After leaving the prisoners, Caleb retrieved Brance’s blanket from the tree where he’d left it what, two days ago now? Then he went straight to his tent to pack what clothing he could into his haversack. He took what little money he had, a handful of Confederate bills that he had sewn into his pillow for safekeeping. And he dug out the service revolver he’d been issued at the start of the war but had not yet put to use. He preferred a rifle full of grapeshot—even a poor marksman like himself managed to hit something that way. The revolver was a much more intimate weapon, much more immediate. The thought of standing close enough to a man to shoot him dead nauseated Caleb. But he could hide it in his belt, beneath his shirt; a rifle wasn’t as easy to conceal.
His mind picked at the problem
