Read The Lady in the Mist (The Western Werewolf Legend #1) Page 30

  ***

  Day broke in a thin drizzle. The Confederate camp rose slowly as if the dampness seeped into their bones. Ty rolled to a squat and walked hunched over out of the small tent. The captain waited next to the opening.

  "Do your business. The general wants to see you." The captain's tone bore weight as if the heavy burden settled between his shoulders. Standing in the presence of Stewart, Ty understood why he had gotten the impression of impending doom.

  "You're to be court-marshaled, Lieutenant, as soon as the sun is fully up." Stewart's grave voice echoed in the silence of the canvas tent. His second in command stood behind him, and the captain flanked Ty.

  Ty's mind went to Sonja. If he did not escape, how would she survive with the constant threat of Vampires without his help? He would escape, that's all there was to the mess.

  "Do you have anything to say in your defense, sir?" The general's position of authority made him structure each word carefully.

  "Yes, sir. I'm innocent of any wrongdoing. I regret I wasn't able to complete my mission, but we were ambushed using enough force not to be anything but planned."

  Stewart's jaw clamped in consideration. "The rules of combat are straight-forward, Lieutenant. You were to report to your commanding officer immediately. You didn't do that. My sergeant reports you ran when confronted by Confederate soldiers. Can you explain the action?"

  Ty's brow furrowed, his face going taught. The muscle along his cheek clenched tight, his teeth ground against each other. Fire burned in his eyes and his gut. If he could only remember some of that night after he had lost Sonja in the woods. Any clue as to what he had done before he woke to the Rebel soldiers standing over him, their rifles pointed at his heart was gone with the change back to a man's body.

  Stewart continued in the official, no-nonsense tone of a superior officer. "Do you know how the guns meant for the men of our Confederate regiment came into the hands of the Union troops?"

  Ty's head jerked up. His face showed pure shock. He took a step forward before he could stop himself. The captain's grip reminded him of the situation, and he halted before wearily shaking his head. What a devastating fact. No wonder, the General issued the order for court-martial. One more nail in his coffin, he mused. How had he missed the Yankees confiscating the goods, his men and he had been transporting that night? Ty assumed the rifles had burned in the heat or exploded along with the gunpowder. Glancing at Stewart's face, he could tell the general wanted desperately to throw him a lifeline. He composed himself and calmed the need to prove himself. His time had come. Standing as tall as the chains of the shackles would allow, he stared straight ahead, like a proud Confederate soldier at attention. "No sir, I am not."

  "Tyler Jacob Loflin, by the power vested in me by the Confederate States of America and President Jefferson, I order you to be shot before a firing squad at nine hundred hours this day, the fifteen of June, 1863." Stewart paused and swallowed. "May God have mercy on your soul."

  Ty remained at attention. His muscles tense, his mouth in a thin line across his face.

  "Do you have any last request?"

  Ty remained silent.

  Stewart's mouth pursed as he studied Ty's ramrod position. "Very well." He rose slowly with all the decorum his military rank decreed. "Captain, secure the prisoner. Prepare him for his punishment." With that, he lifted his right hand in salute to Ty, holding the position along with his second in command as the captain turned Ty, heading for the door.