Author's Note: "Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage." – from the poem "To Althea, from Prison," by Richard Lovelace (1618–1658)

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, except in the sense that love is ownership.

Then:

There shouldn't have been any Confederates left in southern New Mexico Territory (or Arizona Territory as the Confederates insisted upon calling it) but there were. And there shouldn't have been any Union troops to oppose them, but there were. Above all, there shouldn't have been a twelve year old boy among those Union soldiers, but there was one…

The 'prison' was the former hacienda of Amon Carterson, who had already given his 'last full measure of devotion' to his newborn country in the New Mexico Campaign of 1862, but whose former property remained to be used in an out of the way spot about equidistant from Mesilla and El Paso.

The tiny adobe fortress, a bare tenth the size of its more famous sister prison Andersonville, was of no particular importance to the Confederacy, which by late 1864 was fully occupied with its own survival further to the east, but having captured those few hundred Yanks, the Confederacy was loath to let them go, and found Carterson's former home a handy dumping ground for them, where they would could be no further trouble to anyone.

The very first occurrence of note after the three hundred seventy Union soldiers were released into open 'plaza' at the center of the newly minted 'prison' was a bout of fisticuffs as interesting as it was unexpected. Patrick Murphy, the largest and strongest of the Irish contingent, trapped his fellow soldier Heath Barkley in the northeast corner of the fourteen foot high adobe enclosure, and pounded the slight young man into jelly.

It was a truly awesome beating.

Not one of the men had the faintest, remotest clue what young Barkley might have done to offend the big Irishman, but do something he clearly had. Murphy continued to hit the boy well after the few who thought to intervene had desisted, long after Heath himself had ceased even the slightest effort at self- defense; for so long, in fact, that observers thought Murphy intended to kill Charlie Whitehorse's former protégé now that the Indian scout himself (who had fortuitously escaped capture) was no longer around to protect the young man.

What the Confederate guards thought of the business, no one knew, but they certainly did nothing to stop the carnage, merely watching from start to finish with intense interest, and making bets with each other as to how much longer it could possibly last. It appeared that keeping their charges from beating each other to death was not numbered among the guard's duties.

Miraculously, Heath remained conscious through every blow. At last, when it seemed that the next punch would surely put him under, Murphy paused, fist cocked. "You decide, boyo. Are you going to live or die?"

Heath's eyes were swollen shut, and every fiber of his being save only his vocal chords screamed with pain. He took an agonized gasp of breath, but his voice when he answered was strong enough to be audible to the third rank of spectators, "Live."

This announcement was met with a cheer.

Murphy nodded grimly. "Well, I guarantee you won't enjoy it." The big man let fly with a final right cross that put his victim down for good.

Heath did not so much awake as float to the surface of a sea of pain.

"Are you listening to me, Bhoy?"

Heath didn't answer, and something happened that caused his pain to increase, though he hurt too much to know what. He hurt in places he had never before known he had places.

"You had better listen to me," the voice scolded.

"List'nin,'" a voice Heath didn't recognize slurred.

The lilting voice made a noise that seemed to be approval (there was no further increase in pain at least) and continued in a whisper from next to Heath's ear. The voice was telling the story of a blacksmith whose watchdog had been killed by a named Sétanta. The blacksmith was put out by this, because the hound had taken a year to train. The boy had therefore offered to serve as the blacksmith's hound for a year while the man trained another. And that is how the boy's name came to be changed to Cuhullin, which meant 'Culann's hound.'

Heath lay curled in a ball on something made of cloth (a blanket? a uniform jacket?) and the owner of the lilting voice lay at his back, curved around him spoon-fashion. Heath moved a hand. He was still wearing his uniform, the front of which was sticky with blood, apparently his own. Who was protecting him? Had someone stepped in and defended him against Murphy?

From his voice, his savior was an Irishman, but he couldn't imagine any of the Irish he was acquainted with going against Murphy… not for him, certainly.

"… CuMurphy." The voice paused, apparently awaiting an answer, because when Heath didn't respond something caused yet another wave of discomfort. "Did you hear me, boyo?" the voice breathed.

Heath's lip was split, and when he licked it, he tasted blood. Oh, Lord. "I swear I didn't kill your dog, Pat." He swallowed, then shuddered. "I didn't even know you had a dog."

"I didn't," Pat whispered. "Until now."