Durrant made his way across the tent city toward the barn and stables where he had been less than twelve hours ago. He drew his pistol as he came near. He cracked the gate on the Enfield’s awkward self-extracting system and ejected the spent cartridge. Reaching into his pocket, he slipped a live round into the cylinder. He latched the gate and pulled back the hammer on the revolver before stepping into the barn. “Mr. Paine?” he called. The barn was quiet. There were just four horses in their stables, and they looked up at him when he called. “Mr. Paine,” he called again, “it’s Durrant Wallace.” Nothing. Then he heard, “Step forward, Sergeant.” He looked up and could see Devon Paine’s face looking down at him through a trap door in the ceiling. “If you’ve got that shotgun up there with you, you had best keep your hands off it, Mr. Paine.” “I got it, but it’s not in my hands,”
