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.
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.