12Eastern Indian Territory
With as little noise as possible, Clay, Martin, and Bryan rode into the dark campsite. A dilapidated wagon lay with its long wooden tongue propped against the ground several yards away from the dying fire. Tied to the tongue was a lone gray horse, quietly pulling at tufts of grass between its hooves. Clay placed a finger against his lips and motioned for Martin and Bryan to dismount. They ground-tied their horses near the gray and cautiously spread out, finding good positions around the campfire.
The major’s head was slumped forward, and as Clay crept closer, an occasional snore interrupted the silence. Clay’s gaze, however, remained focused on the army-issue revolver gripped in the major’s bandaged fist. Occasional bursts of red embers scattered into the night
