Hale studied him. Kane's left hand rested near his belt, not quite on the holster, but near enough that a man who had survived the war noticed such things. The younger officer's gaze flicked once toward the wagons, then back.
"Have the men prepare," Hale said at last. "But no one rides through that gate until I walk the line myself."
Kane tipped his fingers to his hat brim—almost a salute, almost not—and went down the steps at a clip. Hale watched him cross the yard, calling orders in a voice too loud for the size of the fort. Men moved. Harness jingled. A mule protested. The golden hour thickened, and the shadows of the adobe buildings stretched long and blue across the dirt.
Hale pressed the folded order into his coat pocket and went to find the truth, if the truth still lived inside these walls.
Marcus Hale had been born free in Philadelphia, the son of a tailor who taught him that a straight seam and a straight word were kin to each other. When the war came, he enlisted because the Republic that half-claimed him was still better than the one that would own him outright. He learned to read maps under lantern light, to hold a line when the smoke made brothers of strangers, and to keep his face still when lesser men questioned the brass on his shoulders. After Appomattox he stayed in the service because the West needed officers who could think, and because a Black man with a captain's bars had few soft roads home.
Fort Red Clay was not soft. It was a supply node and a listening post on a thin road between better places, manned by forty-three soldiers, a handful of civilian teamsters, and an uneasy peace with the people whose land this had always been. Hale had spent eleven months here learning the names of washes and the tempers of men. He trusted Sergeant Briggs, a gray-haired Regular who chewed tobacco like a philosopher. He trusted Private Ruiz, who spoke Spanish and English and never exaggerated a trail sign. He did not yet trust Kane.
Kane had come west claiming ambition and duty. He wrote neat reports. He drilled the men until their boots shone even in dust. He spoke often of opportunity—of promotions waiting for those who showed initiative. Hale had heard initiative used to mean courage. In Kane's mouth it sometimes sounded like appetite.
Two weeks earlier, a payroll wagon had been delayed at Ellison. The fort's strongbox held only the ordinary funds for rations and repairs. Still, Kane had asked three times when the next transfer was expected. Hale had answered once and filed the question away.
Now the wagons were being packed with a speed that made Hale's neck tighten. He walked the yard with deliberate calm, nodding to men who looked to him for steadiness. Near the quartermaster's shed he found Briggs wrestling a crate onto a bed.
"Captain," Briggs said, spit aside. "Lieutenant's got us moving like the devil's already smelling supper."
"How long have these wagons been loading?" Hale asked.
Briggs wiped his forehead with a sleeve. "Started mid-afternoon, sir. Before the courier even sat down, if I'm honest. Kane said we ought to be ready for any contingency. I thought it was good sense at the time."