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boy.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œSilver whistle.”
    â€œWhy, you lucky son-of-a-gun! Ferguson’s silver whistle! I’ll give you five pounds for that.”
    â€œNot for sale.”
    â€œDid you see who got his hunting shirt?”
    â€œWho’d want it with eight bullet holes?”
    â€œI would,” George answered. “I’d cherish every one.”
    â€œFerguson was a goddamn fool, riding around with that checkered shirt over his uniform. Just daring us to shoot him.”
    â€œWell, we certainly obliged.” George laughed. “Right out of the saddle!”
    â€œBenjamin Cleveland got his horse.”
    â€œCleveland! Pity the poor horse! Cleveland weighs close to three hundred pounds. You could make two Pat Fergusons out of a man that size.”
    Both chuckling, the two men walked on.
    Broken Trail stayed quiet and still a little longer, wanting to be certain that no more Over Mountain men were nearby. As soon as it seemed safe, he pushed aside the vines and crawled out of the hole.
    His heart filled with hope and dread as he climbed the steep slope. Silently he approached the juniper clump and pulled apart the low, spreading branches. Nothing. Not so much as a drop of blood to stain the scuffed needles. He felt limp with relief.
“Too, too, too,”
he whistled. No response. He had not really expected one. Maybe he would find Red Sun Rising at the top of Kings Mountain, on the battlefield. Maybe he would find Elijah, too.

Chapter 10

    BROKEN TRAIL PASSED the unfinished barricade, where a dead soldier lay slumped over a pile of rocks. He was not Elijah.
    Now Broken Trail saw before him a shambles of freshly dug graves, dead horses and dead men. Every human corpse wore a scarlet tunic. Not worth the rebels’ trouble to bury redcoats, he reckoned. He wondered about Major Ferguson and Virginia Sal, but saw no trace of a dead man in a checkered hunting shirt or of a woman.
    The tent where Virginia Sal had sung her ballad stood tilted but intact, one end of its awning hanging loose and its flap open. Looking inside, Broken Trail saw a polishedwooden box with brass corners lying upon a woven carpet beside a smashed camp table.
    Major Ferguson’s quarters had fared better than most. Where one day ago trim white tents had stood, Broken Trail now saw sagging canvas draped over leaning poles.
    The vultures were arriving. Some had landed; more circled on V-spread wings. A few steps to one side, a vulture swooped down to land on the chest of a drummer boy. Broken Trail pulled out his tomahawk. Before he could hurl it, the vulture lifted into the air and settled a moment later upon a different corpse.
    Broken Trail stood thoughtfully at the side of the drummer boy. He was a small boy with blond curls, not more than ten years old. Broken Trail picked up his drum and tapped it with his fingertips. A drummer boy was what he had wanted to be when he was nine. If he and Elijah had enlisted together the way they had planned, that might have been him, lying cold and stiff and still. Where was Elijah now? Broken Trail set down the drum and continued walking, searching for the body that he did not want to find.
    A sudden shout disturbed the silence.
    â€œHo! Broken Trail!”
    There was Red Sun Rising, striding toward him. He was wearing an officer’s scarlet coat, ornamented in front with gold lace on a dark blue velvet ground. An epaulette of gold fringe hung from each shoulder.
    At the sight of Red Sun Rising alive, Broken Trail felt asif the sun had broken through heavy clouds. “You escaped!” he shouted.
    â€œI told you that was good place to hide.” Red Sun Rising ran the last few steps and whacked Broken Trail on the back. “How you like my new coat?” He grinned as he turned around to show the back. “No bullet holes.”
    The coat was bloody around the stand-up collar, but otherwise unmarked.
    â€œIt’s good.”