Chapter 4: Fox’s Trap

Early next morning, Quinn led a small guard to a hill east of Maple Heights, scouting for enemy movements.

The dawn was cool, mist curling around their boots. For a moment, the world seemed peaceful—cicadas humming, dew on the grass. Quinn let himself relax, breathing in the calm. But a nagging tension crawled up his spine, the silence too perfect, too complete. Even the birds seemed to hold their breath.

Suddenly, a strange bird call rang out—sharp, wrong for this hour. Quinn’s eyes narrowed. Before he could shout a warning, enemies exploded from the brush, guns blazing, surrounding him in a heartbeat.

The world shrank to gunfire and chaos. Horses reared, sabers flashed, and Quinn was boxed in by grim faces. The ambush was total—the Old Fox’s favorite trick.

Crawford had always been a master of the double-cross. Quinn cursed his own hide for forgetting Willow Creek, where a lookalike had shattered Lee’s army. He’d been warned—never trust the quiet when the Fox is on the prowl.

Crawford’s agents had picked this spot, blending into the land. Leading the trap was Sam Houston, a brute with a saber and a gambler’s grin. He’d once stared down a mountain lion and lived to brag about it.

Now, Houston came charging, bellowing orders, his men closing in from all sides. Quinn’s guards snapped to, pistols drawn, but the odds were bad.

Quinn barked, “All of you, go! I’ll cover the rear!”

Sinclair hesitated. “Sir, we can’t—”

“Go! Now!” Quinn shouted, eyes blazing. Most obeyed, galloping away, but a few stubborn souls stayed at his side.

Houston roared forward, saber swinging. Quinn drew his custom Springfield, firing giant rounds that punched through armor like axes through oak. Four, five men fell, the air thick with smoke and terror.

But Houston was fearless—he wanted Quinn alive. Crawford had promised him a governorship, and Houston meant to collect. He led the charge himself, saber gleaming, laughter booming over the chaos.

Quinn took careful aim and fired. The shot shattered a tree inches from Houston’s head, but the big man ducked and came on, saber raised for the kill.

Danger screamed in Quinn’s bones. He barely had time to shout as Houston’s blade swung for his back.

Midnight exploded beneath him, hooves pounding, cloak snapping. Quinn bent low, bullets whistling past his ears. He rode like the devil was after him—because he was.

Not all his guards escaped. Private Elijah Brooks—just a Tennessee farm boy—fell to Houston’s blade, his body left swaying in the wind. His name would join the dead on the Maple Heights memorial.

Quinn reached camp battered, caked in mud and blood, barely recognizable. Sentries stared in shock until he pulled off his hat. Medics rushed to him, hands trembling. For the first time since his father’s funeral, Quinn’s hands shook so badly he nearly dropped his canteen.

That night, he sat alone in his tent, hat in his lap, the battle replaying on a loop in his mind. Survival felt less like victory, more like a bill come due. The war wasn’t finished with him—not by a long shot.