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RIDE PROUD, REBEL! (Part 2), by Andre Norton

CHAPTER 4

The Eleventh Ohio Cavalry

They had worked their way around the edge of the cornfield, and now they could look out on a hard-surfaced road which must be the pike. Riding along that in good order were a company of men—thirty, Drew counted. And four of those had extra horses on leading reins. He also saw ten carbines…and the owners of those were alert.

“Stand where you are!” The slight man leading that skeleton troop posted ahead. His shell jacket had the three yellow bars of a captain on its standing collar, and Drew saluted. This was the first group of fugitives he had seen who were more than frightened men running their horses and themselves into exhaustion.

“Rennie, Private, Quirk’s Scouts,” Drew reported himself.

Kirby’s salute was delivered with less snap but as promptly. “Kirby, Private, Gano’s.”

“Captain William Campbell,” the officer identified himself crisply. “Any more of you?” He looked to Boyd and then at the cornfield beyond.

“Barrett’s a volunteer,” Drew explained. This was no time to clarify Boyd’s exact status. “There’re just the three of us.”

“You headin’ somewheah special, Cap’n?” the Texan asked. “Or jus’ travelin’ for your continued health?”

Campbell laughed. “You might call it that, Kirby. But if we stick together, I think all of us may stay healthy.”

Kirby turned his horse into the pike. “Sounds like a good argument to me, suh. You have any idea wheah at we are, or wheah we could be headin’?”

“Northwest is the best I can say. If we strike far enough to the west, we may be able to flank the troops spread out to keep us away from the river. Best plan for now, anyway. And the more men we can pick up, the better.”

“Scattered some, ain’t we?” Kirby assented. “You give the orders, Cap’n, suh. We ain’t licked complete yet.”

There was a low growl arising from the company on the pike as the Texan’s comment reached them. They might have run and gone on running most of that long day, but they were no longer running; they were moving in reasonable order and to some purpose, with a direction in view and a form of organization, no matter how patched together they were. Campbell spoke directly to Drew: “You know anything about this section of the country?”

“Some, but it’s been almost three years since I was here. I know nothin’ about any Union garrison—”

“Those we’ll have to worry about as they come. But you ride advance for us now. Send in any stragglers you come across. The night is almost here, and that’s in our favor.”

So Drew and Kirby, with Boyd trailing, ranged ahead of the small troop. And pick up more stragglers they did—some twenty men in the last hour before twilight closed down.

“I’m hungry,” Boyd said, approaching Drew. “There’re farms around. Why can’t we get something to eat?”

“Here.” Drew fumbled in the saddlebags he had transferred from Shawnee to this new mount back by the river. He handed over a piece of hardtack, flinty-surfaced and about as appetizing as a stone. “That’s the best you’ll get for a while.”

Boyd stared at it in dismay. “You can’t eat a thing like this! It’s a piece of rock.” Indignantly he hurled it away.

“You get down and pick that up! Now!”

Boyd, flushed and hot-eyed, gazed at Drew for a long moment. The flush faded and he moved uneasily in his saddle, but not out of the range of Drew’s attention. At length, unhappily, he dismounted and went to pick the gray-white chunk out of a weed tangle. Holding it gingerly, he came back to his horse.

“If you don’t want it—give!” Drew held out his hand.

Boyd, realizing the other meant just what he said, fingered the hardtack and finally dropped it into that waiting palm.

“You eat hard and you sleep on the soft side of a board—if you’re lucky enough to find a board. You ride till your seat is blistered and until you can sleep in the saddle. You drink mud green with scum if that’s all you can find to drink, and you think it’s mighty fine drinkin’, too. This ain’t—” Drew’s thoughts flitted back to his meeting with Aunt Marianna on the Lexington road—“all saber wavin’ and chargin’ the enemy and playin’ hero to the home folks; this is sweatin’ and dirt on you and your clothes, goin’ mighty hungry, and cold and wet—when it’s the season for goin’ cold and wet. It’s takin’ a lot of the bad, with not much good. And if you don’t cut off home now, you’ll ride our way, keepin’ your mouth shut and doin’ as you’re told!”

Boyd swallowed visibly. “All right.” But there was a firmness in that short answer which surprised Drew. The other sounded as if he meant it, as if he were swearing the oath of allegiance to the regiment. But could he take it? A few days on the run, and Boyd would probably quit. Maybe if they got into some town and the Yankees didn’t smoke them out right away, Drew could send a telegram and Boyd would be collected. Drew tried to console himself with that thought all the time another part of him was certain that Boyd intended to prove he could stick through all the rigors Drew had just outlined for him.

But in any event the boy’s introduction to war was going to be as unromantic as anyone could want, short of being thrown cold and untrained into a major battle. They must be prepared for a bad time until they made it out of the Union lines and south again.

The night closed down, dark and moonless, with a heaviness in the air which was oppressive. Campbell had to grant men and horses a breathing period. He put out pickets, leaving the rest of them to lie with their mounts saddled and to hand. Drew loosened the girth, stripped off saddle and blanket, and wiped down the sweaty back of his new mount. But he dared not leave the gelding free. So, against all good practice, he re-equipped the tired beast. No mount was going to be able to take that kind of treatment for long. They had a half dozen spare horses, and undoubtedly they could “trade” worn-out mounts for fresh ones along the way. But such ceaseless use was cruel punishment, and no man wanted to inflict it. War was harder on horses than men. At least the men could take their chances and had a fraction of free will in the matter.

Drew awoke at a tug of his sleeve, flailed out his arm, and struck home. Kirby laughed in the gray dawn.

“Now that theah, kid, is no way to go ’round wakin’ up a soldier. He may take you for a blue belly as has come crawlin’ into his dreams. It’s all right, amigo—jus’ time to git on the prowl again.”

Feeling as if he had been beaten, Drew slowly got to his feet. Men were moving, falling into line. And one was arguing with Captain Campbell.

“It could work, Cap’n,” the trooper urged. “Ain’t a lot of the boys wearin’ Yankee truck they took outta the warehouses? Them what ain’t can act like prisoners. Jus’ say we’re the Eleventh Ohio—they’s stationed near Bardstown and it would seem right, them ridin’ down to take them some prisoners. The old man, he’s got a rich farm and sets a powerful good table. Might even give us a right smart load of provisions into the bargain. It’s worth a try, suh.…”

“Rennie!” So summoned, Drew reported to their new commander.

“Know anything about a Thomas McKeever livin’ in this section?”

Drew’s memory produced a picture of a round-faced, cheerful man who liked to play chess and admired Lucilla’s pickled watermelon rind to the point of begging a crock of it every time he visited Red Springs.

“Yes, suh. He’s Union—got two sons with Colonel Wolford. Owns a big farm and raises prime mules—”

“You know him personally?”

“Yes, suh. He’s a friend of my grandfather; they used to visit back and forth a lot.”

“Then he’d know you.” Campbell’s fingernails rasped through the stubble on his chin.

“So Rennie heah could be one of our prisoners, suh. That theah might convince Mistuh McKeever we’s what we say—” the trooper pressed his point.

“Could be. It’s gospel truth we ain’t goin’ to get far with our bellies flat on our backbones. And it might work. Now, all of you men, listen.…” Campbell explained, gave orders, and put them through a small drill. A dozen men without any Union uniform loot to distinguish them were told to play the role of prisoners; the others exchanged and drew out of saddlebags pieces of blue clothing to make their appearance as the Eleventh Ohio.

“They ain’t gonna expect too much.” The trooper who had first urged the plan was optimistic. “We can pass as close to militia—”

“You hope!” Kirby was in the prisoner’s section, and it was plain he did not relish a role which meant that he had to strip himself of weapons. “You—” he fixed his attention on the man to whom he must hand his Colts when the time came—“keep right ’longside, soldier. If I want to get those six-guns, I want ’em fast an’ I want ’em sure—not ’bout ten yards away wheah I can’t git my hands on ’em!”

Their gnawing hunger drove them all into agreeing to the masquerade. Drew could not recall his last really full meal. Just thinking about food made a warm, sickish taste rise in his mouth. He brought out the hardtack which Boyd had so indignantly rejected the night before, and holding the chunk balanced on his saddle horn, rapped it smartly with the butt of a revolver. It broke raggedly across, and then he was able to crack it again between his fingers.

“Here—” He held out a two-inch piece to Boyd, and this time there was no refusal. The younger boy’s cheek showed a swollen puff as he sucked away at the fragment.

Drew offered a bite to the Texan.

“Right neighborly, amigo,” Kirby observed. “’Bout this time, me, I’m ready to exercise m’ teeth on a stewed moccasin, Comanche at that, were anybody to ask me to sit down an’ reach for the pot.”

They rode on at a comfortable pace and for some reason met no other travelers on the pike. Drew found his new mount had no easy shuffle like Shawnee’s. The gelding was a black with three white feet and a proudly held head—might even be Denmark stock—but for some reason he didn’t relish moving in company. And, left without close enough supervision from his rider, he tended either to trot ahead or loiter until he was out of line. Drew was continually either reining him in or urging him on.

“Kinda a raw one,” Kirby commented critically. “He ain’t no rockin’-chair hoss, that’s for sure. If I was you, I’d look round for somethin’ better to slap m’ tree on—”

Drew pulled rein for the tenth time, his exasperation growing. “I might do just that.” Shawnee had been worth fifty of this temperamental blooded hunter.

“You take Tejano heah. He’s a rough-coated ol’ snorter—nothin’ to make an hombre’s eyes bug out—but he takes you way over yonder, an’ then he brings you back…nothin’ more you can ask.”

Drew agreed. “Lost my horse back at the river,” he said briefly. “This was a pickup—”

“Tough luck!” Kirby was sincerely sympathetic. “Funny about you Kaintuck boys…mostly you want a high-steppin’ pacer with a chief’s feathers sproutin’ outta his head. They has to have oats an’ corn an’ be treated like they was glass. I’d’ruther have me a range hoss. You can ride one of ’em from Hell to breakfast—an’ maybe a mile or two beyond—an’ he never knows the difference. Work him hard all day, an’ maybe the next mornin’ when you’re set to fork leather again, he shows you a bellyfull of bedsprings an’ you’re unloaded for fair. A hoss like that has him wind an’ power to burn—”

“You raised horses before the war?”

Kirby swallowed what must have been the last soggy crumb of hardtack. “Well, we had a mind to try that. M’pa, he started him a spread down Pecos way. He had him a good stud-quarter hoss—one of Steel Dust’s git. Won two or three races, that stud did. Called him Kiowa. Pa made a deal with a Mex mustanger; he got some prime stuff he caught in the Panhandle. One mare, I ’member—she was a natcherel pacer. Yeah, you might say as how we was gittin’ a start at a first-rate string. Me an’ m’ brothers, we was breakin’ some right pretty colts…”

His voice trailed into silence. Drew reined in the black again and asked another question:

“What happened…the war?”

“What happened? Well, you might say as how Comanches happened. Me, I was trailin’ ’long with this Mex mustanger to learn some of his tricks. When I came back, theah jus’ warn’t nothin’—nothin’ a man wants to remember after. Someday I’m gonna hunt me Comanches. Gonna learn me some tricks in this heah war I can use in that business!” There was no change in his expression. If anything, his drawl was a little softer and lazier, but the deadly promise in it reached Drew as clearly as if the other had burst out with the Rebel Yell.

“This is it!” Captain Campbell rode back along their line. It was a larger company; they had gathered in more fugitives this morning and had no stragglers. All they lacked was adequate arms to present a rather formidable source of trouble behind the Union lines. “We’re goin’ into the McKeever place. You men—remember, you’re prisoners!”

Very reluctantly those in that unhappy role unbuckled gun belts, passing their side arms over to their “captors.” There was a graveled drive branching out of the pike to their right with a grove of trees arching over it, so they rode into a restful green twilight out of the punishing sun.

Fields rippled lushly beyond that border of trees. There was a cleanness, a contentment, a satisfaction about this place which was no part of them or any men who passed so, armed, restless, tearing apart just such peace as enfolded them here. They rode out of urgency when the gravel of that well-raked drive shifted under the hoofs of their mounts.

“I’m sayin’ one thing loud an’ clear,” Kirby announced to those in his immediate vicinity as they neared a big brick house. “I may be playin’ prisoner to you boys, but I ain’t settlin’ for no prisoner’s rations. We all eat full plates in heah, let that be understood from the start.”

Campbell laughed. “Noted, Kirby. We’ll see that you desperate Rebs get all that’s comin’ to you.”

“Now that, Cap’n, is jus’ what I’m afraid of. We git all that’s comin’—that sounds a right smart better!”

“Company ahead, Cap’n!” The trooper who had suggested this action, indicated a man walking down the drive to meet their cavalcade.

“That’s Mr. McKeever.” Drew identified their host for Campbell.

But the captain was already moving ahead to meet the older man. He touched fingers to kepi—a neat blue kepi—in a smart salute.

“Chivers, Captain, Eleventh Ohio, sir. We’d like to make our noon halt here if you’ll grant permission.”

Thomas McKeever beamed. “No reason not, suh. Take your men over in the orchard, Captain. We can add a little something to your rations. Glad, always glad to entertain our boys.” His attention wandered to the score of “prisoners” in the center of the troop.

“Prisoners, Captain?”

“Some of Morgan’s horse thieves.” Campbell glanced back at the shabby exhibit. “You’ve heard the news, of course, sir? We smashed ’em proper over at Cynthiana—”

“You did? Now that’s good hearin’, Captain. It deserves a regular celebration; it surely does. Morgan smashed! Was he taken too? Next time I trust they’ll put him in something stronger than that jail you Ohio boys had him in last time; he’s a slippery one.”

“Haven’t heard about that, sir. But his men are pretty well scattered. These aren’t going to trouble any one for a while.”

McKeever nodded. “I’ve a stout barn you’re welcome to use for a temporary lockup, Captain. Though I must say they don’t display much spirit, do they? Look pretty well beat.”

Drew rubbed his hand across his face, hoping the grime there—a mixture of road dust, sweat, and powder blacking—was an effective disguise. No use recalling the old days for Mr. McKeever. Allowing his shoulders to slump dispiritedly as he was herded by his file guard, he rode sullenly on to the orchard.

They stripped their saddles and allowed the horses freedom for the first time in hours, an act which was against prudence but which McKeever would expect of Union troops. Drew lay full length under the curving limbs of an apple tree, his head pillowed on saddlebags.

“Now I wonder”—Kirby dropped down, to sit with his back against the tree trunk—“why they always say a fella is dog-tired. A dog, he ain’t got him much to do ’cept chase around on his own business. Soldier-tired—now that’s another matter. How ’bout it, kid? You ready to ride right outta heah an’ chase General Grant clean back to Lake Erie?”

Boyd had stretched out only a hand’s length from Drew. There were dark smudges under his closed eyes, hardly to be told from the smears of dirt on his round cheeks, but there. He rolled his head on a hammock of grass and scowled at Kirby.

“General Grant can—” he added a remark which surprised Drew into opening his eyes. Kirby shook his head reprovingly.

“Now that ain’t no way for a growin’ boy to talk. An’ it sits on your tongue as easy as a fly on a mule’s ear, too. What kinda company you bin keepin’, kid? Rennie, this heah colt ain’t got no reason to cram grammar into a remark that way.”

Drew stretched, folded his arms under his head, and answered, in a voice he tried to make as blighting as possible: “Thinks it makes him sound like a man, probably. He’s findin’ out the army ain’t quite what he expected.”

“You shut up—!” Boyd might have added something to that, but Drew had moved. He leaned over the youngster, his hand hard and heavy on Boyd’s shoulder. And it was plain that, much as he wanted to, the other did not quite dare to move or shake off that grip.

“I’ve had about enough,” Drew said quietly. “The next town we hit you’re goin’ to stay there, until someone comes from back home to collect you. Nobody knows you’re with us, and you can go back to Oak Hill without any trouble from Union troops.”

Boyd’s eyes blazed. His mouth wasn’t shaping a small boy’s pout this time; it was an ugly line tight against his teeth.

“I ain’t goin’ home! I said you can’t make me, ’less you tie me on a horse and keep me tied all the way. And I don’t think you can do that, Drew Rennie. I’d like to see you try it; I sure would!”

“He’s got you on a stand-off, I’d say,” Kirby remarked. “My, ain’t he the tough one though, horns sticking up an’ haired all over! Gentlemen—” he had glanced over their shoulder and was watching whatever was there—“company comin’. Mind your manners!”

Drew looked around. His hand clamped tighter on Boyd, keeping him pinned on his back. If he only had time…but there was no way of disguising the younger boy. And Thomas McKeever, strolling with Captain Campbell, had already sighted them, stopped short, and now was moving swiftly in their direction.

“Boyd Barrett!”

Drew had to release his hold and Boyd sat up, brushing bits of grass from his shirt sleeves even as he returned Mr. McKeever’s stare with composure.

“Yes, suh?” Boyd was on his feet now, making his manners with the speed of one harboring a guilty conscience.

“What are you doing with this gang of cutthroats and banditti?” Mr. McKeever had an excellent voice to deliver such an inquiry; it could rattle the unaware into confusion, and sometimes even into quick confession, as he undoubtedly knew.

“I’m with General Morgan, Mr. McKeever.” Boyd did not appear too ruffled.

“I refuse to believe that even that unprincipled ruffian is robbing cradles to fill up his ranks, depleted as they may be—”

Boyd reddened. “General Morgan ain’t no…no unprincipled ruffian!”

“Yeah,” Kirby drawled. As the other two, he had risen to his feet on the approach of the older man. “Them’s pretty harsh words, suh. Cutthroat now—I ain’t never slit me a throat in all my born days. What about you, Rennie? You done any fancy work with a bowie lately?”

Mr. McKeever favored the Texan with a passing frown; then his attention settled on Drew. “Rennie,” he repeated, and then said the name again with the emphasis of one making a court identification. “Drew Rennie!”

“Yes, suh.” As Boyd had done, Drew answered to the indictment of being where he was and who he was.

“I am most unhappy to see Alexander Mattock’s grandson and Meredith Barrett’s son in such company. Surely”—he turned to Captain Campbell—“these boys are not your regular prisoners—”

Campbell shook his head gravely. “Unfortunately, sir, they are indeed troopers with Morgan. And, as such, they are subject to the rules of war governing prisoners—”

“That does not prevent my seeing what I can do for both of you,” their host said quickly. “At least, Boyd, you are young enough to be released by the authorities. Be sure I shall do all I can to bring that about.”

As Boyd opened his mouth to protest, Drew spoke quickly:

“Thank you, suh. I know Cousin Merry will appreciate that.”

With a last assurance of his intention to help them, Mr. McKeever left. Boyd grinned.

“He did help me,” he observed. “He knows now I’m with Morgan, and nobody can say that’s not so!”

Kirby laughed. “Reckon that’s true, kid. You locked yourself right into the corral along with the rest of us bad men. Look’s like you’ve been outfought this time, Rennie.”

Drew threw himself back under the tree. So Boyd had won this round—they were still in Kentucky and not too far from Oak Hill.

CHAPTER 5

Bardstown Surrenders

“Now that’s what I call true hospitality, gentlemen, true hospitality.” Kirby caressed his middle section gently with both hands, smiling dreamily into the lacing of apple boughs over his head. “I ain’t had me a feed like that since we took that sutler’s wagon back outside Mount Sterlin’. ’Mos’ forgot theah was such vittles lyin’ ’bout to be sampled. An’ you got us most of the cream, too, ’cause you’re poor little misguided boys a-runnin’ ’way to be with us desperate characters. Git me a bowie knife, an’ I’ll show you how to cut throats—all free, too.”

Drew laughed, but Boyd did not appear amused. They had been favored with a short but pungent lecture from Mr. McKeever, served along with food, which to Drew made it worth the return of listening decorously to a listing of their sins.

“I ain’t goin’ home,” Boyd repeated stubbornly.

“Well,” Kirby pointed out, “if he rides up to the Yankee prison camp, he ain’t gonna find you neither. So what’s the difference? I think we oughta be movin’ on, seein’ as how we ain’t really on speakin’ terms with the law heah ’bouts.”

It would appear that Captain Campbell agreed with that. The order came to saddle up and move out. But they went with provision sacks slung from their saddles, a portion of McKeever’s bounty stowed away against tomorrow. And once they were past the house, the word came down the line for Drew to quit his prisoner’s role and join their commander.

Campbell held a fragment of map as he let his mount’s pace fall to a slow walk. “There are about a hundred Union infantry stationed at Bardstown, according to Mr. McKeever. Know anything about the town?”

“I was there once. My cousin went to St. Joseph’s for a term.”

“Remember enough to find your way around?”

“I don’t know, suh. But if there’s a Union garrison—?” He ended the sentence with an implied question.

“What are we going to do there?” The captain grinned. “We’re going to collect some arms, I hope. Supposing you were a Yankee commander, Rennie, and a bold, bad raider like General Morgan was to ride clean up to your door with a regiment or two tailing him and say: ‘Your guns, suh, or your life!’ What would you do, especially if your troops were mostly militia and green men who hadn’t ever been in a real fight?”

Drew understood. “Probably, suh, I’d tell General Morgan that he could have his guns, providin’ he kept his side of the bargain.”

“As far as the Yankees in Bardstown may know, General Morgan could be headed their way right now with a regiment. I don’t think they’ve had time yet to learn just how badly we were scattered back there by the Licking River. You willing to take the flag in when we get there, Rennie? Pick a couple of outriders to go with you!”

It was risky, but no more risky than bluffs he had seen work before. And they did need the weapons. Cutting westward now only kept them well inside Union territory. Somehow they would have to skulk or fight their way down through the southern part of Kentucky and then probably all the way across Tennessee—a tall order, but one which was just possible of accomplishment.

“I’ll do it, suh.” Riding into Bardstown was no worse than riding over the rest of this countryside where any moment they might be swept up by the enemy.

It was lucky they had brought rations with them from McKeever’s, for they took no more chances of trying for such supplies again. Once more they altered their advance, riding the pikes at night, hiding out by day.

Hills then, and among them Bardstown. Drew borrowed a carbine, stringing a dubiously white strip of shirt tail from its barrel, and flanked by Kirby and Driscoll, a trooper Campbell had appointed, rode slowly up the broad street opening from the pike. Great trees arched overhead, almost as they had across the drive of the McKeever place, and the houses were fine, equal to the best about Lexington.

A carriage pulled to the side, its two feminine occupants leaning forward a little under the tilt of dainty parasols, eyes wide. While their coachman stared open-mouthed at the three dirty, tattered cavalrymen riding with an assumption of ease, though armed, down the middle of the avenue.

“You, suh.” It was the coachman who hailed Drew. “You soldier men?”

Drew reined in the black, who this time obeyed without protest. The weary miles had taught the gelding submission if not perfect manners. Transferring his reins to the hand which also steadied the butt of his carbine against his thigh so that his “flag” was well in evidence, Drew swept off his dust-grayed hat and bowed to the ladies in the carriage.

“General Morgan’s compliments, ladies,” he said, loud enough for his words to carry beyond the vehicle to the townspeople gathering on the walk. “Flag of truce comin’ in, ma’am.” He spoke directly to the elder of the two in the carriage. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to where I may find the Union commander?”

“You’re from John Hunt Morgan, young man?” She shut her parasol with a snap, held it as if she was considering its use as a weapon.

“Yes, ma’am. General Morgan, Confederate Army—”

She sniffed. “You’ll find their captain at the inn, probably. Yankees and whiskey apparently have an affinity for one another. So John Morgan’s coming to pay us a visit?”

“Maybe, ma’am. And where may I find the inn?”

“Straight ahead,” the girl answered. “You really are Morgan’s men?”

Kirby did not have a hat to doff, but his bow in the saddle was as graceful as Drew’s.

“That’s right, ma’am. My, did we know what we’d find in Bardstown now, we’d bin ridin’ in right sooner!”

“Suh!…Louisa!” The elder lady’s intimidating glare was divided, but Drew thought that Louisa got more than a half share of it.

“No offense meant, ma’am. It’s jus’ that ridin’ ’bout the way we do an’ all, we don’t git us a chance to say Howdy to ladies.” The Texan’s expression was properly contrite; his voice all diffidence.

“The inn, young men, is on down the street. Drive on, Horace!” she ordered the coachman. But as the carriage started, she pointed her parasol at Drew as a teacher might point an admonishing ruler at a pupil. “I hope you’ll find what you’re looking for, young man. In the way of Yankees.…”

“We generally do, ma’am,” Kirby commented. “For us Yankees jus’ turn up bright an’ sassy all over the place.”

Drew laughed. “Bright and sassy, then on the run!” For the success of his present mission and all those listening ears he ended that boast in as fervent a tone as he could summon.

“See that you keep them that way!” She enforced that order with a snap of parasol being reopened as the carriage moved from the shade back into the patch of open sunlight.

“That sure was a pretty girl,” observed Driscoll as Drew and the Texan wheeled back into line with him. “Wish we could settle down heah for say two or three days. Git some of the dust outta our throats and have a chance to say Howdy to some friendly folks—”

“You’d be more likely sayin’ Howdy to a Yankee prison guard if you did that,” Drew replied. “Let’s find this inn and the garrison commander.”

“That’s the proper way of layin’ it out—the inn an’ then business. Yankees an’ whiskey go together; that’s what she said, ain’t it? I maybe don’t weah no blue coat regular, but whiskey sounds sorta refreshin’, don’t it, now?”

“Just so you only think that, Anse, and don’t try any tastin’,” Drew warned. “We make our big talk to this captain, and then we move out—fast. You boys know the drill?”

“Sure,” Driscoll repeated. “We’re the big raiders come to gobble up all the blue bellies, ’less they walk out all nice an’ peaceful, leavin’ their popguns behind ’em for better men to use. I’d say that theah was the inn, Rennie—”

They saw their first Yankees, a blot of blue by the horse trough at the edge of the center square. And Drew, surveying the enemy with a critical and experienced eye, was sure that he was indeed meeting either green troops or militia. They were as wide-eyed in their return stare as the civilians on the streets around.

Kirby chuckled. “Strut it up, roosters,” he urged from the corner of his mouth. “Cutthroats, banditti, hoss thieves—jus’ downright bad hombres, that’s us. They expect us to be on the peck, all horns an’ rattles. Don’t disappoint ’em none! Their tails is half curled up already, an’ they’re ready to run if a horny toad yells Boo!”

To the outward eye the three riding leisurely down the middle of the Bardstown street had no interest in the soldiers by the trough. Drew in the middle, the white rag dropping from the barrel of his carbine, brought the black a step or two in advance. Just so had Castleman ridden into Lexington earlier, and that had been at night with a far more wary and dangerous enemy to face. The scout’s confidence rose as he watched, without making any show of his surveillance, the uneasy men ahead.

One of them broke away from the group, and ran into the inn.

“Wonder who’s roddin’ this outfit,” Kirby remarked. “That fella’s gone to rout him out. Do your talkin’ like a short-trigger man, Drew.”

They pulled rein in front of the inn and sat their horses facing the door through which the soldier had disappeared. His fellows edged around the trough and stood in a straggling line to front the Confederates.

“You!” Drew caught the eye of the nearest. “Tell your commanding officer General Morgan’s flag is here!”

The Yankee was young, almost as young as Boyd, but he had less assurance than Boyd. Now the boy stammered a little as he answered:

“Yes…yes, sir.” Then he added in a rush, “General who, sir?”

“General John Hunt Morgan, Confederate Cavalry, Army of the Tennessee, detached duty!” Drew made that as impressive as he could, whether it was worded correctly according to military protocol or not. It was, he thought with satisfaction, a nicely rounded, important-sounding speech, although a bit short.

“Yes, sir!” The boy started for the door, but he was too late.

The man who erupted from that portal was short and stout, his face a dramatic scarlet above the dark blue of his unbuttoned coat. He stopped short a step or two into the open and stood staring at the three on horseback, that scarlet growing more dusky by the second.

“Who…are…you?” His demand was expelled in heavy puffs of breath.

“Flag from General Morgan,” Drew repeated. Then to make it quite plain, he added kindly, “General John Hunt Morgan, Confederate Cavalry, Army of the Tennessee, detached duty.”

“But, but Morgan was defeated…at Cynthiana. He was broken—”

Slowly Drew shook his head. “The General has been reported defeated before, suh. No, he’s right here outside Bardstown. And I wouldn’t rightly say he was broken either, not with a couple of regiments behind him—”

“Couple of regiments!” The man was buttoning his coat, his red jowls sagging a little, almost as if Drew had used the carbine across his unprotected head. “Couple of regiments…Morgan…” he repeated dazedly. “Well,” sullenly he spoke to Drew, “what does he want?”

“You’re a captain,” Drew spoke crisply. “You’ll return with us to discuss surrender terms with an officer of equal rank!”

“Surrender!” For a moment some of the sag went out of the other.

“Two regiments—an’ you have maybe eighty or ninety men.” Kirby gazed with critical disparagement at such Union forces as were visible.

“One hundred and twenty-five,” the officer repeated mechanically and then glared at the Texan.

“One hundred and twenty-five then.” Kirby was willing to be generous. “All ready to hold this heah town. I don’t see no artillery neither.” He rose in his stirrups to view the immediate scene. “Goin’ to fight from house to house maybe—?”

“General Morgan,” Drew remarked to the company at large, “is not a patient man. But it’s your decision, suh. If you want to make a fight of it.” He shrugged.

“No! Well, I’ll talk…listen to your terms anyway. Get my horse!” he roared at the nearest soldier.

They escorted the captain with due solemnity out of Bardstown to meet Campbell, a well-armed guard in evidence strung out on the pike. The Union officer picked up enough assurance to demand to see the General himself, but Campbell’s show of surprised hauteur at the request was an expert’s weapon in rebuttal; and the other not only subsided but agreed without undue protest to Campbell’s statement of terms.

The Union detachment in town were to stack their arms in the square, leaving in addition their rations. They were to withdraw, unarmed, to a field outside and there await the patroling officer who would visit them in due course. Having agreed, the Union captain departed.

Campbell was already signaling the rest of the company out of cover.

“This is where we move fast. You all know what to do.”

But much had to be left to chance. Drew and Kirby surrendered their borrowed carbines to the rightful owners and prepared to join the first wave of that quick dash.

“Yahhhh-aww-wha—” There were no words in that, just the war cry which might have torn from an Indian warrior’s throat, but which came instead from between Kirby’s lips: the famous Yell with all its yip of victory as only an uninhibited Texan could deliver it. Then they were rushing, yelping in an answering chorus, four and five abreast, down the street under the shade of the trees, answered by screams and cries as the walks emptied before them.

Blue ranks broke up ahead, leaving rifles stacked, provisions in knapsacks. And the ragged crew struck at the spoil like a wave, lapping up arms, cartridge boxes, knapsacks. For only moments there was a milling pandemonium in the heart of Bardstown. Then once again that Yell was raised, echoed, and the pound of hoofs made an artillery barrage of sound. Armed, provisioned, and very much the masters of the scene, Morgan’s men were heading out of town on the other side, leaving bewilderment behind.

They pushed the pace, knowing that the telegraph wires or the couriers would be spreading the news. Perhaps the reputation of their commander might slow the inevitable pursuit, but it would not deter it entirely. They must put as much distance between themselves and the out-foxed Union garrison as they could. And Campbell continued to point them westward instead of south, since any enemy force would be marching in the other direction to cut them off.

Even if men could stand that dogged pace, driven by determination and fear of capture, horses could not. And through the next two days the inference was very clear: fall behind at your own risk; there will be no waiting for laggards to catch up. Nor any mounts furnished; you must provide your own.

Drew discovered the black gelding an increasing problem, but at least the horse provided transportation, and he tried to save the animal as best he could. Though when it was impossible to unsaddle, when one had to ride—and did—some twenty hours out of twenty-four, there was not much the most experienced horseman could do to relieve his mount.

Drew pulled up beside Kirby as he returned from a flank scout. The Texan had dropped to the rear of the small troop, holding his horse to not much more than a walk. Now and then he glanced to the receding length of the road as if in search of someone.

“Where’s Boyd?” Drew had ridden along the full length of the company and nowhere had he seen that blond head.

“Jus’ what I’m wonderin’.” Kirby came to a complete halt. “I came back a little while ago, and nobody’s seen him.”

Drew pulled in beside the other. His horse’s head hung low as the gelding blew in gusty snorts. He tried to remember when he had seen Boyd last and when he did, that memory was not too encouraging.

“With Hilders…and Cambridge…” he said softly.

“Yeah.” Kirby’s thought seemed to match his. “Hilder’s mare is jus’ about beat, an’ Boyd rides light; that bay he got is holdin’ up like a corn-fed stud.”

“They were talkin’ to him when I went out on point.” Drew followed his own line of thought. “And he won’t listen to me—”

“It don’t foller that because you advise a hombre for his own good, he’s goin’ to take kindly to your interest in him,” the Texan observed. “You tell him Hilders an’ Cambridge are wearin’ skunk stripes, an’ he’s apt to claim ’em both as compadres. Suppose he don’t come in when we bed down; he coulda jus’ cut his picket rope an’ drifted, as far as we can prove.”

“Not if his bay turns up with one of them on top,” Drew replied.

“Them two are of the curly wolf breed.” Kirby shifted his newly acquired Enfield. “No tellin’ as how they would join up with us again did they make such a switch; might figure as how they could make it better time driftin’ on their own.”

The Texan had put his own fear into words. Drew pointed the gelding back down the road and booted the animal into a trot. A moment later he heard more drumming hoofs behind him; Kirby was following.

“This ain’t your trouble,” Drew reminded him.

“No, maybe it ain’t. But then, me, I’m jus’ a rough string rider from way back, an’ this may end in a smoke-up. Odds seem a mite one-sided now—Hilders is easy on the trigger. He won’t take kindly to anyone tryin’ to hang up his hide for dryin’—”

Drew studied the hoof-churned dust of the road. He could only hold a very slim hope of some trace along its margin. The gelding stumbled and tried to cut pace. Drew hardened his will, holding the animal to the trot. He knew that under saddle and blanket, sores were forming, that soon he would have no choice but a “trade” such as Hilders might be forcing now, though not at the expense of one of his own fellows.

Kirby was reading sign on the other side of the road. His sudden hand signal brought Drew to join him. Hoofprints marked the softer verge.

“Turned off not too long ago,” Drew commented.

Kirby nodded toward the brush. They were facing a small woodland into which a thin trace of path led. Good cover for trouble. Looping reins over his arm, Drew walked forward, Colt in hand, using scout tricks to cover the noise of his advance into the green shimmer of the trees.

The trail led ahead without any attempt at concealment. The other two troopers must have tricked Boyd into taking that way; maybe they had even put a revolver on him once they were off the road. It was only too easy for a man to straggle from the company and not be missed until hours and miles later.

“Now, sonny, there ain’t no use makin’ a big fuss.…”

Drew dropped the reins and slipped on.

“You can see for yourself, boy, that m’ hoss ain’t gonna be able to git much farther. You can nurse him along an’ take it easy. Them blue bellies ain’t gonna be hard on a nice little boy like you—no, suh, they ain’t—even if they find you. We jus’ trade fair an’ square. No trouble.…”

“’Course,” another, harsher voice cut in, “if you want to make it rough, well, that’s what you’ll git! We’re takin’ that hoss, no matter what!”

“You ain’t!” There was a short snap of sound, the cocking of a hand gun.

“Pull that on me, will you!”

“I’ll shoot! I’m warnin’ you…touch m’ horse, and I’ll shoot!” Boyd’s voice scaled higher.

Drew ran, his arm up to shield his face from the whip of branches. He came out at a small stream. Boyd was backed against a tree while the two others advanced on him from different directions.

“That’s enough!” Drew’s Colt was pointed at Hilders. The man’s head jerked around. “Get goin’,” the scout ordered.

Cambridge blinked stupidly, but Hilders took a step back to catch up the reins of a horse that stood dull-eyed, its head bent, pink foam roping from its muzzle as it breathed in heavy gasps.

“I said—get!” Drew advanced, and Hilders gave ground again, towing the trembling horse.

“Now, we don’t want no trouble,” Cambridge said hurriedly. “It woulda bin a fair trade.… Sonny, heah, ain’t got place in the company anyhow—”

“Get!” Drew’s weapon raised a fraction of an inch. Cambridge’s protest thickened into a mumble and he went. When both men had disappeared, Drew turned to Boyd.

“Put that away—” he flicked a finger at the other’s Colt—“and mount up. We’ll have to push to get back to the troop.”

He watched the other lead the bay away from the stream side. Kirby was right, the horse was in better condition than most of the others in the company, and sooner or later someone might again try to rank Boyd out of it. There were a good many in that hunted column who would see that in the same light as Hilders and Cambridge did and would say so, with the weight of public opinion to back them. Campbell had set their course for Calhoun—and in that town Boyd and the raiders must definitely part company.

CHAPTER 6

Horse Trade

“What’s this heah Calhoun like?” Kirby watched Drew loosen the saddle blanket, lifting it from the gelding as gently as he could.

“Not much—” Drew was beginning, then he sucked in his breath and stood staring at the nasty sight he had just uncovered. He slung the blanket to the ground as Boyd came up, leading the bay. It was the younger boy who spoke first.

“You ain’t goin’ to try to ride him now, Drew!” That protest came spontaneously. Drew thought that Shawnee’s end had put the last bit of steel over his feelings, but he had to agree with Boyd now: no one with any humanity could make the gelding carry so much as a blanket over that back, let alone saddle and rider.

“Here!” Roughly, his face flushed, Boyd jerked on the reins of his own mount, bringing the bay sidling toward Drew. “You can take Bruce.…”

He stooped, reaching for Drew’s saddlebags. “You have to ride scout. I’ll walk this one a while. Maybe he can carry me later. I ride light.”

Drew shook his head. “Not that light,” he commented dryly. “No, I guess this is where I do some tradin’—”

“House-smoke yonder…” Kirby pointed. They could see the thin trail of smoke rising steadily this windless morning. “Best make it fast—the cap’n is already thinkin’ about pointin’ up an’ headin’ out.”

Drew loosened his side arms in their holsters. He always hated this business, but it was part of a day’s work in the cavalry now. He just hoped that he wouldn’t have to do his impressing at gun point. He entrusted saddle and blanket to Boyd, but made the other wait outside the farmyard twenty minutes later as he shepherded the gelding into the enclosure where chickens squawked and ran witlessly and a dog hurled himself to the end of a chain, giving tongue like a hound on a hot scent.

Drew skirted that defender, moving toward the barn. But he was still well away from the half-open door when a woman hurried out, a basket in her hands, her face picturing surprise and apprehension. She stopped short to stare at Drew.

“Who are you—what do you want?” Her two questions ran together in a single breathless sentence. Drew looked beyond her. No one else issued from the barn or came in answer to the dog’s warning. He took off his hat.

“I need a horse, ma’am.” He said it bluntly, impatiently. After all, how could you make a demand like that more courteous or soft? The very fact that he had been driven to this made him angry.

For a moment she looked at him uncomprehendingly, and then her eyes shifted to the gelding. She came forward a step or two, and there was a blaze of anger in the gaze she directed once more to the man.

“That horse’s galled raw!” She accused.

“Don’t you think I know it?” he returned abruptly. “That’s why I have to have another mount.”

A quick step back and she was between him and the door of the barn, holding the basket as a shield between them. It was full of eggs.

“You won’t get one here!” she snapped.

“Ma’am”—Drew had his temper under control now—“I don’t want to take your horse if you have one. But I’m under orders to keep up with the company. And I’m goin’ to do what I have to.…”

He dropped the gelding’s reins, walked forward, hoping she wouldn’t make him push around her. But apparently she read the determination in his face and stood aside, her expression bleak now.

“There’s only King in there,” she said. “And I wish you the joy of him, you thief!”

King proved to be a stallion, stabled in a box stall. Drew hesitated. The stud might be mean, harder to handle even than the gelding. But it was either taking him or being put afoot. If he could back this one even as far as Calhoun tomorrow—or the next day—he might be able to make a better exchange in town. It would depend on just how hard the stallion was to control.

Making soothing noises, he worked fast to bit and bridle the big chestnut. His experience with the Red Springs stud led him aright now. He came out of the barn leading the horse while the dog, its first incessant clamor stilled, growled menacingly from the end of its chain. The woman had disappeared, maybe into the fields beyond in search of help. Drew departed at a swift trot to where he had left Boyd.

“That’s all horse!” Boyd eyed Drew’s trade excitedly.

“Too much so, maybe. We’ll see.” He saddled quickly, glad that so far the chestnut had proved amiable. But how the stud might behave in troop company he had yet to learn. He mounted and waited for any signs of resentment, remembering the woman’s warning. King snorted, pawed the dust a bit, but trotted on when Drew urged him.

Kirby whistled from where he rode with the rear guard as they rejoined the company. But Captain Campbell frowned. And King put on a display of fireworks which almost shook Drew out of the saddle, rearing and pawing the air.

“Makes like a horny one on the prod,” commented the Texan. “That’s stud’s a lotta hoss to handle, amigo.”

“Too much,” the captain echoed Drew’s earlier misgivings. “Keep him away from the rest until you’re sure he won’t start anything!”

But that order fitted in with Drew’s usual scouting duties. And when he did bed down for one of the fugitives’ limited halts he was careful to stake King away from the improvised picket lines.

Drew was eating a mixture of hardtack and cold bacon, the last of their captured provision from Bardstown, when Driscoll sauntered over to the small mess Kirby, Boyd, and Drew had established without any formal agreement.

“The boys are plannin’ ’em a high old time,” Driscoll announced.

Kirby’s left eyebrow slanted up in quizzical inquiry. Drew chewed energetically and swallowed. It was Boyd who asked, “What do you mean?”

“Calhoun—that’s what I mean, sonny.” Driscoll squatted on his heels. “They ’low as how they’re gonna do a little impressin’ in Calhoun.”

“The town’s not very big,” Drew observed. “A couple of stores, a church, maybe a smithy.…”

Driscoll snickered. “Oh, the boys ain’t particular ’long ’bout now. They won’t be too choosy. Only thought I’d tell you fellas, seem’ as how you been ridin’ scout and ain’t maybe heard the plans. If you want to load up, better git into town early. Some of them fast workers from B Company are gittin’ set.…”

“The cap’n know about this?” asked Kirby.

Driscoll shrugged. “He ain’t deaf. But the cap’n also knows as how you can’t be too big a gold-lace officer when you’re behind the enemy lines with men on the run. We’re gonna take Calhoun and take her good!” He grinned at the two veterans. “Jus’ like we took Mount Sterlin’.”

Kirby was sober. “There was a take theah which warn’t no good. Somebody cleaned out the bank, or else I wasn’t hearin’ too well afterward. I can see some impressin’—stuff an hombre can put in his belly as paddin’, an’ maybe what he can put on his back. That’s fair an’ square. The Yankees do it too. But takin’ a gold watch or money outta a man’s pants—now that’s somethin’ different again.”

Driscoll stood up. “Ain’t nobody said anything about gold watches or money or banks,” he replied stiffly. “There’s stores in Calhoun, and there’s men in this heah outfit what needs new shirts or new breeches. And since when have you seen any paymaster ridin’ down the pike with his bags full of bills, not that you can use that paper stuff for anythin’ like shoppin’, anyway!”

“Thanks for the tip,” Drew cut in. “We take it kindly.”

Driscoll’s ruffled feelings appeared soothed. “Jus’ thought you boys oughta know. Me, I have in mind gittin’ maybe two or three cans of them peaches like we got from the sutler’s wagon. Them were prime eatin’. General store might jus’ have some. Yankee crackers are right good, too. Say, that theah stud you got, Rennie, how’s he workin’ out?”

“So far no trouble,” Drew remarked. “Only I’m lookin’ for a trade—maybe in town.”

“Trade? Why ever a trade?”

“We got a couple of river crossin’s comin’ up ahead,” the scout explained. “And one of them is a good big stretch of deep water—you don’t go wadin’ across the Tennessee. I don’t want to beg for trouble, headin’ a stud into somethin’ as dangerous as that.”

Driscoll seemed struck by the wisdom of that precaution. “Now I heard tell,” he chimed in eagerly, “as how a mule is a right sure-footed critter for a river crossin’. An’ a good ridin’ mule could suit a man fine—”

“A mule!” Boyd exploded, outraged. But Drew considered the suggestion calmly.

“I’ll keep a lookout in town. May be swappin’ for that mule yet, Driscoll. You’ll have to pick up my share of peaches if that’s the way it’s goin’ to be.”

There were more plans laid for the taking of Calhoun as the hours passed and the harried company plodded or spurred—depending upon the nature of the countryside, the activity of Union garrisons, and their general state of energy at the time—southwest across the length of Kentucky. Days became not collections of hours they could remember one by one afterward, but a series of incidents embedded in a nightmare of hard riding, scanty fare, and constant movement. Not only horses were giving out now; they dropped men along the way. And some—like Cambridge and Hilders—vanished completely, either cut off when they went to “trade” mounts, or deserting the troop in favor of their own plans for survival.

The remaining men burst into Calhoun as a cloud of locusts descending on a field of unprotected vegetation. Drew did not know how much Union sentiment might exist there, but he judged that their actions would not leave too many friends behind them. Jugs had appeared, to be passed eagerly from hand to hand, and the contents of store shelves were swept up and out before the outraged owners could protest.

It had showered that morning, leaving puddles of mud and water in the unpaved streets. And at one place there was a mud fight in progress—laughing, staggering men plastering the stuff over the new clothes they had looted. Drew rode around such a party, the stud’s prancing and snorting getting him wide room, to tie up at the hitching rail before the largest store.

A man in his shirt sleeves stood a little to one side watching the excitement in the street. As Drew came up the man glanced at the scout, surveying his shabbiness, and his mouth took on the harsh line of a sneer.

“Want a new suit, soldier?” he demanded. “Just help yourself! You’re late in gettin’ to it.…”

Drew leaned against the wall of the store front. He was so tired that the effort of walking on into that madhouse, where men yelled, grabbed, fought over selections, was too much to face. This was just another part of the never-ending nightmare which had entrapped them ever since they had fled from the bank of the Licking at Cynthiana. Listlessly he watched one trooper snatch a coat from another, drag it on triumphantly over a shirt which was a fringe of tatters. He plucked at the front of his own grimy shirt, and then felt around in the pocket he had so laboriously stitched beneath the belt of his breeches, to bring out one creased and worn bill. Spreading it out, he offered it to the man beside him. To loot an army warehouse was fair play as he saw it. Morgan’s command had long depended upon Union commissaries for equipment, clothing, and food. And a horse trade was something forced upon him by expediency. But he still shrank from this kind of foraging.

“A shirt?” he asked wearily.

The man glanced from that crumpled bill to Drew’s tired face and then back again. The sneer faded. He reached out, closed the scout’s fingers tight over the money.

“That’s just wastepaper here, son. Come on!” Catching hold of Drew’s sleeve so tightly that the worn calico gave in a rip, he guided the other into the store, drawing him along behind a counter until he reached down into the shadows and came up with a pile of shirts, some flannel, some calico, and one Drew thought was linen.

“These look about your size. Take ’em! You might as well have them. Some of these fellows will just tear them up for the fun of it.”

Drew fumbled with the pile, a flannel, the linen, and two calico. He could cram that many into his saddlebags. But the store owner thrust the whole bundle into his arms.

“Go ahead, take ’em all! They ain’t goin’ to leave ’em, anyway.”

“Thanks!” Drew clutched the collection to his chest and edged back along the wall, avoiding a spirited fight now in progress in the center of the store. Mud-spattered men came bursting back, wanting to change their now ruined clothing for fresh. Drew stiff-armed one reeling, singing trooper out of his path and was gone before the drunken man could resent such handling. With the shirts still balled between forearm and chest, he led King away from the store.

“Ovah heah!”

That hail in a familiar voice brought Drew’s head around. Kirby waved to him vigorously from a doorway, and the scout obediently rehitched King to another rack, joining the Texan in what proved to be the village barber-shop.

Kirby was stripped to the waist, using a towel freely sopped in a large basin to make his toilet. His face was already scraped clean of beard, and his hair plastered down into better order than Drew had ever seen it, while violent scents of bay rum and fancy tonics fought it out in the small room.

“What you got there?” Boyd looked up from a second basin, a froth of soap hiding most of his face.

“Shirts—” Drew dropped his bundle on a chair. He was staring, appalled, into the stretch of mirror confronting him, unable to believe that the face reflected there was his own. Skinning his hat onto a shelf, he moved purposefully toward the row of basins, ripping off his old shirt as he went.

Where the barber had gone they never did know, but a half hour later they made some sweeping attempts to clean up the mess to which their efforts at personal cleanliness had reduced the shop, pleased once more with what they saw now in the mirror. They had divided the shirts, and while the fit was not perfect, they were satisfied with the windfall. Before he left the shop Kirby swept a half dozen cakes of soap into his haversack.

Boyd was already balancing a bigger sack, full to the top.

“Peaches, molasses, crackers, pickles,” he enumerated his treasure trove to Drew. “We got us some real eats.”

“Hey, you—Rennie!” As they emerged from the barber-shop Driscoll trotted up. “The cap’n wants to see you. He’s on the other side of town—at the smithy.”

Boyd and Kirby trailed along as Drew obeyed that summons. They found Campbell giving orders to the smith’s volunteer aides, some engaged with the owner of the shop in shoeing the raiders’ horses, others making up bundles of shoes to be slung from the saddles as they rode out.

“Rennie”—the captain waved him out of the rush and clamor of the smithy—“I want you to listen to this. You—Hart—come here!” One of the men bundling horseshoes dropped the set he was tying together and came.

“Hart, here, comes from Cadiz. Know where that is?”

Drew closed his eyes for a moment, the better to visualize the map he tried to carry in his head. But Cadiz—he couldn’t place the town. “No, suh.”

“It’s south, close to the Tennessee line and not too far from the big river. There’s just one thing which may be important about it; it has a bank and Hart thinks that there are Union Army funds there. We still have a long way to go, and Union currency could help. Only,” Campbell spoke with slow emphasis, “I want this understood. We take army funds only. This may just be a rumor, but it is necessary to scout in that direction anyway.”

“You want me to find out about the funds and the river crossin’ near there?”

“It’s up to you, Rennie. Hart’s willin’ to ride with you.”

“I’ll go.” He thought the bank plan was a wild one, but they did have to have a safe route to the river.

“You’ll move out as soon as possible. We’ll be on our way as soon as we have these horses shod.”

Drew doubted that. What he had seen in the streets suggested that it was not going to be easy to pry most of the company out of Calhoun in a hurry, but that was Campbell’s problem. “I’ll need couriers,” he said aloud. It was an advance scout’s privilege to have riders to send back with information.

Campbell hesitated as if he would protest and then agreed. “You have men picked?”

“Kirby and Barrett. Kirby’s had scout experience; Barrett knows part of this country and rides light.”

“All right, Kirby and Barrett. You ready to ride, Hart?”

The other trooper nodded, picked up a set of extra horseshoes, and went out of the smithy. Campbell had one last word for Drew.

“We’ll angle south from here to hit the Cumberland River some ten miles north of Cadiz, Hart knows where. This time of year it ought to be easy crossin’. But the Tennessee—” he shook his head—“that is goin’ to be the hard one. Learn all you can about conditions and where it’s best to hit that.…”

Drew found Hart already mounted, Kirby and Boyd waiting.

“Hart says we’re ridin’ out,” the Texan said. “Goin’ to cover the high lines?”

“Scout, yes. South of here. River crossin’s comin’ up.”

“No time for shadin’ in this man’s war,” Kirby observed.

“Shadin’?” Boyd repeated as a question.

“Sittin’ nice an’ easy under a tree while some other poor hombre prowls around the herd,” Kirby translated. “It’s a kinda restin’ I ain’t had much of lately. Nor like to.…”

They put Calhoun behind them, and Hart led them cross-country. But at each new turn of the back country roads Drew added another line or two on the map he sketched in on paper which Boyd surprisingly produced from his bulging sack of loot.

The younger boy looked self-conscious as he handed it over. “Thought as how I might want to write a letter.”

Drew studied him. “You do that!” He made it an order. There had been no chance to leave Boyd in Calhoun. But there was still Cadiz as a possibility. He did not believe this vague story about Union gold in the bank. And the company might never enter the town in force at all. So that Boyd, left behind, would not attract the unfavorable attention of the authorities.

It began to rain again, and the roads were mire traps. As they struggled on into evening Kirby found a barn which appeared to be out by itself with no house in attendance. The door was wedged open with a drift of undisturbed soil and Boyd, exploring into a ragged straggle of brush in search of a well, reported a house cellar hole. The place must be abandoned and so safe.

“We’ll be in Cadiz tomorrow,” Hart said.

“An’ how do we ride in?” Kirby wanted to know. “Another bearer-of-the-flag stunt?”

“Is Cadiz a Union town?” Drew asked Hart.

The other laughed. “Not much, it ain’t. This is tobacco country; you seen that for yourself today. An’ there’s guerrillas to give the Yankees trouble. They hole up in the Brelsford Caves, six or seven miles outta town. We can ride right in, and there ain’t nobody gonna care.”

“Nice to know these things ahead’a time,” Kirby remarked. “So we ride in—lookin’ for what?”

Hart glanced at Drew but remained silent. The scout shrugged. “Information about the rivers and any stray garrison news. You have kin here, Hart?”

“Some.” But the other did not elaborate on that.

Drew was thinking about those guerrillas; their presence did not match Hart’s story about the Yankee gold in the bank. Such irregulars would have been after that long ago. He didn’t know why Hart had pitched Campbell such a tale, but he was dubious about the whole setup now. Better make this a quick trip in—and out—of town.