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half mile ahead of them, a solid barricade of logs, wormwood fence rails, and rocks festooned with gun barrels on the far side blocked the road—the first sign of organized resistance in Indiana.
    Lieutenant Shannon and Ty rode forward alongside Colonel Richard Morgan. “Colonel, this young man has remarkable eyesight. Ty, who’s manning that barricade?”
    Ty took his time, wanting to insure the information he passed to Colonel Morgan was accurate. “There are about four hundred of them, which I can see. They’re mostly militia in field clothes and mechanic’s overalls, armed with squirrel guns, muskets, and an ancient blunderbuss matching the one on the wall in my grandfather’s library. His father brought it to Kentucky from the old country.”
    Colonel Morgan whistled between his teeth. “That’s the most succinct observation I’ve ever heard from a scout without a telescope. Who is this young man, Lieutenant?”
    â€œHis name is Ty Mattson, sir.”
    Colonel Morgan enjoyed a barking laugh. “Oh, Captain Owen Mattson’s mysterious, unclaimed son, huh? General Morgan mentioned his presence at our morning staff meeting. Staff officers are betting each other on what will happen when the two meet each other.”
    Ty was beginning to wonder if every member of General Morgan’s staff hadn’t heard he and his father’s story. Maybe he should have stayed home and joined the blue-belly army; there he would have been a common soldier, like everyone else, and not the object of so much public speculation, which made his stomach downright queasy.
    Captain Thomas Hines, of Quirk’s Scouts, reported for orders. “They’re untrained militia,” Colonel Morgan informed him. “We’ll notify Colonel Johnson’s Second Brigade and call for support, if needed. The speed afoot of retreating home guards is legendary. They’ve never held against us. Prepare to charge, Captain Hines.”
    Quirk’s Scouts, followed by the Fourteenth Kentucky, eighty-seven total troopers, descended the hill in ranks of four at a trot. At the bottom, they fanned out with the widening of the road and spilled over into the planted fields bordering its hard surface, forming a line forty yards wide and three troopers deep, cornstalks slapping against the chests of the trotting horses.
    Instigated by Colonel Morgan, the cry of “Buglers, blow ‘Charge!’ ” sounded clarion clear, a fateful command that unraveled the peaceful, hot, sun-bright morning with brain-numbing speed.
    Ty was in the extreme rear, per Lieutenant Shannon’s orders, with every honest intention of remaining there. He was standing in the stirrups for a better view of the barricaded militia when bugles echoed in the valley; the front line of troopers broke into a gallop and Reb lunged ahead without any warning. Nearly unseated, he grasped the saddle horn with both hands, giving Reb a free rein. In five strides, the gray gelding was running at a full gallop and Ty was charging the enemy, orders be damned.
    He sawed on the reins, but Reb had the bit in his teeth, determined to catch his hoofed cohorts. Ty’s initial fear ebbed and he carefully drew his Remington, fingers locked on its walnut grips. Clods of dirt torn loose by the racing animals in front of him peppered his face and eyes, and he dropped beside Reb’s neck. Under the same earthen assault, Reb didn’t falter. Boone Jordan hadn’t told Ty about Reb’s whole history, but the horse surely had been a cavalry mount in the past.
    Ty was suddenly spurring Reb, completely immersed in a reckless, dangerous, and spontaneous undertaking that might cost him his life any second. Screeching rebel yells rose from the ranks of the raiders. Ty drew breath into lungs starved by excitement and joined them.
    Lancing flame erupted the length of the barricade blocking the road; wisely, the home guard had waited