His teeth chattering, every limb trembling, Matthew sat upright in darkness on the hard wooden bench of a two-horse wagon, jolting along toward a rendezvous with death. He tugged the blanket that wrapped him tighter, dug in his pockets for a green onion to nibble on and, perhaps, sharpen his senses—if not his aim. But his pockets were empty: wrong season, wrong century. There would be no green anything for another four months, and even then that most likely would be grass pushing up over his grave.
