“Look around you, Jerry,” Falcon said. He took in the thirty-six men with a wave of his hand. They were sitting, or lying, on the grass, some asleep, others just staring morosely off into space. Nearly all were sporting bloody bandages around arms, legs, or heads. “Do you see a regiment?”
“I guess I see what you mean,” Captain Thomas said.
“Men,” Falcon called, and everyone looked up at him. “Men, it has been my honor and privilege to serve with you throughout this long war. But as many of you may have heard, Robert E. Lee surrendered all the military in his command to the Yankees at a place called Appomattox. That means the war is over.”
“Hell, Major, we ain’t in Lee’s command,” one of the men said. “We’re in your command.”
“Yeah,” one of the others said. “What do you say we should do?”
“What if I told you I wanted to go back and attack the men who attacked us back there?” Falcon asked.
“Major, give the word and we’d soak our britches in coal oil and attack the devil in hell,” a sergeant said.
Falcon chuckled and nodded. “I know you would,” he said. “But it’s over for us. General Garrison said we were fighting this one last battle for honor. As far as I’m concerned, honor was achieved. This regiment is hereby officially disbanded. I want you to all go home and try to put your lives together again.”
“Regiment, attention!” the one remaining NCO shouted, and slowly, painfully, but determinedly, every soldier in the regiment stood up. Then they aligned themselves into a military formation.
“Present, arms!” the sergeant said, and every soldier brought his rifle up into a salute.
Both Falcon and Thomas, the only two officers remaining, returned the salute.
“Regiment, dismissed,” Falcon said.
“Hoohrah!” the soldiers replied as one. Then, forming little groups of twos and threes, the soldiers left, starting their long walks back home.
“What about you, Major?” Thomas asked.
“I’m no longer a major,” Falcon said.
“Yes, sir,” Thomas said. Then he chuckled. “I mean, yes. But what are you going to do? Where are you going to go?”
“I had a pa and brothers who fought on both sides of this war,” Falcon said. “I reckon I’ll be going back home to Colorado and hope they all show up.”
“Some of your family was fightin’ for the Yankees?” Thomas asked.
“Yes.”
“How do you think that’s all going to work out when you get back together again?”
“Pa made us feel free to choose whichever side we thought was right. The war’s over now, and we’ve all done our duty as we saw fit. I don’t know about the rest of the country, but for the MacCallisters, the war will be behind us once and for all.”
At that moment, the train passed over a rough section of railroad, jarring Falcon from his memories and bringing him back to the present. He sat in his seat for just a second, only slowly becoming aware that the war was long behind him. He had been recalling the last battle in which he had been engaged, and wounded. And though he did not know it at the time, his brother Matthew MacCallister had commanded the troops across from him in that very battle. And, like Falcon, Matthew had also been wounded.
Once more, Falcon pulled the letter out to look at it. This was the first time he had heard from General Garrison since that time in Texas so long ago.
“Hey, boys, watch this,” Ray said. “I’m going to do me the fandango.”
Ray, Cletus, and Billy Clinton were at the Four Aces Saloon in Pueblo. Their meeting with the cattle buyer wasn’t until the next day, and though Billy suggested they might just have a good dinner and go to bed, neither Ray nor Cletus would hear of it. They were determined to go to a saloon, and Billy had no choice but to go with them. Billy, in keeping with the promise he had made to keep an eye on his brothers, had nursed a single beer for most of the night.
“Ha!” Cletus said. “What makes you think you can get your big ass to do a fandango?”
“Just watch,” Ray said.
Ray, who was so drunk he could barely stand, hauled his big frame up and began stomping around in what he assumed was a fandango dance. Cletus started clapping his hands in accompaniment. Ray got his feet tangled and fell hard to the floor.
“Haw!” Cletus said, laughing out loud. “If you are a fandango dancer, I’m a Injun chief.”
As Ray tried to get to his feet, he fell again, only this time he fell into a table where four other men were sitting.
“What the hell?” one of the men asked angrily. Roughly, he shoved Ray off the table and onto the floor. “If you can’t hold your liquor, mister, you got no business drinkin’.”
Getting pushed to the floor had a temporary sobering effect, and Ray got up slowly, then started toward the man who had pushed him. The man, noticing then how large Ray was, held up his hands and tried to back away from him.
“I don’t want no trouble now,” he said.
Ray smiled, then picked the man up and threw him. He landed on another table, crashing through it. Several others rushed Ray then, and grinning broadly with pure enjoyment, Ray began taking them on, singly and in pairs.
Finally, someone drew a gun and, pointing it toward the ceiling, fired it. The noise of the gunshot got
