpkin that had been bashed beyond recognition and let it fall down. He didn’t like the drill with dummies. It encouraged troopers to see the enemy as inanimate dolls, rather than human beings. And yet, wasn’t this the whole point? Didn’t it make war easier?
    He rested his arm against a stand, dejected. He had seen the hurt in the young private's eyes, and it had been painful. And yet he had no alternative. Winters had clearly wanted to make an impression on him. No harm in that, had they been training for a parade.
    McKay gave a push at the stand with his fist. They were training for war. And in war, everybody was alone.
    
    "I tried to warn you, Duane," Eddie fretted as they walked towards the barracks. "He’s just like all the rest. They don’t give a damn about us. We’re just numbers to them. I always thought that first impressions matter, second impressions decide."
    "How dull," burst out Duane, exasperated. "What the hell d’you think you know? You believe you’re this big expert of the Cavalry? You’re in it just like me!"
    "No, I don't know a thing about the Cavalry," Eddie said patiently, "but maybe I'm a little less naive than you about life in general." Duane mouthed a "yeah, sure", and Eddie went on: "For goodness' sake, if you keep this up, you'll look like a flirt."
    Winters stared ahead for a moment, then turned the full indignation of his green eyes on his comrade. "Just how cheap can you get, Eddie?"
    "I don't want you to get into trouble, that's all."
    "Look, Eddie, I don't want it either. I wanted to do somethin' I'm good at, just for once. Instead I musta made some mistake." He counted on his fingers. "Firstly, I made the others look bad. Second, it's probably improper to address a superior while he's on duty. Yes, that must be it! Last night McKay had no problem with talkin' to me an' another private. Travis! He knows McKay. I'll ask him."
    "Wait... Where are you going? Ask what?!"
    "What's wrong with McKay. I'm curious."
    "Duane, drop it. Leave McKay alone."
    "Not before I understand." He left a bewildered Eddie in front of the recruits' barracks and sped away to find Travis.
    
    Travis used to hang out with some of the old hands around the sutler's shack. He wasn't on sight, but a couple of troopers were irked by Winters' appearance in their territory. One played dangerously with his Bowie knife while boasting of being there to avoid hanging. Duane stared him down like he would have done with a barking dog.
    He found the Southerner sitting under the porch, cleaning his rifle while he waited for dinner time. Travis lifted his eyes and nodded at him. "Hey, Duane."
    "Travis. Got a moment?"
    "Sure."
    Duane apprised him of what had happened with McKay that afternoon. Travis looked thoughtful. "That's odd. He's not the kind to have these sudden mood swings. Granted, he's cheerful as a tombstone most of the time, but I could have sworn he'd taken to you."
    Winters shrugged. "I don't want him to take to me. But he always treated me fair, an' now he's sort of pulled back. I just wanna understand what I do wrong."
    "From what you say, you've done nothing wrong, kid."
    "You know him well?"
    "Not really. Met him after the war. He's good to talk to, but he never talks about himself, never tries to get to know people. But he's approachable, as NCOs go. Talk to him some time when he's off duty."
    "You don't know where he is tonight?"
    Travis laughed. "You don't like to leave things halfway, do you, Duane? But forget about it for tonight. McKay goes to dinner downtown."
    "Yes, but he'll come back..."
    "Not until tomorrow," Travis said, winking. "I'm not supposed to know this, and neither are you."
    Winters understood suddenly. "Oh, well, at least he's human," he said with a smile.
    "Definitely," agreed Travis. "Do ask him tomorrow, he'll answer you. Don't worry."
    
    The woman was lying on her side on the other half of the bed. McKay stared at her back, then at the ceiling, then at her back again. He moved closer and put an arm around her, kissing her naked shoulder.
    She squirmed and pushed away his arm. "Terence, please... it’s too hot."
    "Suit yourself," he said, retreating to his side of the bed.
    She looked over her shoulder. "Can’t sleep?"
    "I was thinkin’."
    "Thinkin’ of what?" she asked, turning over and looking at him.
    "There’s a kid in the latest recruitment batch, he’s bright an’ enthusiastic, but..."
    "Oh, I should have known it. Work, work, always work. You can’t talk about anything else. Give yourself a break."
    McKay turned towards her. "That ain’t about work at all. It’s about a person, an’ about me. He brought back the war to me, and..."
    "Oh, Terence, please. You know I hate to talk about the war."
    He pressed his lips together in frustration. He had known it was a lost cause, but he had tried anyway. When they had taken up their relationship, the year before, he had been truly in love with her - still bitter and hurting from the war, he had thought the young and grieving widow was a godsend. He had believed they were similar and could heal each other’s wounds.
    "Have you considered what I asked you last week?" he burst out.
    "Hm? Oh, yes. But you know, Terence, it would not be convenient for me. My husband left me this house and his money - If we get married, it will all go to you, and as much as I’m fond of you I don’t think it’s fair."
    "It’s just an arrangement. You’d keep livin’ here an’ administerin’ your wealth."
    "Keep trying to convince me, dear. Meanwhile..." She drew her hand across his chest, lightly grazing his skin with her nails. "I like our current arrangement. You have something that I want, and I have something that you want. Isn’t this perfect?"
    He grasped her hand. She was able to make him mad - with rage, and more. He pushed back her honey-coloured hair from her face, and wiped away that arch smile with a thoughtless kiss.
    

    When McKay came back to the compound the morning after, he was tired, grumpy and worried. This thing was dragging on, and it was no good: as long as he felt committed, he didn’t feel like looking at other women. He should have given her up. She was giving him hell. Besides, he did want to get married someday, he wanted to have children, and neither of them was getting any younger. And yet he would be sorry at losing her - he still liked her, she was tough, intelligent and witty, and she probably loved him in her own way. Only thing, she had no tenderness whatsoever to give him. Maybe the war and the pain had leeched it out of her, and this made him feel even more protective towards her. But in his deepest dreams he wished for a woman with a warm heart, a woman who didn’t take his attentions for granted, who showed she was in love with him and didn’t make him look weak if he showed the same, dammit... a woman who stayed in his arms even after his part of the "arrangement" had been fulfilled, who smiled sweetly at him and snuggled against his chest while he kissed her to sleep.
    He blinked that fantasy away. It was plain absurd. Wives were not like that, if he listened to the talk of his comrades. He had been on the verge of asking advice from Travis once, but the trooper's pragmatism had discouraged him. There was only one man in his acquaintance who had ever waxed romantic about his wife - maybe because she was always miles away - and who had felt inclined to give him some advice in matters of the heart, and that was Captain Marlowe.
    But then again, Marlowe was the closest thing to a friend he had since the end of the war, and all he heard from him was some letter now and then inquiring about his parents, which McKay answered politely with inquiries about Mrs. Marlowe and the children. For the rest, the sergeant had to face reality: he had nobody to confide in.
    No wonder, if he treated everybody who tried to get closer to him like he had treated that wretched Private Winters.
    Talk of the devil, the young soldier was at the well in the corner of the courtyard, drawing water. McKay thought he'd drop him a kind word, and the kid would feel better. If he let him down completely, the kid would lose the motivation to improve himself, and maybe spend the rest of his Army days picking fights, hated by his comrades, unable to understand that the core of being a good trooper, and ultimately of command, was to be there for the others.
    Which raised legitimate questions over McKay's own ability to command. But he had no time for that. He saluted, and Winters answered curtly. Well, at least it didn't look like he had scared the kid.
    When he got close, something just grabbed his throat, as though he was the scared one.
    "Sergeant," Winters greeted him, untying the bucket. McKay stopped as though he wanted to look at what he was doing, then froze. He couldn't bring himself to talk to him. Fear blanked out his brain. He couldn't, he just couldn't be friendly with a fellow trooper. He couldn't keep a friend. He couldn't keep a friend alive.
    "Sir, I'm sorry I bothered you while you were still on duty, yesterday," Winters said.
    McKay just nodded.
    "I won't do that again... but I need to know how to talk to you, if I have some doubts. Is there some protocol?"
    "Protocol?" McKay burst out, amused. What had given the kid that idea, he thought, and then answered himself, maybe the fact that you gave him the cold shoulder when he came to ask something?
    But he had to remember why he had snubbed Winters. He remembered how flattering it is, even when you're young, to have someone who looks up at you. And how dangerous to cherish and encourage admiration - admiration that quickly turned into dependence, into not being able to look after themselves because of all the faith they put in him.
    "Yes - protocol," Winters added, perplexed, leaning again towards a childish trust.
    McKay drew back quickly. "We ain't at school, Private. Ask when you need, but don't ask pointless questions. Excuse me now, I have to get busy."
    He stalked away, hurting for the emptiness within, frightened by his own fear, and angry for that moment of doubt which had probably upset the young private even more.
    
    "He came to talk to me," Winters spluttered, while they got ready for the morning drill hour. "I mean, he came to talk to me, an' all of a sudden he shuts up an' dismisses me that way? What the hell's the matter with him?"
    "Stop worrying about it, Duane," Eddie sighed, almost out of himself. "He's just another bastard."
    "But he’s not!" Duane shot back. "Everybody tells me he's alright. Then what has he got against me? I want to understand."
    "All right, but now promise me something - be quiet. Don't try to understand during this training session. Or you'll just make a fool of yourself, or worse."
    "Maybe you're right," Duane grumbled.
    Even Travis had been at a loss to explain McKay's behaviour. And nobody at Denver Command had known McKay for long; what was left of his troop had been disbanded after the war, some with Marlowe in the North to fight the Indians, some still posted in the South as occupation forces, some stationed in Washington. Maybe, Winters thought, that was part of the problem, being separated from his old comrades. The private wasn't one to give up easily on people; but he felt less and less inclined to make excuses for McKay's behaviour. Even supposing Winters had said or done something unforgivable, if nobody was going to explain to him, it was a no-win situation for which he was losing what little patience he had.
    They assembled outside the barracks. McKay showed up with a sergeant bugler, dressed in the garish ornaments of his branch. "Bugle drill this mornin’," he began. "Doin' good up to now, kids. Gotta keep it up - next week we start trainin' by troop, you'll be put together with more experienced squads. You'll have to blend in quickly. I wanna make it easier for you.
    "Now, before we start, is any of you already familiar with combat bugle signals?"
    Winters sighed inwardly, although McKay’s tone had absolutely no reproach in it. When nobody spoke up, McKay nodded with a little grimace. "Looks like they really told you nothin' at Jefferson Barracks. Alright, that’s why I'm here. We'll proceed as with the sabre. Sergeant here'll sound the basic signals. I expect you to memorise them an’ be able to recognise them, even from a few notes. You can’t give orders by shoutin’ in the middle of a battle. The bugle's gonna be your means of communication on the field. An' the bugler could be wounded, scared or out of breath with fatigue. You gotta understand what he’s playin’ in every circumstance. That clear? Let’s go."
    The bugler played a handful of basic tunes, and McKay named them. None of them was Reveille, Assembly, Breakfast Call, or the others which the trainees already knew because they had marked their life as soldiers from the beginning. They were Forward, Halt, To The Left, To The Right, Trot, Gallop, Charge, Commence Fire, Cease Fire...
    Easy, thought Winters. He saw the music in his mind as though it had been words in block letters. All his childhood years of playing with his Ma’s music sheets and pretend they were secret messages to decode were paying off. And then he thought with a sinking feeling that here was the sabre quandary all over again.
    McKay had the bugler play a tune - very clearly, to begin with. "So, what’s this? Burke? Howell?"
    No answers. McKay’s shoulders fell a little. "Come on. Wesley? No, don’t try to guess. Markham?"
    Don’t let me down, Eddie, thought Duane, but his friend had no clue either. McKay shook his head and planted his hands on his hips. "Come on, nobody know this tune?"
    "To The Left," Winters burst out.
    McKay looked at him. "To The Left. Good." He turned to the others. "Was it so difficult? Come on, let's try another one."
    Winters wondered if it was for some cruel joke of fate that he was the only one in twenty-five recruits to be able to distinguish a melody and use a sabre. He knew he would be average in riding a horse, and he would turn out definitely on the dumb side when it came to marksmanship. But up to now, this was just getting him into trouble. The other recruits were glowering at him under the brims of their hats. He stood it for the rest of the drill hour... mercifully, some of his comrades guessed some tunes. He tried to keep his mouth shut as much as he could.
    Towards the end of the drill, McKay noticed Sgt. Hopkins stroll by with his hands behind his back. The sergeant major had been in the musicians when he was very young, before developing a taste for battle, so he got sentimental whenever someone played the bugle by the book. McKay straightened his back and ordered to play one last tune. He barely heard it, though a part of his brain registered it. Young Winters seemed to have grasped the concept of keeping his distance all too well. But McKay couldn't avoid praising him - it wouldn't be fair not to - he'd be sorry not to. And here was Sgt. Hopkins, who had expressly put the kid in his charge. He couldn't just ignore it.
    "What's this?" he asked the squad. "Anybody?" He looked straight at the young private. "Private Winters?"
    The kid lifted his eyes and stared at him. He looked in doubt, now.
    "So?" McKay prodded on.
    The kid stared into the distance.
    "You tellin' me you don't know this tune?"
    The kid closed his eyes, then shrugged slightly. "Course I know it."
    "And?"
    Winters looked at him. "Gallop, for what it's worth. Sir."
    The other recruits were staring at him, astonished by his boldness. McKay tightened his jaws. A bit insubordinate, are we? - even making allowance for the fact that from where he stood, the kid could not know Sgt. Hopkins was there. "What do you mean," McKay asked quietly.
    Winters held his gaze. "I can't get it right, can I? I tried to do things right, an' it was wrong. Now I'm tryin' to fade into the crowd, an' that's wrong too. What the - what am I s'posed to do, sir?"
    A little lesson was in order. McKay had no qualms at giving a dressing-down to Winters in front of the squad. They all could benefit from it. "You're s'posed to do what you're told, Private," he answered brusquely.
    "Ain't as easy as that, is it, sir? You told me so yourself."
    "An' you ain't s'posed to discuss orders."
    Winters lowered his gaze. "No, sir, I ain't."
    Would to Heaven that he saw a little sense, McKay thought. He checked his watch. There were still a couple of minutes, but the situation was getting on his nerves. "Dismissed." He started to go.
    "But sir..." Winters burst out again. He bit his tongue, but it was too late.
    McKay took a deep breath and turned. All right, better a clean cut than this absurd charade. "Let's get this straight, Private," he said bluntly. "I ain't here to make idle chat, I'm here to turn all of you into soldiers. So - stay out of my way. If you can't do it without whinin', you ain't fit to be a soldier."
    The private looked at him, shocked, without even a "yessir". McKay turned and started towards Headquarters. Sgt. Hopkins, who had followed the exchange, went after him.
    Duane blinked, looking down at himself, as one who's just had an accident and is so traumatised that he can't notice his injuries. Eddie appeared at his elbow. "I'm sorry, man," he said, "but I told you..."
    Duane clenched his teeth, then shut his eyes tight. It was no use. His ears were ringing, his heart was writhing in his chest, he was practically shaking. Turning on Eddie, he slammed a fist into his face, sending him to fly backwards in the dust of the courtyard. He sprang after him, grabbed his collar and tried to loose a left punch on him. "You told me, yeah, say it once more an' I'll break your neck!"
    "Duane, for God's sake, calm down!" cried Eddie, trying to get his comrade off him. They started brawling and rolling in the dust, while the other recruits converged to part them. At least two people grabbed Winters and pulled him to his feet, while the others checked that Eddie wasn't hurt and helped him get up.
    Sgt. McKay had come back at a run when the scuffle had started. He stopped in front of the still bewildered Winters and stared incredulously at him. "What's the matter with you?!"
    It wasn't reproach or sarcasm - it was true concern. In another situation, it would have been heartwarming - but not after so many conflicting signals. Oh, so now he was worried about him? Utterly confused and dejected, Duane looked away. You're a jerk, sir.
    "I need someone to clean the officers' stables," the sergeant said curtly. "You seem to have time on your hands, Private. Off with you."
    "Yessir," Winters answered, eyes cast down. He turned and walked away, escorted by two troopers.
    Sgt. Hopkins had followed the sequence with a cold look. "McKay," he called, and started away towards his office.
    
    "Close the door," Hopkins said, ominously.
    McKay complied. Then he stood in front of the desk, hands clasped behind his back.
    The sergeant major sat at his desk. He ran a hand over his bald pate, frowning. "That was unnecessary, McKay," he said.
    "Brawlin' while on duty, sir, I had to punish him..."
    "I'm not talkin' 'bout that."
    The young man fell silent.
    "Got nothin' to say?" his superior went on. "Wanna give me a believable reason for treatin' Private Winters that way?"
    McKay shook his head.
    "Get used to it," Hopkins said patiently. "It can be annoyin', I know, but hero worship is very common in our trade."
    "Let him find another hero, then. I don't want him around. I don't care if he's disappointed."
    "You broke that child's heart," Hopkins quietly pointed out.
    "HE AIN'T A CHILD!!!" McKay exclaimed, his voice roughening. "He's older 'n I was when I enlisted. He's a man, doin' a man's job, the most dangerous an’ deadly job in the world. An' nobody got the right to make it easier for him. He can't take some mistreatin', he better give it up, 'cause that's the least that'll happen to him!"
    Hopkins stared at him, stunned by the outburst. McKay was flushed and shaken. He turned away and walked to the window, looking out unseeingly and gripping the handle until his knuckles went white.
    "I think we have a problem here," Hopkins said slowly.
    McKay closed his eyes and didn't answer, didn't turn.
    "Sgt. McKay... I've known you since after the war, an' I know you're a rational, sensible man. I'm sure you got some good reason for gettin' so upset, although at the moment I can't see it. But you can't react like this to a recruit. He may not be fit to be a soldier, but you ain't behavin' like one either."
    McKay was staring at his own reflection in the window, at the sudden look of despair. He turned from the window, bracing himself. "I don't believe he ain't fit to be a soldier, sir," he said, his voice under control once again. He tried to be as sincere as he could. "I believe he could be a very good soldier. But I'm concerned for him. He's still too volatile. An' besides, I don't want to waste his potential sending him to some outpost too soon. I think he'd better get back to Jefferson Barracks. He'll be reassigned accordin' to his qualities."
    Hopkins regarded him speculatively. Then he shrugged his shoulders. "If that's your evaluation."
    McKay let out his breath in relief, like a nightmare finally lifting. He brushed aside the fact that he also felt a coward for not having looked that nightmare in the face. "Thank you, sir."
    Hopkins shook his head. "Don't thank me. I did nothin' good for you. Dismissed." With this he bent his head once again on his papers, and McKay was left to steal out of the room alone.
    
    Winters finished his assignment in half the time expected for it. His two guards had left him behind the stables. The hot sun had reached the zenith and had barely started to dip. The knife-wielding trooper who claimed a criminal record had dropped by, and while Winters tiredly got ready for another brawl, the man had congratulated him for "standin' up to 'em".
    Alone once again, drenched with sweat and stinking of horse manure, Winters washed his hands into a bucket of water and sat down against the back wall of the stables, in the full glare, and closed his eyes. If he stayed there long enough, he thought recklessly, he could get burns or sunstroke, and then McKay would feel guilty.
    Nobody had ever hurt him so much. Or rather... Nobody in such an unexpected way. His eldest brother had hurt him just as bad a few days before his enlistment, decrying his choice in front of wife and children, stating that there were so many things Duane could do in civil life, if he abstained from being rebellious, picking fights and seducing his employers’ daughters. He had apologised afterwards, of course. He was sorry for publicly denouncing his little brother as a fool. He made clear that although Duane was a good-for-nothing scoundrel, the black sheep of the Winters family, a failure even as a loser, he loved him anyway, all his family loved him anyway, and they would accept whatever absurd, hare-brained, self-destructive way to ruin his life he would choose.
    But McKay, he wasn’t required to love him. He wasn’t family. He owed Winters absolutely nothing. Then why had he been so harsh on him, with the added bitterness only family members have when they regret having done so much for the unworthy little animal? Insubordinate, alright, he could subscribe to that. But whiny... not fit to be a soldier? Stay out of my way?!
    Winters’ eyes filled with tears. Great. Luckily there was nobody around. He laid his head on his arms and for a moment let himself go like when he was a child, in silence, so that nobody of his numerous household would notice. He wanted someone to treat him fairly, that was all. His family had never given him a fair chance - always giving him things he didn't really need, but never stooping to listen to his deeper wants. Eddie, yes, Eddie sometimes treated him like a baby, but maybe he just needed another couple of good thrashings. Travis liked him, he could be content with that.
    But no, it had to be McKay. Winters didn’t want him to be a friend. He didn’t think McKay could - too much difference in age and rank. He didn’t think he himself could ever have such a deep knowledge of McKay to feel really friendly towards him. But he had respected McKay from the beginning, and for a moment, just for a moment he had been tricked into wishing for the same respect. For a moment he had hoped that in the Army you were required to work hard, yes, but you could also receive something meaningful in return - something that his brothers, for all his hard work, had never given him.
    His rage grew, twenty years of pent-up and useless rage. Instead of getting something meaningful, he had been painfully and unreasonably slighted once again. He lifted his head and furiously dried his tears. Well, go to hell, McKay.
    After just a few minutes he was already bored with his self-destructive plan. He got up and went towards his things, laid down in a clean place: his jacket, his hat and gloves. As he picked them up, careful not to get them overly dirty, Sgt. McKay himself turned the corner.
    Winters saluted, frowning. The sergeant answered, then held out his hand palm outward, as though to offer peace or shield himself from some blow.
    "Private Winters," he began. "Got good news for you."
    Duane stared at him suspiciously.
    "It's obvious you ain't happy here," McKay said, crossing his arms.
    Duane blinked. If he wasn't happy, whose fault it was? He remained silent, for once. He wanted to see what the sergeant was driving at.
    "Therefore," McKay went on, "Sgt. Hopkins granted you a transfer back to Jefferson Barracks."
    Duane felt cold all over. "But sir..." he managed to utter. "Sendin' me back, it’ll look like you’re disciplinin’ me..."
    "Not in the least. I’ll just ask that you be assigned to another post."
    At his wits’ end, Winters tried to limit the damage. "Can’t you send me somewhere else, without needin’ to go back? You said your commander's servin’ in the North - can’t you send me with him? I’m sure it would be a good post..."
    McKay looked oddly pleased that the lad remembered what he had told him about Captain Marlowe. "No, I can’t."
    "But why? Bureaucracy or..."
    "’Cause you know nothin’ of war yet!" exclaimed McKay. "It’d be murder!"
    The private stared at him. It was a burst of emotion he didn’t expect. He tried to press on. "Then, some other, safer place... anythin’ but Jefferson Barracks."
    "That’s the safest place I know," McKay said, now cold again. "The officer who took care of you will know where to send you."
    "Just wire him, then!"
    McKay overlooked the disrespectful tone. "I don’t want the responsibility of havin' you here one day longer."
    "But why?" Winters exclaimed once more. "What have I done?"
    "You’re a troublemaker." And with this, McKay turned his back on him.
    Duane was left there, shaken at being treated with such gratuitous rudeness by the man he had admired so much. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to believe it was his fault, he surely had done something unforgivable, and he was too dumb even to imagine what it was. And instead, somehow, he looked within himself and knew honestly and certainly that yes, he was a troublemaker, but it wasn’t enough to justify such a course of action, and that McKay was WRONG.
    "Sergeant McKay!" he called after him.
    McKay was surprised by the ringing cry. He turned and stared at the smouldering private. "What?"
    Before he had time to think, Duane advanced on him. "You don’t wanna give me an explanation for ruinin’ my career," he snapped, "you’ll give me satisfaction." With this, he struck McKay hard across the cheek with his gloves.
    The sergeant flinched in surprise. He laughed under his breath. "You’re kiddin'."
    "No, sir."
    They looked at each other, both equally stunned. "Very well," McKay said coldly, "we'll put to use your sabre expertise. Tomorrow at dawn, at the railroad building yard. Out of uniform."
    "At dawn?!"
    "Yes, Private, at dawn. Problems?"
    "No, sir."
    "This won't show up on your record," McKay said as a side thought. "I'll ask the sentry to let you out. See you tomorrow."
    He went away, leaving Winters shocked by his own boldness, recklessly glad that the thing would finally come to a conclusion.
    

    When McKay arrived at the building yard, Winters was already sitting there on a pile of timber, staring at the sky clearing up in the east while he nursed his sabre like a baby. He was not wearing his jacket, just trousers and a dark shirt. He turned at the sound of steps, got up and saluted.
    McKay answered the salute. He was similarly attired, only his shirt was white. "So, it seems you managed to get up after all."
    Duane just nodded.
    "Judgin' by your looks, you didn't sleep at all, Private."
    "With respect, sir, that's none of your business. Shall we start?"
    "All right," said McKay, drawing his sabre and throwing aside the scabbard and belt. "We stop at first touch."
    The private shook his head. "I don’t trust you enough for that, sir," he said in a low voice. "We stop at first blood."
    McKay's eyes showed pain at this. "You want a permanent reminder of your foolishness, that’s settled," he said brusquely. "Engage."
    They saluted with their sabres, then crossed them without letting them come into contact. A long moment of studying each other, then McKay touched Winters' blade. The private immediately plunged into an attack, easily parried by the sergeant. Then McKay started pressing. His intention was clear: give Winters a scratch as soon as possible and get through with it. Well, thought the younger man, he'd have to sweat for it. Remembering his rage, he fought back with a violence that for a moment threw McKay off. They exchanged a series of blows, remarkable for the noise more than the skill.
    "Why, sir, you're lousy!" blurted out Duane, losing something of his fierce intensity.
    "Lousy? Me? Look who's talkin'. You overestimate your sabre mastery."
    "But I got a right to be lousy. What excuse have you got?"
    "Rank," McKay answered, deadpan.
    Winters smothered a laugh. They were actually beginning to have fun with it. Then he thought what a damned waste it was that a good man like McKay was also such a bastard. The rage came back, just when McKay was deciding to finish the thing off. Winters was forced to defend himself, gripping his sabre with both hands.
    "That thing... ain't a baseball bat," McKay pointed out, beginning to be breathless.
    "Ain't gonna get no instructions from you no longer," Winters answered, doing all he could to hide his own fatigue.
    "Someone else will tell you."
    "Why should you care?"
    This truly enraged McKay. Winters saw the end of the duel coming up. He was suddenly realising they could actually hurt each other pretty badly, given the violence they were fighting with, although they weren't going for body blows. He stood his ground, parried all the blows, then chose to strike at least one point. He had noticed that McKay tended to avoid his blade and aim for the shoulder, leaving a small opening when he drew back his arm...
    He waited for the next similar attack, ducked away from the point, then slashed out at McKay's arm. The blade slid harmlessly over the sergeant's sleeve, hooked under the hilt and sent his sabre spinning in the air, to land among the straw.
    "Pick it up!" Winters shouted, angrier than ever.
    Breathing fast, McKay looked at where the sabre had fallen, then at Winters. He smiled with one corner of his mouth. "No need of that." He lifted his right hand. There was a thin line of blood at the base of his thumb.
    Duane’s breath deserted him. Fatigue and realisation hit him all at once, and his knees felt like water. He nodded slowly. "Alright," he said softly. "Gonna pack up my things." He turned and started away wearily, sword hanging from his hand.
    "Winters, wait," McKay called after him, drying the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "I owe you an explanation."
    The private shook his head. "You owe me nothin’, sir."
    "Winters... I’m sorry."
    The private stopped in his tracks and turned, astonished. McKay was undoing his neckerchief to press it on his hand. "I treated you wrong. I hadn't even realised just how bad it had gotten to me."
    "So... there is an explanation?" said Winters, diffident, reluctant to be drawn again into confidence, into liking him.
    McKay nodded. He recovered his sabre and his belt and scabbard, put it back and sat down on the pile of timber, tiredly.
    Still breathless, the private sheathed his own sabre and stopped in front of McKay with arms crossed.
    The sergeant told him about the war. He told the story with few words and fewer emotions. Yet Duane could see between the lines a young man who had seen every single human feeling he had cherished - love, friendship, admiration, self-respect - annihilated through death or betrayal or defilement or abandon, and who was still plagued by the suspicion that he could have done something more to avoid at least just a little bit of it.
    "Sometimes, you let somebody get close to you," he concluded in a whisper. "An' if you let 'em do that, they'll end up dependin' on you. An' if you don't protect 'em, they don't survive."
    "You thought I wanted you to protect me?" Winters asked, slowly realising.
    "Not in the least - but they didn’t want it, either. They just didn’t have in themselves the strength to survive. An' so I lost 'em."
    "I won't get killed, I swear," Winters said softly. "You ain't gonna lose me, sir, if that's what you're afraid of."
    McKay lifted a stricken look on him. "After what I’ve seen, I'm inclined to believe it."
    The private stared at his own feet. That was a big honour, too big for that hour of the morning, for him to fully understand yet.
    "What shall I do now, sir?" he asked.
    McKay shook his head. "I'm havin' your transfer to Jefferson Barracks cancelled. But if you still wanna go elsewhere, I'll see you find a good place. I couldn't blame you, Winters."
    Duane nodded. "Thank you, sir. I'll think about it."
    "Go back to Headquarters, now. Have some rest."
    "Yessir. You stayin' here?"
    "Just a couple of minutes. Ah, an' Winters - while you think about it, trainin' doesn't stop. Don't wanna look bad with the other squads next week. Gotta get back to the sabre - the kids ain't gotten the knack of it yet. I'm expectin' you to volunteer for some demonstrative action."
    "Forget it," Duane said. "I'll just do what I'm told... sir."
    McKay smiled. He got up and was the first to salute, lifting his bandaged open hand to his absent hat. Duane answered, then turned and trudged away in the rays of the dawning sun.

The End