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tent with his second-in-command and Red Blaze sat on one of the beds, his jacket off, Marsden’s weapon belt lying next to his own. A pair of saddles rested on burros, wooden racks like inverted A-shapes. One glance told Marsden that the Texans might use many Union items, but they stuck to their range rigs. The saddles had double girths and the type of low horn only rarely seen in New Mexico. A coiled, thirty-foot rope hung on one side of each saddle’s horn, with the slings for carrying a sabre at the other side. From the saddles, Marsden turned his attention to the arms leaning against the burros. As the Spencer carbine did not come into use until after the War started, he concluded the pair in the tent must be battlefield captures.
    From the Spencers, Marsden turned his eyes to the sabres arid saw something that interested him. He wondered how he could satisfy his curiosity.
    ‘Everything all right, Dusty?’ Red asked.
    ‘Sure. Have a bed brought in for Mr. Marsden, he’s our guest.’
    The order aroused no comment from Red. Among the regular officers of the Union and most of the Confederate brass the rules and chivalries of war were still honoured. A captured officer could expect decent treatment and certain privileges.
    ‘I’ll tend to it,’ Red promised. ‘His weapons are here, I left them until you told me how to dispose of them.’
    ‘You can let him have them back. He’ll be riding out with me in the morning.’
    Once again Red refrained from asking questions, although he clearly showed his surprise. Never before had Dusty taken a captive to a prisoner-of-war camp, his time being too fully occupied for him to be spared on such an unimportant detail. Nor did the return of the weapons lessen Red’s perplexity. While a regular Union officer’s sword might be returned to him by his captors, no Confederate would willingly part with such a highly prized item as an 1860 Army Colt; the most highly thought-of handgun to have made its appearance in the War.
    At last Red could hold his curiosity no longer. ‘What’s on, Cousin Dusty?’
    ‘I’ve a chore to handle, Mr. Marsden’s going along.’
    ‘Taking the troop?’
    ‘Nope. Just Billy Jack and Kiowa.’
    ‘Can you tell me about it?’
    ‘Later maybe,’ Dusty replied. ‘Have you ate yet?’
    ‘No, thought I’d wait for you.’
    ‘As soon as we’ve washed up, we’ll go and grab a meal then. Care to take first crack at the wash-bowl, Mr. Marsden.’
    ‘Thank you, sir,’ Marsden replied.
    ‘I’ll go tell the striker to bring more water,’ Red said, rising and walking from the tent.
    Restlessness drove Marsden to make conversation and he sought for something to talk about.
    ‘That’s not regulations, is it, sir?’ he asked, indicating the jacket Dusty removed and placed on the second bed.
    A grin came to Dusty’s face. ‘A shavetail called Mark Counter, in Sheldon’s outfit, started the no-skirt jacket and the idea caught on. I find it better for work than the authorised undress uniform.’
    Then Marsden recalled the thing which interested him on his arrival. Crossing the tent, he looked at the sabre on one of the burros.
    ‘May I, sir?’ he asked, reaching towards it.
    ‘Feel free,’ Dusty replied.
    At West Point and since, Marsden had always heard that the Confederate Army possessed poor swords. Shortage of material due to the blockade of Southern ports, lack of skilled tradesmen and forging facilities prevented the rebels from owning decent weapons. However, the pair of swords in that tent showed excellent workmanship and proved to be of Southern manufacture; no Union company would use the letters C.S.A. in the hilt pattern of its produce.
    The sabre Marsden examined had sharkskin-covered grips secured with gilt wire, and its blade sported a stopped blood gutter and an additional thin, deep channelling on both upper sides of the blade for added flexibility and strength. On examination, Marsden found the blade’s steel to be as good