Dust swirled across the parade ground of Fort Burnside as Lieutenant Lyons briskly made his way to the post headquarters.  The parade ground was almost deserted; the entire garrison, except for D Troop, had been ordered out a week ago to hunt down a band of Apaches that had been raiding the area somewhere to the west.

            That was as much as Lieutenant Lyons knew as he double-timed it to see his company commander, Captain Murphy.  He arrived two minutes late and could immediately detect the displeasure on his commanding officer’s face.  The lieutenant stood at attention in front of the captain’s desk, which was actually the colonel’s desk when the colonel was there.

            “Lieutenant,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “I wonder if you could find it in your heart to come on time when I send for you.”

            “I’m sorry sir,” answered the lieutenant. “I was in the middle of washing up when I got your message and I didn’t want to look slovenly.”

            “Are you suggesting that I’m, what’s the word? Slovenly?”

            Captain Murphy’s tunic was completely open, revealing his torn, faded red undershirt.  And his boots were sitting on their sides in the corner of the room.  And he looked as though he hadn’t shaven since the colonel had left.  But the lieutenant knew better.

            “No, sir.”

            Mercifully, the captain changed the subject. 

            “I sent for you because I have a job for you.”

            The lieutenant wondered what it could be.  I had the stables cleaned yesterday, he thought.  Christ, now what?  The latrines?

            “Take a small detachment south to the stage stop at Firewater Ford. We’ve had word there might be a small raiding party nearby. See if you can protect the civilians there, a family by the name of Devon, if they’re alive, and bring them back. If they’re not, get your ass back here quick as you can.”