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I had to skedaddle out of there. That’s how come I wound up with the Buffalo Soldiers.”
    “But you aren’t with the Buffalo Soldiers now.”
    “No, sir,” Ken replied.
    Ken offered no explanation as to why he was no longer with the Buffalo Soldiers, and Hawke didn’t ask.
    Hawke nodded toward the sign. “I see you’re not only a blacksmith, but you blast out tree stumps. You work with powder, do you?”
    “Not powder,” Ken said. “I use dynamite. It’s a lot easier.”
    “Yes, I’ve seen it used.”
    “You plan to leave your saddle here?” Ken asked.
    “Yes, I believe I will, if you don’t mind.”
    “No extra charge,” Ken said. “I reckon you’ll be wanting this, though.” He removed the saddle bags and snaked the rifle from the saddle sleeve then handed them to Hawke.
    “Yes, thanks,”
    As the big blacksmith took Hawke’s horse toward the stable, Hawke returned to the saloon.
    The Golden Calf was not the first saloon Hawke had worked in since the war, and he was sure it wouldn’t be his last. He had no plans to settle there or anywhere, and if someone questioned him, he would tell them that these piano-playing jobs were just stops along the way.
    “Along the way to where?” some would ask.
    Hawke had the same answer for all of them. “Anywhere in general, nowhere in particular.”
    Hawke’s father had been a United States congressman. He was also the owner of Goldcrest, one of the largest cotton plantations in Georgia. But the elder Hawke was a strong believer in primogeniture, which meant that the entire farm would go to Hawke’s older brother, Gordon.
    Hawke was not resentful of that fact. He had no desire to be a farmer; he was a musician, and a very good one. Going to Europe, he studied piano under the brilliant pianist, Franz Liszt, and was playing the European concert circuit to tremendous reviews when the War Between the States broke out.
    Shortly after the outbreak of the war, Hawke received a letter from his father, informing him that he had resigned his seat in Congress and was forming a regiment to fight with the Georgia Militia:
    I tell you this as a matter of information only. I make no request, nor do I expect you to join your brother and me in the war that is to come. It is my fervent hope and belief that your art has lifted you above such human foibles.
    Hawke went immediately to Lucien Garneau, his manager, and asked him to cancel the rest of the concert tour.
    “But Monsieur Hawke, what goes on in America is no longer any of your concern,” Garneau told him. “You are a citizen of the world now, your music, your God-given talent, belongs to the world. Even your father has said so.”
    “I cannot remain safely in Europe while my family and my state are facing the perils of war,” Hawke replied.
    Returning to America, Hawke joined his father’s regiment. As it turned out, the very skills that made him a brilliant pianist—digital flexibility and excellent hand-and-eye coordination—also made him especially proficient with weapons.
    He was first a cavalryman and then, because of his marksmanship, he was made a sharpshooter, killing enemy soldiers from long distances. He killed so many that he became deadened to it. That induced numbness was the only way he could survive the horror with his sanity intact.
     
    Hawke’s room was upstairs at the very back of the saloon. The bed had a tightly drawn rope for the springs, and a straw-filled mattress. There was a scarred armoire with a cream-colored pitcher and basin on top. He had one window that looked out over the alley, and when the breeze was right, he could smell the privy.
    Sitting on the side of the bed, he removed his boots, then lay back with his hands interlaced behind his head.
    Seeing Titus Culpepper this morning had been totally unexpected. It had been a long time since their paths had crossed, but that wasn’t always the case. During the war their destinies and survival were very much interlinked.
    Hawke