The world before Nate Carson's eyes was as gloomy as the one behind them. The morning mist hung on the air like a stale, gray shroud. Nate shivered beneath his single wool blanket and stared out from his lean-to. He could just make out the row of oaks, phantom sentries, that shielded his makeshift camp from the road. There was something else in the mist; something just beyond recognition, but coming closer. Hoof beats, muffled by the fog, but definately hoof beats approaching and at least a dozen strong.
      Yankee cavalry
      Nate hugged the ground. In his pocket he carried his parole; the one that identified him as Captain Nate Carson, 18th Georgia. It was supposed to provide him safe passage home, but Nate knew things didn't always go as they were supposed to, and when they didn't men died.
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