Nineteen-year-old Joe Hernandez lay as flat as a tortilla behind the dead chestnut gelding. He had one bullet left.

The sun was yellow and flat in the blue New Mexico sky. Sweat cut trails down his face. His blue Union army uniform was dusty and clung to his skin. He squinted down the barrel of his Sharps carbine in the white glare of the blistering noonday sun. The sharp smell of dust was in the air and patches of heat-dried grass dotted the desert floor. He faced south in open terrain except behind him where a bench's steep slope stretched two hundred feet toward the sky.

Ninety feet in front of Hernandez, boulders lay scattered, as if a giant had rolled them like dice. Hidden among the boulders was a man with a rifle keeping Hernandez's head down.

Hernandez took a sip from one of his two canteens, rolled the warm water around inside his mouth, and swallowed. He ran his tongue over his lips.

He was sorry to have to shoot his horse. It snapped a forelock galloping to evade the Confederate soldier that had him pinned down. The dead gelding was the only thing between him and a rebel bullet. At least a shot from his carbine had smashed the Confederate's canteen. It lay dry and empty between the dead horse and the boulders.

Hernandez was stocky and as hard as a knot. Black hair topped a handsome face with dark eyes and a taut square jaw that looked like it smiled a lot. He flexed his leg muscles to ease cramping, and the movement drew a bullet from the Confederate behind the boulders. It hit the dead horse with a "thwack". The crack of the rifle followed a split second behind the bullet. From the sound, Hernandez reckoned his opponent was using a rifled musket.

Hernandez poked his Sharps breech-loading carbine around the back end of the horse. He dismissed the thought of wasting his last .52 caliber paper cartridge by squeezing off a shot through a gap in the boulders, hoping for a ricochet. He'd sneak away in the dark.

The sun was still high in the sky as a cloud floated over the standoff. Hernandez's hands were damp and sweat stung his eyes and rolled down his nose.

"Hey, Billy Yank! You gettin' a mite warm out there?" yelled a voice from the boulders. The voice had a twang to it.

"Not as warm as you sittin' in the middle of all those rocks with no water. It'll be oven hot in there within the hour!" answered Hernandez.

"I got you pinned down. Give up and I'll go easy on you," said the voice from the rocks.

"Pinned down? I have you pinned down! Make one wrong move and I'll ricochet lead in those boulders," replied Hernandez.

The sunlight seemed to shimmer across the desert floor. Hernandez reckoned he was a day's ride from Fort McRae. He needed a horse, or he'd have to walk to deliver the message to Colonel Kit Carson. He'd need more water, too.

"We got ourselves into a mess," said the voice with the twang.

Hernandez didn't reply. It was a mess, he silently agreed. Neither soldier could move without getting shot by the other.

Twenty minutes of silence followed while the soldiers baked in the noontime heat.

"I'm thirsty enough to swallow a river. A nice beefsteak and a piece of cornbread would set me right and stop my stomach from squawking," said the voice from the boulders.

An image of his mother danced in Hernandez's mind. A picture of his family replaced it gathered around the table in the back room of the Hernandez Dry Goods store in Albuquerque eating the mid-day meal.

He didn't know why he responded, but he did.

"Steak and cornbread sounds good. Throw a few beans in. My mother makes the best cornbread around. Great for mopping up your plate."

"Hold on, Billy Yank! I'm from Texas and everything is better in Texas, especially my ma's cornbread. It's like a slice of heaven came down from the sky."

"Johnny Reb, you've never had cornbread until you try my mother's. One bite and you'll give up and enlist to fight in the Union Army."

"Enlist? Hell, I didn't enlist in this army. I was punchin' cows on the ranch when local boys persuaded me to join up."

"You a cow puncher? How'd they persuade you to join?" asked Hernandez. He figured to keep him talking until he slipped away at night.

"They said they'd tell Lainey Martin I didn't sign up because I was chicken. I'm sort of sweet on Lainey," He paused, adding, "How did you join up?"

"I wanted to get away from working in the family general store. So, when the recruiting sergeant came around I signed up. My father was mad as a wet hen. I'm nineteen so there was nothing he could do about it."

"Hey, I just turned nineteen!"

"I wanted the shiny buttons and boots but the more I learn about soldiering the better workin' in the family store looks."

"And workin' in the store you got to eat the second best cornbread around." Hernandez heard the Confederate in the rocks snort with laughter.

"What's your name?" asked Hernandez.

"Johnny Hopkins. My friends call me Hop. Family is from Brown Springs Texas."

" I'm Joe Hernandez. We run a dry goods store in Albuquerque.

Both men stopped talking. The sun had bite to it and Hernandez nodded off. He shook his head to wake himself up. Hernandez gazed across the arroyo laced sun-bleached desert to the east. He started when he caught movement. It was over a mile away and looked like Indians on horseback.

"Hey Hop. I think we have Apaches coming off to your right."

"You're not trying to trick me, are you?" replied Hop.

"Heck no. Something's moving out there. If it is Apaches, we better make ourselves scarce."

"What are we going to do? I have a message for Fort Thorn. If I stand up, are you going to shoot me?"

"I guess we are both messengers. How 'bout a truce?" said Hernandez.

"I only have one horse. Can I trust you not to shoot me and steal it?" asked Hop.

"You have my word. I won't shoot you or take your horse," said Hernandez.

After a pause of a handful of heartbeats, Hop said, "I promise not to shoot too. I'm standing up and coming out."

With a moment of hesitation, a head popped up over a rock and darted back down again. Then a Confederate soldier in a makeshift uniform of gray wool pants and a light brown homespun shirt stood and negotiated his way around scattered rocks and stopped near Hernandez.

He was tall and lean, with a battered, shapeless brown hat on his head. Blonde hair escaped along the edges of the hat. He wore a half smile on his smooth, angular face. There was no meat on his shoulders or chest, as he'd yet to fill out into manhood.

Hernandez stood and walked forward, holding the carbine with his last bullet in the port arms position. His finger was on the trigger. The rebel soldier's right hand stayed close to the pistol shoved into his belt. His rifle was slung over his right shoulder.

Hernandez stopped six feet away and set his feet apart in a challenging stance.

They stared at each other for a moment, squinting in the harsh sunlight reflecting off the desert floor.

"Howdy," said Hop.

Hernandez tossed the half empty canteen at the Confederate. Hop caught it, tipped the canteen up and guzzled it dry.

"Much obliged," said Hop.

They were in the full froth of youth and made a striking contrast to one another. Hop was a head taller than Hernandez.

"Looks like you got one of them breechloaders," said Hop, nodding toward the Sharps.

"I do. I see you have a Colt pistol you're probably handy with," said Hernandez.

"I do all right." Then Hop's face broke into a wide grin showing a full set of white teeth. The smile was infectious. Hernandez grinned, too.

"Listen, let's worry about getting' away from them 'Paches. The hell with fightin' each other out here in the middle of nowhere."

Hernandez had an instant liking for Hop.

"Deal," said Hernandez. He shook hands with Hop.

"I'm with the Second Texas Cavalry at Fort Thorn," said Hop.

"First Regiment of New Mexico Volunteer Cavalry. Fort McRae."

"I think we should get as high on the bench as we can by nightfall. They'll find our tracks but those 'Paches will make camp instead of trying to follow us at night," said Hop, pointing at the bench with his chin.

He led his dun gelding from the rocks and slid his rifle into the saddle boot. The two soldiers headed away from the Apaches, keeping out of sight among the rocks of the bench, trying not to skyline themselves.

They found a game trail and scrambled to the top with the horse. The bench was level on top. The backside fell away at a steep incline. Both men paused to catch their breaths and take a sip of water from Hernandez's canteen. The sun was setting, but the earth was giving up the heat absorbed during the day, keeping the dry air hot and dusty. Sweat patched their shirts to their backs. Hernandez removed his kepi and wiped the sweat off the hatband with his finger.

They looked for a place to fort up while they talked of their families and hopes and dreams. Hop wanted to own a cattle ranch. Hernandez was less sure of his plans. If he didn't join his father in the dry goods store, what else could he do? He was envious of Hop, who seemed so sure of himself.

Hernandez observed bees heading to the right and followed them to a seep trickling out from the base of a rock. He waved to Hop and soon Hop's horse was noisily sucking down water. A small plot of grass fronted the seep and Hop hobbled the dun he called "Sibs" with a piggin' string. Hernandez could hear the gelding ripping up the grass with its big, square teeth.

Hernandez filled the canteens then sprawled on the ground next to Hop.

"We can't out run them riding two on a horse," said Hop.

Hernandez sat up. "The closet place to get me a horse is the Apaches," said Hernandez. "We could steal one tonight. I rode bareback as a boy."

"Sounds like crazy talk to me. With luck, we could try to both ride Sibs out of here. Take turns riding and walking," said Hop, patting his dun's thick, powerful neck.

"Too slow. Like you said, they'd catch us." replied Hernandez and then he added, "Your horse is named 'Sibs'?"

Hop cracked a smile. "'Sibs' is short for 'General Sibley'. Not sure my commanding officer would be pleased to know I named a horse after him! Figured my horse is just as smart as the general and a damn sight better lookin'!"

They worked their way to the west, across the top of the bench and down the far side. Clumps of short, sparse grass studded with cactus and mesquite waited to reach out and grab them when they reached the desert floor.

Hop was quiet for a long time. His face was tight with apprehension.

"The 'Paches probably found our tracks by now and know we have one horse," said Hop.

The afternoon slid into dusk, and the birds stopped singing. Twilight in the desert is the quietest time as night spread its black blanket over all. The moon was yet to rise, and a coolness slid its way down the collars and up the shirtsleeves of the two men.

They waited, ears straining to hear the smallest sound, until the stars winked in the velvety sky. A half-moon rose and provided an indifferent, somber light. They hunkered down among rocks in a cold camp. Their stomachs growled in unison.

"Do you think sneaking up on 'Paches and stealing a horse is a smart thing to do?" asked Hop. Shadows etched a line on his face, creating dark and light halves.

"It's damn stupid," said Hernandez. "But what else can we do? I want to keep my scalp and I'm down to my last bullet."

"Six bullets, for me. One for my rifle and five in my pistol."

By moonlight, they continued working around to the west and then traveled south for a mile, before swinging to the east.

"I reckon we've gone far enough to circle and get south of them," said Hernandez. "I'm going to take a look. Find their camp."

Like a desert wraith, he moved silently forward from boulder to bush until the darkness swallowed him whole.

Hernandez paused at each piece of cover he reached and strained his ears for a sound. He kept his eyes wide open, searching the ground ahead of him. He lay down and bellied up to three large mesquite trees.

He spied a soft glow across the desert floor among what looked like in the dark a sparse stand of juniper. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Through the mesquite branches he could see the orange smudge of a fire. Dark shapes moved in and out of the firelight. He smelled roasting meat and his stomach rumbled again.

The breeze in his face carried the smell of horses to his nose too. He eased away from the mesquite trees and glided to the right before hunkering down next to a rockslide. He was close enough to hear the horses' heavy breathing. He was about to move back when, out of a shadowy corner hidden by the rockslide, he watched an Apache stand up and stretch before hiding himself again in the shadows.

Hernandez's mouth was dry, and a droplet of sweat traced a path down his spine. Gripping his carbine, he retraced his steps back to Hop and told him what he discovered.

They waited until dawn. To pass the time, they debated cornbread styles again in whispers. They compared New Mexico-style cornbread loaded with green chilies with Hop's favorite cornbread made with buttermilk, but soon fell into a nervous silence, listening to the nighttime insects.

Dawn was on the verge of flexing its muscles, the stars were winking out, and the moon was low in the sky. The night became as black and thick as pitch. The blackness seemed to have a weight all its own.

"How many horses did you see?" asked Hop for the third time.

"Five or six. One guard. I'll grab a horse and we'll stampede the rest through their camp and then ride hell bent for leather."

They retraced Hernandez's route, heading north, stopping twice to slow their breathing. Hernandez's pulse was pounding in his temples. Hop kept his hand over Sib's nose to keep the horse quiet.

They reached the rockslide and observed the guard walking among the horses. Fear clutched at Hernandez's throat. He pursed his lips.

The Apache horse guard turned his back on the two men and urinated. Hernandez locked eyes with Hop and saw a flash of excitement in the young Texan's eyes.

He thrust Sib's reins into Hernandez's hands. Like a panther, Hop sprang toward the Indian and clubbed him in the head with the butt of his revolver. The Indian folded to the ground without a sound. The attack was so fast and quiet; it seemed like a dream. He led Sibs over to Hop. The six Apache horses shuffled their feet and pawed the earth with their hooves. Sib's presence calmed the horses and kept them from bolting.

"I ain't never killed a man before," said Hop, staring at the Apache sprawled face down on the ground.

"You didn't this time either. He's still breathing. Get me piggin' strings and I'll tie him up and stick a gag in his mouth. He won't go anywhere for a while. I used to tie off the grain bags in the store," said Hernandez.

Hop stepped into the saddle.

"Ready?" whispered Hernandez straightening up. He stroked a tough looking brown horse. "Drive the horses through the camp and scatter the Apaches. It's the fastest way to get shy of them and get away from here."

Hernandez took a deep breath. His mouth was dry and his heart threaten to explode out of his chest. He grabbed the horse's mane and slid on to its back, like when he was a boy.

Hop let out a Texas yell and Hernandez's horse plunged and bucked. Everything became a blur of motion and images. It was like the fluttering pictures of a flipbook. At the edge of the camp, he saw a wiry, half-naked Apache fumbling to load his rifle. He heard a gunshot and somebody yelled, then he crashed through juniper branches and smelled wood smoke.

All at once, he and Hop were free of the camp, beyond the junipers heading west. The riderless horses were keeping up with the group. The rising sun was on their backs. After a mile run, they slowed the horses to a trot, skirted the bench, and headed north over a flat desert landscape. An hour later, the two men stopped. The riderless horses were still trailing along behind Sibs.

Hop slowed to a walk. "I head southeast from here, Joe."

"I'm going north."

"You're welcome at Brown Springs anytime."

"My family will welcome you in Albuquerque. You'll get to eat real cornbread."

"How about my ma's cornbread is the best in Texas? Your mother's is the best in New Mexico."

"Agreed! Vaya con Dios, Johnny Reb!"

"Godspeed, Billy Yank!"