“What’s it say?” Trask said, eyeing Ferguson.

“Do you know a man named Cody? The one the sergeant said killed Jenkins.”

Trask stiffened. His jaw hardened and a glint sparked in his narrowed eyes.

“I know him.”

“He killed Danny Jenkins, all right, says here, just like the sergeant said. And Cody drove O’Hara’s sis to the fort.”

O’Hara’s eyes widened. Trask glanced at him, then took Ferguson by the arm.

“Outside,” he growled. “We got to talk.”

O’Hara’s face softened as he watched the two men go back outside and stand on the porch, out of earshot. He could hear only a murmur of voices, see their shadowed forms in silhouette.

“What else does it say, Hiram?”

“Read it yourself.”

“Who’s it from?” Trask asked as Ferguson handed him the letter.

“That’s for me to know right now. Someone at the fort.”

“Fine.” Trask read the letter, let out a deep sigh.

“Gives you something to use on O’Hara in there,” Ferguson said, licking his lips. There was still a faint taste of whiskey on them.

“Yeah. I think we’ll find out what we want to know about that map we found on O’Hara.” Trask paused, then handed the letter back to Ferguson. “Want to ask you something, though.”

“Go ahead.”

“How come you don’t want me to burn the information out of O’Hara? You know we’re going to have to kill him.”

“I know,” Ferguson said. “But it’s got to look like Injuns, Apaches, done him in. If he’s got burn marks on him from a hot poker, the army won’t buy it. He’s got to look like he was kilt by Apaches.”

“My way is quicker. Surer.”

“We have to play the hand my way, Ben. Trust me.”

“All right. Let’s see if O’Hara will tell us what we want to know.”

“You going to use his sister?”

“That’s what the letter says.”

Ferguson nodded. He had read the words. “You can tell your prisoner that if he doesn’t divulge what he knows about the enemy, that his sister will forfeit her life after being tortured by savage Indians.” Carefully worded. No names. Formal, stiff. But that was the man’s way, the one who had written the letter. And Ferguson knew that he meant what he said.

“Let’s see what O’Hara has to say about that map,” Ferguson said. “You put it to him about his sister.”

Trask smiled.

The two men walked inside. Ferguson put the letter back in its packet, folded it and stuck it in a back pocket of his trousers.

“Untie O’Hara,” Trask said to Cavins.

“You sure?” Cavins held the cup of coffee suspended above the prisoner.

“Yeah. He’s not going anywhere and I want to talk to the lieutenant. He’s going to need his hands to show me things on that map.”

“I reckon,” Cavins said, “if it’s all right with Mr. Ferguson.”

“Go ahead,” Hiram said.

Trask took the cup from Cavins, watched as he untied O’Hara.

“Can you stand up?” Trask asked. He shoved the tub of water out of the way with his foot.

O’Hara, freed from his bindings, flexed his hands and arms, moved his legs. He stood up on wobbly legs.

“Good,” Trask said. “Feel like talking with me now? You don’t have much choice.”

“I can’t divulge any information pertaining to my military duties.”

“Oh, I think you can, Lieutenant. If your sister’s life is at stake. What’s her name? Colleen? Yes, Colleen. We can see to it that some terrible things happen to her if you don’t play our cards.”

O’Hara’s face drained of color. “You—You have my sister?”

Trask and Ferguson exchanged glances.

“Yeah, we do,” Ferguson said.

Trask smiled at the smooth deception.

“All I want you to do, O’Hara,” he said, “is tell me what those numbers mean on that map. Did you draw it?”

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