It was an interesting interlude. Nathan and Lacy remained after the meal, joining some of the other residents in the parlor. Lacy quickly gained the friendship of the actress by asking numerous questions, and when Nathan and Lacy returned to their quarters, Lacy had the promise of passes to the opening performance of the new melodrama.

“I didn’t know you were interested in the theatre,” Nathan said.

“I didn’t know it myself, until tonight,” said Lacy. “Listening to Eva, talking to her, it all came back to me. When Pa died and Ma remarried—when I was so unhappy—I pretended that I lived in St. Louis, that I rode in fancy carriages, that I was somebody. It became real to me, and I ... I believed it.”

“Maybe you should talk to Eva about getting into the theatre,” Nathan said. “I’ve never been to the theatre, but I’ve heard you can learn the trade by becoming an understudy. I reckon you have to work for nothing until you learn what to do and when to do it.”

“God,” said Lacy, “I could never do anything as glamorous as that. I’m just a coward. I escaped into my dreams because I hated my life like it was.”

But the more Lacy saw of Eva Barton, the more she changed. At first, she and Nathan attended the theatre, but Nathan grew tired of the repetition. So there were nights when Lacy went with Eva, remaining backstage.

Nathan spent his days learning the town and visiting various saloons. There were many, such as the Albany, the Windsor, the Silver Dollar, the Brown Palace, and the Denver Bagnio, owned by Laura Evans. Competition was fierce, and some saloons employed barbers. It was a convenient means for more timid patrons to sneak a few drinks before or after a haircut or shave.

But all Nathan’s time wasn’t spent in saloons. He developed a friendship with the banker, Ames Tilden, and taking Tilden’s advice, deposited most of his money in the bank. He had gained the banker’s confidence by expressing an interest in mining. By doing so, it entitled him to ask questions about mines in Colorado Territory. He pursued the lead he had gotten from Lacy regarding the possibility that Clint Foster and Milo Jenks were in Colorado because of a silver mine. But Ames Tilden quickly dashed all his hopes.

“There have been traces of silver to the south of here,” said Tilden, “but it’s all been low grade ore. Nobody’s going to kill himself digging for a pittance in silver, when there’s gold to be had.”

“I reckon not,” Nathan said. “How far south is gold being mined?”

“The most prominent mines,” said Tilden,” are Gregory Diggings, Idaho Springs, California Gulch, and Fairplay. They’re all within a day’s ride, and along the plains, before you get into the foothills approaching the divide. There are some lesser diggings farther south, but most have played out. One such place that’s still being worked—on the Rio Grande, not more than a dozen miles this side of New Mexico Territory—has a town built around the diggings. It’s called Ciudad de Oro.”²⁶

“But you don’t think it’s worth considering.”

“Probably not. There are far more promising mines—gold and silver—in Nevada and southern Arizona. In Nevada, there’s Virginia City, Gold Hill, Wellington, Aurora, Rawhide, Tonopah, Goldfield, Pioche, and Callville. In south central Arizona, there’s the Tip Top and the Vulture. Southwest from there is the Texas Hill, the Ajo, the Cooper, and the Tubec. There are others, I’m sure. There are government maps available, if you’re interested.”

“Get me those maps,” Nathan said, “and I’ll pay for them. What I’m looking for may not be in Colorado.”

Denver. December 4, 1867.

Nathan rode to several of the mines nearest Denver, but found not a trace of either of the men he sought. He wasn’t surprised, as he could not imagine killers involving themselves in anything even close to honest labor. Nathan returned in the early afternoon to Cherry Creek Manor to find Ezra, Josephine, Lacy, Eva Barton, and a local doctor gathered around a sheet-covered utility table in the Grimes’s kitchen. Cotton Blossom lay on his left side. His right hind leg and most of his hindquarters oozed blood.

“Nathan,” Lacy cried, tears streaking her cheeks, “he’s been shot.”

“Who did it?”

“We have no idea,” Ezra said. “He’d dragged himself as far as the road, and I found him as I was returning from town. This is Doc Embry. I rode back to town for him, and he’s promised to do what he can.”

“This is completely beyond any training I’ve had,” said the doctor. “He’s been hit with buckshot. I’ve managed to stop the bleeding. Now it’ll all depend on how deep the lead is, and whether or not it’s damaged any vital organs. For a certainty the lead will have to be removed.”

“Do what you can, doc,” Nathan said. “If there’s anything you need, any medicine ...”

“What I have with me will be sufficient,” said Embrv. “All I can do is remove the lead and disinfect the wound. After that, he’ll be up against the same danger as a man with a gunshot wound. The infection could kill him.”

“God,” Nathan groaned, “how do you get whiskey down a dog?”

“You don’t,” said the doctor, “and it wouldn’t matter if you could. A dog doesn’t sweat. Right now, he’s more dead than alive, and all I can tell you to do is wrap him in blankets, get him before a roaring fire, and try to raise his body temperature. He can’t sweat, but he can pant. See that he at least does that. In the morning, if he’s still alive, remove the bandage and douse the wound with more disinfectant. Keep him warm until he dies or shows some signs of healing.”

With that, Doc Embry began the tedious job of probing for the buckshot, and not even Nathan could stomach that. He turned away, recalling the miles he and Cotton Blossom had traveled together, wondering if this trail would be the last one. Josephine left the room for a few minutes and returned with an armload of blankets.

“These have been retired until there was a need for them,” she said.

Doctor Embry worked for almost an hour removing all the lead pellets. He doused the wound with disinfectant and bandaged it as best he could. He cleaned his instruments, returned them to his satchel, and then he spoke.

“He’s more fortunate than I at first thought. He didn’t take a full load, but enough to cost him a lot of blood. Keep him warm, or better yet, hot. If he makes it through tomorrow, he’ll be all right.”

“I’m obliged, Doc,” said Nathan, insisting that the doctor accept a double eagle.

When Doctor Embry had gone, Nathan and Ezra carefully wrapped Cotton Blossom in all the blankets, until only his nose was visible.

“I’ll build a fire at our place,” Nathan said. “You folks have done more than enough, and I’ll stay up with him tonight.”

“You’ll need hot coffee,” said Josephine. “Build up the fire here in the parlor, and lay him before it. We’ll stay up and keep you company.”

And that’s the way it was. Nathan kept adding wood to the fire, and he sweated far into the night. Each time he touched Cotton Blossom’s nose, it felt warm. Before dawn he was exhausted, and Ezra took over adding wood to the fire. Nathan slept an hour, and when he awoke, he thought his eyes were deceiving him, for the bundle of blankets was moving! Dropping to his knees, he drew the blankets away from Cotton Blossom’s head, to find the dog looking at him.

“By God,” Nathan shouted, “he’s gonna make it!”

Ezra Grimes knelt beside him, feeling Cotton Blossom’s nose.

“He’s better,” said Ezra, “but he ain’t gonna be lopin’ around for quite a spell.”

“I expect he thinks we’re trying to roast him alive,” Josephine said. “Ezra, fix up a wide wooden box for him. With that mess of blankets, he ought to be plenty warm in the kitchen, next to the stove. He’s welcome to sleep there until he heals.”

Cotton Blossom improved and began to eat. Often. It would be a while before he could walk, however. Josephine seemed to enjoy his company.

“She should have had a houseful of young’uns,” Ezra confided. “We had a son, and he died young.”

Denver. December 6, 1867.

It was still early, hours before Nathan would escort Lacy to the Palace Theatre for the first performance of Under the Gaslight. With Cotton Blossom on the mend and time on his hands, Nathan’s mind turned again to the elusive Clinton Foster and Milo Jenks. Damn it, if he failed to find them in Colorado, where would he go from here? Frustrated, he rode into town, determined to visit every saloon there at least one more time. Some of them wouldn’t open until noon. In the first two, he encountered bleary-eyed barkeeps who told him nothing. The third saloon—the Denver Bagnio—had a whorehouse upstairs and a single patron in the saloon. Nathan ordered a beer, and when the barkeep brought it, he posed the same question that had gone unanswered many, many times.

“I’m looking for a pair of hombres name of Clinton Foster and Milo Jenks. Ever hear of them?”

“Friend,” said the barkeep, “I don’t remember names worth a damn. Keeps me out of trouble.”

Nathan finished his beer and was about to go, when the Bagnio’s lone patron caught his eye. Dressed in miner’s garb, he hoisted the bottle, and Nathan thought he was being offered a drink. Out of courtesy, he spoke.

“Thanks, pardner, but it’s too early for that.”

“Hell, that wasn’t what I was meanin’. Bring me a bottle, and I’ll tell you about them varmints you was askin’ about. They friends of yours?”

“No,” Nathan said. “Barkeep, bring this gent another bottle of whatever he’s drinking. I’m buying.”

“Now,” said Nathan, taking a chair, “what do you have to say that’s worth a bottle of whiskey?”

“Depends,” he said, “on how much you want to know about Foster an’ Jenks. I can tell you where they was two weeks ago, an’ what they was doin’.”

“Then tell me.”

The stranger said nothing, waiting until the barkeep brought the bottle. He pulled the cork with his teeth, filled his glass and emptied it. Only then did he speak.

“Virginia City, Nevada. Foster an’ Jenks is part of a bunch of thieves that’s robbin’ miners of their gold. Kind of like the Plummer gang, back in Virginia City, Montana Territory, in sixty-three an’ -four. These two-legged varmints wait till you got enough gold in your poke to make it worth their while, an’ then they bushwhack you. Me an’ two other hombres snuck out in the middle of the night an’ escaped ‘em. They purely ain’t no law, an’ these sidewinders hang around the saloons an’ play cards, waitin’ for some fool to wind up his diggings an’ try to leave with his gold. This Foster an’ Jenks, besides bein’ thieves an’ killers, is just poison mean. I seen ’em provoke a man into a fight an’ then beat him to death.”

“You’re sure about the names, then,” Nathan said.

“Hell, yes, I’m sure. They claim to be from Missouri, an’ they talk like it. They look like some of the trash that might of deserted durin’ the war. Are you the law?”

“No,” said Nathan, kicking back his chair. He got up and left before any more questions could be directed at him. He didn’t know the man’s name, but that wasn’t important, for his story had a ring of truth. Nathan rode back to Cherry Creek Manor. Despite his strong lead, he wanted those maps Ames Tilden had promised, even if he had to wait for them.

Under the Gaslight opened to capacity crowds. It was a major production, with musicians in the orchestra pit. Nathan was impressed. Later, when he and Lacy were alone in their quarters, she made an announcement that didn’t surprise Nathan.

“Monday, I’m reading for a part in Under the Gaslight. If I’m good enough, I’ll become Eva’s understudy. Do you think I can do it?”

“Yes,” said Nathan, “I believe you have the feeling for it. I’ve learned that Foster and Jenks, two of the men I’m after, are holed up in a Nevada mining town. Will you look after Cotton Blossom while I’m gone?”

“If he needs looking after,” said Lacy. “Josephine’s spoiling that dog. Why don’t you wait until after Christmas before you go? We may never spend another Christmas together.”

“Maybe I will,” Nathan said, knowing he must wait for the maps that Ames Tilden had promised him. “Before I go, I need to talk to Ames Tilden. I aim to leave you a thousand dollars. I’ve deposited most of the rest of it in the bank, and if I don’t return within a year, Tilden will see that you get it.”

Despite his desire to take up the vengeance trail, Nathan didn’t regret his decision to wait until after Christmas, for in mid-December a blizzard swept in from the west, filling the mountain passes with impossibly high drifts of snow. The temperature didn’t rise, and there was more snow. Three days before Christmas, Nathan stopped by the bank and picked up the government maps Ames Tilden had secured for him. But the bad weather continued, and Nathan could only wait. Not until the second day of January was there a warming trend and relief from snow and freezing temperatures. Nathan decided to travel light, and arranged to leave the pack horse with Ezra. While Ezra and Josephine knew nothing of his purpose in riding away, with Lacy remaining in Denver, they had no reason to question his return. He rode into town and bought enough supplies to last a month, and while there, he bought a newspaper. One item interested him. In October, Ben Thompson had been involved in a near shooting in Austin, Texas. As noted by the press, it was one of the rare occasions when Thompson had acted on the other side of the law. He had drawn his pistol and driven away five thugs who had been attacking a local judge.

Virginia City, Nevada. January 28, 1868.

Encountering more snow along the way, Nathan had been forced to hole up and wait out several storms. The very first thing that caught his attention as he rode into the mining town was a prominent sign that read “Sheriff.” His informant had said there was no law. Nathan dismounted and entered the office. The sheriff was a big man, none of it fat. He carried a tied-down Colt on his left hip, and a Winchester leaned against the wall. Nathan introduced himself.

“Sheriff Ab Dupree. What can I do for you?”

“I’m lookin’ for a pair of hombres,” said Nathan. “Jenks and Foster by name.”

“Friends of yours?” Dupree asked. His eyes had turned cold.

“No,” said Nathan. “I aim to kill them both.”

“I wish you luck,” Dupree said, relaxing. “We strung up nine of the no-account coyotes just before Christmas. Thieves and killers, every one, and my one regret is that Jenks and Foster—if that’s their names—escaped.”

Discouraged, Nathan rode out, bound for Gold Hill.

Gold Hill, Nevada. February 2, 1868.

“Them varmints wouldn’t of stopped here,” Nathan was told. “Try Tonopah, Callville, or Pioche. They’re new camps, an’ likely no law.”

Callville, Nevada. March 10, 1868.

Nathan rode to Tonopah and Pioche, but learned nothing of Jenks and Foster until he reached Callville, far to the south, on the bank of the Colorado. It was a small camp, all but played out, and Nathan found the miners angry.

“Hell, yes, they was here,” Nathan was told. “They hung around the cafe and the saloon, learnin’ what they could. Three miners was dry gulched in two days, losin’ their gold and their lives.”

“Which way did they go when they left here?” Nathan asked.

“The bastards crossed the river an’ rode into Arizona,” a miner said. “We got up a posse an’ went after ’em, but they lost us.”

Nathan studied the map of Arizona Ames Tilden had supplied. While there were many mines marked on the map, Tilden had cautioned that some of them had probably played out. Wearly, Nathan mounted and rode across the Colorado.

Tombstone, Arizona. April I5, 1868.

Wearily, Nathan dismounted before the sheriff’s office. He had ridden into almost two dozen mining camps without finding a trace of the men he was seeking. Not surprising, he thought, for most of the camps were small pickings, not wealthy enough to attract the murderous Jenks and Foster.

“They were here,” said Sheriff Lon Hankins. “We ain’t a mining town, but we got a strong bank, and we’ve learned to recognize bank robbers before they clean us out. We met these varmints with a dose of lead, and if they hadn’t hit us at closin’ time, we’d have run ‘em down. We got some lead in ’em, but nothin’ serious enough to stop ‘em. They hung on until dark, and that’s when we lost ’em. They rode north.”

There had been no rain, and Nathan managed to pick up the northbound trail of two horsemen. While he had no assurance the riders he was trailing were the elusive Jenks and Foster, he had no other leads. Near the ashes of a recent fire, he found a bloody bandanna, proof enough that at least one of the men had been wounded. Nathan’s spirits rose. While the pair had eluded him so far, they were on the run. They had avoided villages and isolated ranches, and seemed to have some destination in mind. Nathan studied his map of Arizona, and from landmarks, decided the fugitives had crossed into northwestern New Mexico Territory. His heart leaped. Could they be bound for Denver? But that didn’t seem possible. The trail continued almost due east, and when it reached a river, Nathan reined up, searching his memory. While studying a map of the southwest, he had noticed that the famed Rio Grande—which became the border between Texas and Mexico—had its beginning in southern Colorado. Could this be the Rio Grande? The trail Nathan was following turned due north, following the river.

“By God,” said Nathan aloud, “they’re headed straight for that little town in southern Colorado, Ciudad de Oro.”

Denver, Colorado Territory. April 1, 1868.

Lacy Mayfield and Eva Barton had just left the Palace Theatre, having made arrangements for Lacy’s debut on stage the next Friday.

“God,” Lacy said, “I’m scared to death. I wish Nathan was here for this.”

“Perhaps it’s better that he isn’t,” said Eva. “When he returns, you’ll have a surprise for him.”

While Nathan was gone, Lacy had been sharing a room with Eva, and from time to time, Cotton Blossom joined them. It had taken him a month to gain the use of his hindquarters. Now he often sat near the barn, waiting, for he knew that when Nathan returned, he would be riding the black horse. Sometimes, Ezra or Josephine would lure Cotton Blossom into the kitchen, feed him, and he would spend the night beside the stove. Lacy had begun reading the local newspaper, for it carried accounts of Indian raids, such as those by Quanah Parker and his Comanches in West Texas, of doings at the various forts, of new diggings in Montana and Nevada Territories, and of outlaws who had been killed or captured. Ezra found her at the table in the kitchen, with a cup of coffee and the newspaper.

“Anything good happening?” Ezra asked.

“If there is,” said Lacy, “I haven’t found it. In January, in California, a man named John Morco was beating his wife. Four men came to her rescue, and this Morco murdered them all. In March, the James and Younger gangs robbed the Southern Bank of Kentucky, in Russellville.”

She folded the newspaper and put it aside. She always read it with the hope there might be some word of Nathan Stone, yet fearing that if there was, it would chronicle his death.

Ciudad de Oro, Colorado Territory. May 3, 1868.

Ignoring the rest of the town, Nathan reined up before the Oro Peso Saloon. On the glass window, lettered in fancy red and gold script, Nathan read: “Law Offices and Court Room—Judge Elijah Tewksbury.” Dismounting, he looped the reins of his horse over the hitch rail and stepped through the swinging doors into the saloon. Nathan counted six men, one of them the barkeep. He stood with his hands on the bar, while the five men gathered at an oval table forgot their poker hands. Nathan stepped to his left, away from the bar, away from the swinging doors, his back to the wall. Then he spoke.

“I’m looking for Clinton Foster and Milo Jenks.”

The silence became deadly, the only sound being the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer. One of the men facing Nathan backed his chair away from the table, leading several of the others to do the same. The barkeep might have a sawed-off shotgun beneath the bar, lethal at close range, and it was a risk Nathan Stone couldn’t afford to take. He spoke again.

“I want Foster and Jenks, nobody else. But I’ll kill any man backing their play.”

Slowly the first man who had backed away from the table stood up, and when none of his comrades moved, Nathan knew he had a chance. He waited for the other man to draw, and when he did, Nathan shot him, slamming him into his chair and tipping it over backwards. Nobody moved, and Nathan kept the Colt steady. Suddenly a door at the far end of the bar opened, and a man who had to be Judge Elijah Tewksbury stepped into the room. His dress consisted of a long swallowtail coat, dark trousers, black polished boots, and a white boiled shirt behind a black string tie.

“I am Judge Elijah Tewksbury,” he said in a bullfrog voice. “This is a peaceful town. Who are you, and what is the meaning of this?”

“I came here looking for Clinton Foster and Milo Jenks,” said Nathan. “They’re a pair of killers. One of them just drew on me and I shot him. Now who is the varmint I just shot, and where’s the other one?”

“The man you just shot is Clinton Foster,” Tewksbury said. “At least, that’s how we knew him. We know nothing of his past. Milo Jenks rode out a week ago. He was asked to leave, and I have no idea where he went. Do any of you know?”

“When they come here,” said one of the men, “they rode in from the south. I remember Jenks talkin’ about a woman he knowed in Austin, Texas. Kept sayin’ he aimed to go there.”

“I am asking you to leave,” Tewksbury said. “Immediately.”

Nathan said nothing. Keeping his Colt cocked and ready, he moved to his right and backed toward the doors. Knowing the risk, he backed out of the saloon. Once he was clear of the swinging doors, he whirled with his back to the wall. Immediately there was the clamor of voices and the thump of boots, and Nathan fired once beneath the swinging doors. The lead slammed into the saloon floor and the activity ceased. His Colt ready and his eyes on the door, he seized the reins and mounted his horse. He sidestepped the black away from the door and kicked it into a fast gallop, riding south.

Milo Jenks hadn’t shared Clinton Foster’s liking for the seclusion of the Ciudad de Oro, and when Jenks had fought with another of Tewksbury’s men, he had willfully allowed himself to be driven out. From there he had ridden to Fort Dodge, taking with him two thousand dollars in gold, his share of the money he and Foster had accumulated from various robberies. Let Foster lay around Tewksbury’s saloon and drink himself broke. While Jenks didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, he quickly decided Fort Dodge wasn’t it. It was no better than Ciudad de Oro, and possessed the added disadvantage of an eagle-eyed marshal who viewed strangers with suspicion. Jenks rode west, bound for Denver. There he made the acquaintance of Laura Evans, owner of the Bagnio Saloon, and after two weeks of sharing her bed, invested his two thousand dollars. A man could do worse than owning part of a saloon in a boom town, especially when there was a thriving whorehouse upstairs ...

Riding far enough south to be sure he wasn’t being followed, Nathan reined up to rest the black and to consider what he had learned. Should he ride on to Austin, with no word to Lacy? Already two days out of Denver, if he returned here, it would cost him another two days. Besides, Lacy couldn’t go with him. Tomorrow she would be reading for a part in Under the Gaslight, and the wounded Cotton Blossom might be unable to travel for a month. As he recalled, his last words to Lacy had cautioned that he could be gone for as long as a year. With that possibility in mind, he had left her money enough for just such an absence. He rode south, bound for Austin.

Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory. May 5, 1868.

Nathan rode into Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory at sundown, two days south of Ciudad de Oro. After stabling his horse, he found a restaurant and ordered a platter of ham and eggs. Finishing that, he ordered a second one. His hunger satisfied, he got himself a hotel room and slept soundly until first light. Arising, he returned to the restaurant and had breakfast. Next to his hotel, the Santa Fe Saloon did a thriving business around the clock. It offered drinks of all kinds—domestic and imported—and there was a trio of billiard tables. Early as it was, there was a poker game in progress, with four men pitting their skills against those of a house dealer. Despite Eulie’s warning, Nathan still thrilled to a fast-moving saloon game, the captivating flutter of the shuffled cards, the clink of glasses. Mostly to justify his being there, he sidled over and questioned the barkeep.

“I’m looking for an hombre name of Milo Jenks. Have you maybe seen or heard of him?”

“No. Not much goin’ on during my shift. Talk to the night men.”

Nathan returned to his room for his saddlebags. With Jenks riding to Austin, Nathan thought it unlikely that he would remain in any town for more than a night, and just as unlikely that he would be remembered. However, it required only a little time to inquire along the way, and Nathan did exactly that in each town or village through which he passed.

When Nathan reached the point in the Rio Grande where the river veered due south, he rode southeast, knowing this would eventually put him in Texas. If his sense of direction hadn’t failed him entirely, somewhere in southwest Texas he would come up on the Rio Colorado. He could then follow it the rest of the way, for the river flowed through Austin on its way to the Gulf of Mexico. Three days after leaving the Rio Grande, Nathan reached what he believed must be the Rio Colorado.²⁷ It was sluggish and shallow, but it reached a width and depth worthy of its name as it progressed. Nathan rode all that day and the next, uncertain as to exactly where he was, but sure of his direction. He moved away from the river at night, carefully dousing his fire, lest it draw the unwelcome attention of marauding Comanches. This being Nathan’s first time through west Texas, it seemed sparsely populated, if at all.

At the end of his second day on the Colorado, he was about to unsaddle his horse when there came the unmistakable sound of gunfire somewhere to the south. While it wasn’t his fight, there was the possibility that some poor soul was pinned down by Indians, and a man with a Winchester might make a difference. There were no more shots, and Nathan reined up when he heard cursing. Drawing his Winchester from the boot, he cocked it and trotted his horse ahead until he came upon seven men dressed in Union blue. One of them—a private—was using a doubled lariat to beat a half-naked man who lay face down on the ground.

“That’s enough,” Nathan said. “You’re exceeding the limits of military discipline.”

“I am Captain Derrick,” the one man in officer’s uniform said, “and this is none of your business. Ride on, or you’ll be placed under military arrest and taken to the guard house at Fort Concho. Carry on, Private.”

The private drew back for another blow with the lariat only to have a slug from Nathan’s Winchester rip through the flesh of his upraised arm. But the impromptu act cost Nathan, for one of the soldiers shot him out of the saddle. His Winchester was torn from his hand, and his entire shoulder and right arm was numb. He had been hit high up, beneath the collar bone.

“Get up,” Captain Derrick ordered. “Sergeant Webber, relieve this man of his weapons and assist him in mounting. Privates Emmons and Taylor, lash the deserter across his saddle.”

Webber took Nathan’s Winchester and his cartridge belt with its twin Colts. Nathan watched as Emmons and Taylor hoisted the beaten man across his saddle. All the blood hadn’t come from the beating. The poor devil had been shot at least twice. In the back. Captain Derrick regarded Nathan with hard, cruel eyes. Finally he spoke.

“You, sir, are under military arrest. You will be taken to Fort Concho, given medical attention and held there until I decide your punishment.”