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.
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."