THE WAR IS OVER   The Civil War may have ended, but division still remains among its survivors. Some continue to rally for equality. Then, there are others, like the Knights of the Rising Sun. They’re a group of vicious vigilantes who want to halt progress in Texas and put an end to bluebellies and carpetbaggers by bullet, fire, and noose.   THE FIGHT CONTINUES   The Secret Service sends Gideon Ryder to stop the Knights before they grow from a gang into an army. But as Ryder follows the band of villains from Corpus Christi to Jefferson, Texas, his mission proves more difficult than planned, especially when the cowards only surface with sacks over their heads. To learn their identities, Ryder will have to get close enough to see under the hoods. Luckily, Gideon has an army of his own ready to take them down, flanked by his Colt in his left hand and his Henry in his right… Spur Award-finalist Lyle Brandt is the author of Lawman series, including The Lawman: Reckoning , The Lawman: Blood Trails , and  The Lawman: Avenging Angels .   1 It was a good night for a lynching. No moon to speak of, and a dark ceiling of clouds concealed whatever starlight might have helped illuminate the streets of Corpus Christi. Streetlamps, few and far between, guttered and did more to accentuate the lurking shadows than relieve them. Anything could happen on a night like this, and something was about to. Gideon Ryder lay prone on the flat roof of a cotton warehouse, peering north along the dark street below him, waiting for the lynchers to arrive. They were late already, likely drinking courage to prepare for their adventure, getting fired up for the task they’d set themselves. Hanging a man was thirsty work. Toss in his wife, and it could be downright nerve-racking. Ryder was as ready for them as he’d ever be. His lever-action Henry rifle was loaded with sixteen .44-caliber rounds in its tube magazine, plus one in the chamber. His Colt Army Model 1860 revolver, holstered on his left side for a cross-hand draw, was likewise fully loaded, and he carried three spare cylinders to save on time, if it became a standoff. Finally, a Bowie knife was sheathed inside the high top of his right boot, but it wouldn’t come to that. Or, if it did, Ryder supposed he would be out of luck. One blade against a mob armed to the teeth wasn’t the kind of odds he favored. Not for getting out alive, at any rate. The house across the way, intended target of the raid, was dark and still. He almost envied those inside, likely asleep, or maybe making love. Ryder would happily have taken either option, if he’d had a choice, but duty placed him where he was, another shadow in the night, waiting to see if someone had to die. At least, he thought, I’m on dry land. His last job had involved considerable sailing on the ocean, not a circumstance that he was anxious to repeat. He was a landlubber, no doubt about it, and would take a desert over rolling wave crests any day. Not that the choice would necessarily be his. He went where he was told to go and dealt with what he found awaiting him, upon arrival. Last time, it was pirates smuggling gold. This time . . . he wasn’t absolutely sure yet, but planned on finding out. His first job was to keep the mob from stringing up a man who might be able to supply the information Ryder needed to complete his task. He’d snooped around the town sufficiently to get a feel for what was happening, but details had been sparse to nonexistent. Rumors wouldn’t get him far, distorted as they were from traveling by word of mouth, and maybe by design. He knew a group of terrorists was operating in the neighborhood of Corpus Christi, making life a hell on Earth for former slaves and anyone who offered them a helping hand, but that was it, so far. No names, no addresses, and dropping hints in various saloons had gotten him more dirty looks than answers. But he did know whom the night riders despised. That much was common knowledge, more or less, and when a plan was hatched to throw that fellow a nocturnal necktie party, word of it had filtered to the streets. Ryder supposed it must have reached the local law, as well, but they were steering clear, probably shaking down some of the city’s countless pimps and prostitutes to supplement their meager city wages. So, he’d do the job alone, or try to. Preferably without anybody getting killed. But if he had to make that choice, Ryder intended to go home alive tonight. Home in this case being a small room in a boardinghouse that cost him two dollars per week, no extra for the privy out back. His real home was in Washington, D.C.—or had been, until recently. He had been happy with the U.S. Marshals Service, till they’d sacked him for shooting a senator’s son. It had been self-defense, and not even a mortal wound, but rich men got their way in Washington, like anywhere else. Now he was lying on a roof in Texas, six blocks from the waterfront, waiting to see if he would live to see anoth