gaped at the horror of that bridge ... horses down, kicking and dying,
barring an escape route to their riders. And the blue coats everywhere.
Like a stallion about to attack, Shawnee screamed suddenly and reared,
his front hoofs beating the air. A spurting red stream fountained from
his neck; an artery had been hit.
Drew set teeth in lip, and plugged that bubbling hole with his thumb.
Shawnee was dying, but he was still on his feet, and he could be headed
away from the carnage in that water. Drew, his face sick and white,
turned the horse toward the railroad tracks.
"Drew!"
Croxton? No, but somehow Drew was not surprised to see Boyd trying to
keep his feet, being dragged along by two plunging horses, their eyes
white-rimmed with terror. The only wonder was that the scout had heard
that call through the din of screaming and shouting, the wild neighs of
the horses, and the continual crackle of small arms' fire.
"Mount! Mount and ride!" He mouthed the order, not daring to pull up
Shawnee, already past Boyd and his horses. The roan's hoofs spurned
gravel from the track line now. And Boyd drew level with him and mounted
one of the horses, continuing to lead the other. There was a cattle
guard ahead to afford some protection from the storm churning along the
river.
"Where?" Boyd called.
Drew, his thumb still planted in the hole which was becoming Shawnee's
death, nodded to the guard. They made it, and Drew kneed the roan closer
to the extra horse Boyd led, slinging his saddlebags across to the other
mount. Then he dismounted, releasing his hold on the roan's wound. For
the second time Shawnee cried, but this time it was no warrior's protest
against death; it was the nicker of a question. The answering shot from
Drew's Colt was lost in the battle din. He was upon the other horse
before Shawnee had stopped breathing.
"Come on!" Drew's voice was strident as he spurred, herding Boyd before
him. Two of them, then three, four, as they came out on the bank of a
millpond. Across that stretch of water there was safety, or at least the
illusion of safety.
"Drew!" For the second time he was hailed. It was Sam Croxton, holding
onto the saddle horn with both hands, a stream of red running from a
patch of blood-soaked hair over one ear. He swayed, his eyes wide open
as those of the frightened horses, but fastened now on Drew as if the
other were the one stable thing in a mad world.
"Can you stick on?" Drew leaned across to catch the reins the other had
dropped.
A small spark of understanding awoke in those wide eyes. "I'll stick,"
the words came thickly. "I ain't gonna rot in that damned prison
again--never!"
"Boyd ... on his other side! We'll try gettin' him across together."
"Yes, Drew." Boyd's voice sounded unsteady, but he did not hesitate to
bring his own mount in on Croxton's right.
"You'd best let me take that theah jump first, soldier." The stranger
sent his horse in ahead of Drew's. "It don't necessarily foller that
because that's water a man can jus' natcherly git hisself across in one
piece. I'll give it a try quicker'n you can spit and holler Howdy."
As if he were one with the raw-boned bay he bestrode, he jumped his
mount into the waiting pond. Still threshing about in the welter of
flying water, he glanced back and raised a hand in a come-ahead signal.
"Bottom's a mite missin', but the drop ain't so much. Better make it
'fore them fast-shootin' hombres back theah come a-takin' you."
Though they did not move in the same reckless fashion as their guide,
somehow they got across the pond and emerged dripping on the other side.
The determination which had made Croxton try the escape, seemed to fade
as they rode on. He continued to hold to the horn, but he slumped
further over in a bundle of misery. Their pond guide took Boyd's station
to the right, surveying the half-conscious man critically.
"This hoorawin' around ain't gonna do that scalpin' job no good," he
announced. "He can't ride far 'less he gits him a spell of rest an'
maybe has a medicine man look at that knock--"
Croxton roused. "I stick an' I ride!" He even got a measure of firmness
into his tone. "I don't go to no Yankee prison...." He tried to reach
for the reins, but Drew kept them firmly to hand.
There was a shot behind them, three or four more fugitives plunged down
to the millpond, and the last one in line fired back at some yet unseen
pursuer.
"Then we git!" But across Croxton's bowed shoulders the other shook his
head warningly at Drew.
He was young and as whipcord thin and tough as most of those over-weary
men from the badgered and now broken command, but he was not tense,
riding rather with the easy adjustment to the quickened pace of a man
more at home in the saddle than on foot. His weather-browned face was
seamed with a scar which ran from left temple to the corner of his
mouth, and his hair was a ragged, unkempt mop of brown-red which tossed
free as he rode, since he was hatless.
With Croxton boxed between them, Drew and the stranger matched pace at
what was a lope rather than a gallop as Boyd ranged ahead. Another
flurry of shots sounded from behind, and they cut across a field, making
for the doubtful cover of a hedge. There was no way, Drew decided after
a quick survey, for them to get back into town and join the general
retreat. The Yankees must be well between them and any of the force
across the Licking.
When they had pushed through the hedge they were faced by a lane running
in the general northwest direction. It provided better footing, and it
led away from the chaos at Cynthiana. With Croxton on their hands it was
the best they could hope for, and without more than an exchange of
glances they turned into it, the wounded man's horse still between them.
The cover of the hedge wall provided some satisfaction and Drew dared to
slow their pace. Under his tan Sam was greenish-white, his eyes half
closed, and he rode with his hands clamped about the saddle horn as if
his grip upon that meant the difference between life and death. But
Drew knew he could not hope to keep on much longer.
There might be Confederate sympathizers in the next farmhouse who would
be willing to take in the wounded scout. On the other hand, the
inhabitants could just as well be Union people. It was obvious that Sam
could not keep going, and it was just as obvious to Drew that they--or
at least he--could not just ride on and leave him untended by the side
of the road.
"Boyd!" So summoned, the youngster reined in to wait for them. "You ride
on! You, too!" Drew addressed the stranger.
Boyd shook his head, though he glanced at the winding road ahead. "I
ain't leavin' you!" His lip was sticking out in that stubborn pout.
At that moment Drew could have lashed out at him and enjoyed it, or at
least found a satisfaction in passing on some of his own exasperation
and frustration.
"We got a far piece to travel," commented the stranger. "An' I guess
I'll string along with you, 'less, of course, this heah is a closed game
an' you ain't sellin' any chips 'cross the table. Me, I'm up from Texas
way--Anson ... Anse Kirby, if you want a brand for the tally book. An'
most all a Yankee's good for anyway is to be shucked of his boots." He
freed one foot momentarily from the stirrup and surveyed a piece of very
new and shiny footware with open admiration. It was provided with a
highly ornate silver spur, not military issue but Mexican work, Drew
guessed.
"You from Gano's Company?" the scout asked.
Kirby nodded. "Nowadays, but it was Terry's Rangers 'fore I stopped me a
saber with this heah tough old head of mine an' was removed for a
while. That Yankee almost fixed me so m' own folks wouldn't know me from
a fresh-skinned buffala--not that I got me any folks any more." He
grinned and that expression was a baring of teeth like a wolf's
uninhibited snarl. "You one of Quirk's rough-string scout boys, ain't
you? We sure raised hell an' put a chunk under it back theah. Them
Yankees are gonna be as techy as teased rattlers. An' I don't see as how
we can belly through the brush with this heah hombre. He's got him a
middle full of guts to stick it this far. Long 'bout now he must have
him a horse-size headache...."
Croxton swayed and only Drew's crowding their horses together kept the
now unconscious scout from falling into the road dust. Kirby steadied
the limp body from the other side.
"Keep pullin' him 'round this way, amigo, an' he'll be planted
permanent, all neat an' pretty with a board up at his head."
"There's a house--back there." Boyd pointed to the right, where a narrow
lane angled away from their road, a small house to be seen at its end.
Drew, Croxton's weight resting against his shoulder, studied the house.
The distant crackle of carbine fire rippled across the fields and came
as a rumble of warning. It was plain that Croxton could not ride on, not
at the pace they would have to maintain in order to outdistance pursuit;
nor could he be left to shift for himself. To visit the house might be
putting them straight into some Yankee's pocket, but it was the only
solution open now.
"Hey, those mules!" Boyd had already ventured several horse lengths down
the lane. Now he jerked a forefinger at two animals, heads up, ears
pointed suspiciously forward, that were approaching the fence at a
rocking canter. "Those are Jim Dandy's! You remember Jim Dandy, Drew?"
"Jim Dandy--?" the other echoed. And then he did recall the little
Englishman who had been a part of the Lexington horse country since long
before the war. Jim Dandy had been one of the most skillful jockeys ever
seen in the blue grass, until he took a bad spill back in '59 and
thereafter set himself up as a consultant trainer-vet to the comfort of
any stable with a hankering to win racing glory.
To a man like Jim Dandy politics or war might not be all-important. And
the fact that he had known the households of both Oak Hill and Red
Springs could count for a better reception now. At least they could try.
"No use you gettin' into anything," Drew told the Texan. "You and Boyd
go on! I'll take Croxton in and see if they'll take care of him."
Kirby looked back down the road. "Don't see no hostile sign heah
'bouts," he drawled. "Guess we can spare us some time to bed him down
proper on th' right range. Maybeso you'll find them in theah as leery of
strangers as a rustler of the sheriff--"
The Texan's references might be obscure, but he helped Drew transfer
Croxton from the precarious balance in the wounded man's own saddle to
Drew's hold, and then rode at a walking pace beside the scout while Boyd
trailed with the led horse.
There was a pounding of hoofs on the road behind. A half dozen riders
went by the mouth of the land at a distance-eating gallop. In spite of
the dust which layered them Drew saw they were not Union.
"Them boys keep that gait up," Kirby remarked, "an' they ain't gonna
make it far 'fore their tongues hang out 'bout three feet an' forty
inches. That ain't no way to waste good hoss flesh."
"Got a good hold on him?" he asked Drew a moment later. At the other's
nod he rode forward into the yard at the end of the lane.
"Hullo, the house!" he called.
A man came out of the stable, walking with a kind of hop-skip step. His
blond head was bare, silver fair in contrast to Boyd's corn yellow, and
his features were thin and sharp. It was Jim Dandy, himself.
"What's all this now?" he asked in that high voice Drew had last heard
discussing the virtues of rival horse liniments at Red Springs. And he
did not look particularly welcoming.
"Mr. Dandy--" Drew walked his horse on, Croxton sagging in his hold, his
weight a heavy pull on his bearer's tired arms--"do you remember me?
Drew Rennie, of Red Springs." He added that quickly for what small
guarantee of respectability the identification might give. Certainly in
his present guise he did not look Alexander Mattock's grandson.
Dandy rested his weight on his good leg and swung his shorter one a
little ahead. And his hand went to the loose front of his white shirt.
"Now that's a right unfriendly move, suh. I take it right unfriendly to
show hardware 'fore you know the paint on our faces--"
The smaller man's hand fell away from his concealed weapon, but Kirby
did not reholster the Colt which had appeared through some feat of
lightning movement in his grip.
"You're not going to take _my_ horses!" Even if there was no gun in
Dandy's hand, his voice stated a fact they could not doubt he meant.
"Nobody's takin' hosses," the Texan answered. "This heah soldier's got
him a mighty sore head, an' he needs some fixin'. We ain't too popular
round heah right now, an' he can't ride. So--"
Boyd pushed up. "Mr. Dandy, you know me--Boyd Barrett. And this _is_
Drew Rennie. We have Yankees after us. And you never said you were
Union--"
Dandy shrugged. "No matter to me what you wear ... blue ... gray--you're
all a bunch of horse thieves, like as not. You, Mr. Boyd, what you doing
riding with these here Rebs? And what's the matter with that man? Got
him a lick on the head, eh? Well--" he crossed with his lurching walk to
stand by Drew, studying the now unconscious Croxton--"all right." His
voice was angry, as if he were being pushed along a path he disliked.
"Get him into the stable. I ain't yet took sides in this here bloody
war, and I ain't going to now. But the man's hurt. Unload him and don't
tell me what he's been doing back there to get him that knock. I don't
want to know."
He led the way into the stable, and moments later Croxton was as easy as
they could make him on an improvised bed of straw and clean horse
blankets. Dandy turned to them with Croxton's gun belt swinging free in
his hand, still weighted down with two revolvers.
"You want these?"
Drew glanced at his two companions. His own carbine was gone; he had
dropped it at the verge of the millpond when he had taken charge of
Croxton. Boyd was without any weapons, and Kirby had only side arms.
Drew started to reach for the belt and then shook his head. If Sam was
able to ride soon, he would need those. And the rest of them could take
their chances at getting more arms. Boyd opened his mouth as if to
protest, but he did not say anything as Drew refused the Colts.
"You keep 'em--for him."
The ex-jockey nodded. "Better be riding on, Mr. Rennie. They'll come
looking, and I don't fancy having any fight here. With luck we'll get
your friend on his feet all right and tight, and he can slip south when
the dust is down a bit. But you'd better keep ahead of what can come
down the pike now."
Kirby moved, the spurs jangling musically on his boots. "I've been
thinkin' 'bout that theah road," he announced. "Any other trail outta
heah we can take?"
"Cross the pasture--" Dandy directed with a thumb--"then a cornfield,
and you'll hit the pike again. Cuts off about a mile."
"That sounds right invitin'." The Texan led the way back to the yard and
their waiting mounts. "Obliged to you, suh. Now," he spoke to Drew, "I'd
say it's time to raise some dust. Ain't far to sundown, an' we oughta
git some countryside between us an' them rip-snortin' javalinas--"
"Javalinas?" Drew heard Boyd repeat inquiringly.
"Kid--" the Texan reined his bay--"there is some mean things in this
heah world. Theah is Comanches an' Apaches, an' a longhorn cow with a
calf hid out in a thicket, an' a rattler, what's feelin' lowdown in his
mind. An' theah's javalinas, the wild boars of the Rio country. Then
theah's men what have had to ride fast on a day as hot as this,
swallerin' dust an' thinkin' what they're gonna do when they catch up to
them as they're chasin'; an' those men're 'bout as mean as the boars--"
Drew lifted his hand to Jim Dandy and followed the other two through the
pasture gate. Now he grinned.
"You sound like one speakin' from experience--of bein' chased, that is."
Kirby chuckled. "I'm jus' a poor little Texas boy, suh. 'Course we do a
bit of fast ridin'. Mostly though I've been on the other end, _doin'_
the chasin'. An' I know how it feels to eat dust an' git a mite riled
doin' it. I'd say we could maybe help ourselves a bit though."
"How?" Boyd asked eagerly.
"You"--Drew rounded on him--"can cut cross-country and get home!" There
was nothing in Boyd's clothing or equipment to suggest that he had been
a part of the now scattered raiders. "If the Yankees stop you," Drew
continued, "you can spin them a tale about riding out to see the fight.
And Major Forbes's name ought to help."
Boyd's scowl was a black cloud on his grimy young face. "I'm one of
General Morgan's men."
"Only a fool," remarked Kirby, "stops to argue with a mule, a skunk, a
cook, or a boy what's run away to join the army. You figgerin' to take
this kid home personal?"
"You'll have to tie me to a horse to do it!" Boyd flared up.
"No thanks for your help." Drew frowned at Kirby, then turned to Boyd
again. "No, I can't take you back now. But I'll see that you do go
back!"
Boyd laughed, high, with a reckless note. "I'm comin' along."
"As I was sayin'," Kirby returned to his half suggestion of moments
before, "we can see 'bout helpin' ourselves. Them Yankees are mighty
particular 'bout their rigs; they carry 'nough to outfit a squad right
on one trooper."
Drew had already caught on. "Stage an ambush?"
"Well, now, let's see." Kirby looked down at his own gear, then
critically inspected Drew and Boyd in turn. "We could do with carbines.
Them blue bellies had them some right pretty-lookin' hardware--leastways
them back by the river did. An' I don't see no ration bags on them
theah hosses you two are ridin'. Yes, we could do with grub, an'
rifle-guns ... maybe some blue coats.... Say as how we was wearin' them
we could ride up to some farm all polite an' nice an' maybe git asked in
to rest a spell an' fill up on real fancy eats. I 'member back on the
Ohio raid we came into this heah farm ... wasn't nobody round the place
at all. We sashayed into the kitchen an' theah, jus' sittin' easylike an'
waitin' right on the table, was two or three pies! Ain't had me a taste
since as good as them theah pies. But maybe with a blue coat on us we
could do as well heah 'bouts."
There was merit in the Texan's suggestion. Drew, from past experience,
knew that. His only hesitation was Boyd. The youngster was right. Short
of subduing him physically and taking him back tied to his saddle
through the spreading Union web, Drew had no chance of returning Boyd to
Oak Hill. But to lead him into the chancy sort of deal Kirby had
outlined was entirely too dangerous.
"You mean--we hold up some Yankees and just take their uniforms an'
carbines an' things?" It was already too late. Boyd had seized upon what
must have seemed to him an idea right out of the dashing kind of war he
had been imagining all these past weeks.
"It has been done, kid," the Texan affirmed. "'Course we got to find us
two or three poor little maverick blue bellies lost outta the herd like.
Then we cut 'em away from the trail an' reason with 'em."
"That ought to be easy." Boyd's enthusiasm was at the boiling point.
"The Yankees are all cowards--"
Kirby straightened in his saddle, the lazy good humor gone from his
face.
"Kid, don't git so lippy 'bout what you ain't rightly learned yet.
Yankees can fight--they can fight good. You saw 'em do that today. And
don't you ever forgit it!"
Boyd was disconcerted, but he clung doggedly to his belief. "One of
Morgan's men can take on five Yankees."
Drew laughed dryly. "You saw _that_ happen just this mornin', Boyd. And
what happened? We ran. They fight just as hard and as long, and most of
them just as tough as we do. And don't ever think that the man facin'
you across a gun is any less than you are; maybe he's a little better.
Keep that in mind!"
"Yes, you read the aces an' queens in your hand 'fore you spreads your
money out recklesslike," Kirby agreed. "So, if we find the right setup,
we move, but--"
Drew swung up one hand in the horseman's signal of warning.
"Something--or someone--_is_ on the move ... ahead there!" he warned.
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!"