Read Chapter 13: The Deserted Farm

The rain had stopped by the time Elias reached the crossroads, but the mud clung to his boots like a confession. He pulled the folded dispatch from his coat—Pierce's handwriting, hasty but precise, describing a farm three miles east of the pike where crates had been coming and going for weeks. Union rifles, the signalman had written. Confederate buyers. A middleman nobody could name.

Elias crumpled the paper and shoved it back into his pocket. The mare beneath him flicked her ears at the distant rumble of thunder, or something worse. He pressed her forward.

The farm appeared through the treeline like a scar on the land—a two-story clapboard house with a collapsed porch and a barn whose roof sagged in the middle, as if the whole place had given up on being anything but forgotten. But the tracks in the mud told a different story. Fresh wheel ruts, deep and wide, cutting from the road to the barn doors. A wagon had been here recently. Heavy.

Elias dismounted and tied the mare to a fence post that wobbled in the wet ground. He took the long way around, keeping to the treeline, watching the windows. No lamps. No movement. But the barn doors were slightly ajar, and that was enough.

He slipped through the gap and stopped.

Crates. Dozens of them, stacked in neat rows that turned the barn's interior into a maze of pine and iron. He pulled the lid off the nearest one with his knife and saw the unmistakable gleam of rifle barrels wrapped in oilcloth. Springfield models, Union issue, stamped with the arsenals of Massachusetts and New York. He counted three rows of fifteen in the first crate alone. There had to be five hundred rifles in this barn, maybe more.

A fortune in steel. Enough to arm a brigade.

Elias crouched beside the crates, running his fingers over the oilcloth. The irony was almost too sharp to swallow—Union guns meant for Confederate hands, funneled through the same shadowy channels Grey had mastered. The war was eating itself from the inside. He'd known that for years. But seeing it stacked here, neat and patient, made it real in a way casualty reports never could.

He pulled one of the rifles free and checked the action. Clean. Well-maintained. Whoever was buying these intended to use them soon.

Bootsteps. Mud-sucking, heavy, coming from behind the barn.

Elias froze. The rifle was in his hands, half-raised, and he had a single heartbeat to decide whether to run or hide. He chose neither. He slipped between two stacks of crates, pressing his back against the splintered wood as the barn door creaked wider.

Two men entered. One carried a lantern that threw long shadows across the floor; the other dragged a canvas-wrapped bundle that clinked with every step.

"—said the tenth, no later. The buyer's getting twitchy."

"Buyer can twitch all he wants. The rails are still wet and the patrols are thicker than fleas on a hound. If Grey wants his guns moved, he'll wait like the rest of us."

Elias's throat tightened. Grey.

The man with the lantern set it on a crate not ten feet from Elias's hiding spot. The light spilled over his face—a thin scar running from his jaw to his collar, disappearing beneath a checkered shirt. Elias knew that face. He'd seen it in Grey's office, watching him with cold, patient eyes.

The scarred-neck gunman.

"Grey don't wait," the second man said. He was younger, softer, with the nervous energy of a man who'd been promised money but hadn't seen it yet. "He's already lost one shipment to that wreck. The gold train. He's not about to lose this one too."

The gunman didn't answer. He walked the rows of crates, counting under his breath, and stopped directly in front of Elias's hiding spot. The boards between them were thin enough that Elias could see the weave of the man's shirt. Could hear his breathing. Slow. Measured.

"You hear something?"

The younger man shook his head. "Just the wind."

The gunman held still a moment longer, then moved on.

Elias let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His fingers had gone white around the rifle, and he forced himself to loosen his grip. He needed to get out. Needed to take one of the rifles as evidence and ride back to Richmond before—

The barn door slammed open.

Elias's heart seized. A third man stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the gray sky, a shotgun cradled in his arms. "We got trouble," he said, voice taut. "Rider coming up the pike. Union uniform."

The gunman swore and grabbed the lantern. "Kill the light. Everyone to the back."

The younger man extinguished the lantern, and the barn plunged into a darkness so complete it felt like drowning. Elias heard them moving—boots scuffling, fabric rustling, the soft click of a rifle being chambered. He stayed frozen between the crates, the Springfield still in his hands, his breath shallow.

The Union rider. It had to be Pierce. It had to be.

Elias moved.

He slipped along the back wall of the barn, using the crates as cover, heading for a loose board he'd noticed near the corner. If he could reach it, he could squeeze through and circle around to warn Pierce before the gunman got a clean shot. But the floor was littered with debris, and every step seemed to crack like a gunshot in the silence.

He was five feet from the loose board when a hand closed around his ankle.

Elias didn't have time to think. He swung the rifle backward, felt it connect with something soft, and heard a grunt of pain. The hand released, and he scrambled forward, slamming into the loose board. It gave way with a groan, and he tumbled through the opening into the wet grass outside.

"Run!" he shouted, as loud as he dared, hoping Pierce could hear him.

The answer came as gunfire. A single crack, then another, from the front of the farm. Elias ran toward it, the rifle still in his hands, his lungs burning. He broke through the treeline and saw Pierce's horse, riderless, bolting down the pike. And Pierce himself, crouched behind an overturned cart, firing a revolver at the farmhouse.

"They're inside the house!" Pierce yelled. "Two of them, flanking!"

Elias dove behind the cart next to him, shells whining overhead. "I found the guns. Springfield rifles. Grey's men are guarding them."

Pierce's eyes widened. "Grey. Of course it's Grey." He fired again, and a window shattered in the farmhouse. "We can't hold this position. There's too much open ground."

"Then we don't hold it." Elias reached into his coat and pulled out the dispatch from the station—the one that had brought him here. It was damp, but the ink was still legible. He shoved it into Pierce's chest. "Take this. It's a warrant for inspection of suspected contraband. Signed by Major Weller. If we're caught, this makes me official."

Pierce stared at the paper, then at Elias. "And you?"

"I'm going to make sure they follow me, not you."

Before Pierce could argue, Elias rose from behind the cart and fired the Springfield into the air. The shot echoed across the field. "Over here! The signalman's got a horse!"

A bullet whizzed past his ear, close enough to feel the heat of it. He ducked and ran, angling toward the far side of the farm, away from Pierce. The gunmen would follow him. They always did.

The last thing he saw before he disappeared into the trees was the scarred-neck gunman stepping out of the barn, the lantern held high, watching him with the same cold patience Elias had seen in Grey's office. The man didn't raise his weapon. He just watched. And smiled.

Elias ran until his legs gave out.

When he finally stopped, bent over and gasping beside a creek, he realized what the smile meant. The gunman hadn't chased him because he didn't need to. He'd seen Elias's face. He'd seen him leaving the barn. He'd seen the rifle in his hands.

Grey would know by nightfall.

And Grey would come.