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.
7
_A Mule for a River_
For a Confederate patrol, they looked respectable enough as they rode
into Cadiz. Though they lacked the uniformity of a Yankee squad, their
dark shirts, "impressed" breeches, and good boots gave an impression of
a common dress, and Kirby had even acquired a hat.
They slung their captured rifles before entering town and progressed at
a quiet amble which suggested good will. But there was no mistaking the
fact that they attracted attention, immediately and to some purpose. A
small boy, balancing on a fence, put his fingers to his mouth and
released a piercing whistle.
King's response to that was vigorous. Rearing, until he stood almost
upright on his hind feet, the stallion pawed the air. Drew barely kept
his seat. He fought with all his knowledge of horsemanship to bring the
stud back to earth and under control. And he could hear Kirby's laugh
and Boyd calling out some inarticulate warning or advice.
"Better git that mule--or run down this one's mainspring some," the
Texan said when Drew had King again with four feet on the ground, though
weaving in a sideways dance.
"You men--what are you doing here?" A horseman looked over the heads of
the crowd to the four troopers.
"Passin' through, suh. Leastwise we was, until greeted--" Kirby answered
courteously.
Drew assessed the questioner's well-cut riding clothes, his good linen,
and fine gloves. The rider was middle-aged, his authority more evident
because of that fact. This was either one of the wealthy planters of the
district or some important inhabitant of Cadiz. There was a wagon
drawing up behind him, a span of well-cared-for mules in harness with a
Negro driver.
The mules held Drew's attention. King's reaction to that sudden whistle
was a warning. He had no wish to ride such an animal into a picket
skirmish. The sleekness of the mules appealed to his desire to rid
himself of the unmanageable stud.
Now he edged the sidling King closer to the wagon. The driver watched
him with apprehension. Whether he guessed Drew's intention or whether he
dreaded the near approach of the stallion was a question which did not
bother the scout.
"You there," Drew hailed the driver. "I'll take one of those mules!"
As always, he hated these enforced trades and spoke in a peremptory way,
wanting to get the matter finished.
"You, suh--" the solid citizen turned his horse to face the scout--"what
gives you the right to take that mule?"
With a visible sigh of relief, the Negro relaxed on the driver's seat,
willing to let the other carry on the argument.
"Nothing, except I have to have a mount I can depend upon." Drew did not
know why he was explaining, or even why he wanted the mule so acutely
right now. Except that he was tired, tired of the days in the saddle, of
being on the run, of these small Kentucky towns into which they rode to
loot and ride off again. The Yankees in Bardstown had been fair game,
and their bluff there had been an adventure. But Calhoun left a sour
taste in his mouth, and he didn't like the vague order which had brought
him to Cadiz. So his dislike boiled over, to settle into a sullen
determination to rid himself of one irritation--this undependable horse.
"Do I assume, suh, that you are part of General Morgan's command?" Sharp
blue eyes studied Drew across the well-curried backs of the mules.
"Yes, suh."
The man gave a nod, which might have been for some thought of his own.
"We have heard some rumors of your coming, suh," the other continued.
"You, Nelson," he spoke to the Negro, "take this team up to the livery
stable and tell Mr. Emory I want Hannibal saddled! Then you bring him
back here and give him to this gentleman!"
"Yes, suh. Hannibal--wi' saddle--for this young gentlem'n."
"Hannibal, suh," the man said to Drew, "is a mule, but a remarkable one,
riding trained and strong. I think you will find him quite usable. Do I
understand we are about to be favored by a visit from General Morgan?"
Drew dismounted. Now he made a business of squinting up at the sun as if
to tell time. "Not for a while, suh." He remained cautious; though he
guessed that his questioner's sympathies were at least not openly Union.
There was a stir in the gathering crowd. Hart was leaning from his
saddle, talking earnestly to two men flanking him on either side.
"May I offer you some refreshment, gentlemen. I am James Pryor, at your
service--"
Automatically Drew responded to the manners of Red Springs. "Drew
Rennie, suh. Anson Kirby, Boyd Barrett...." He looked around for Hart,
only to see the other disappearing into an alley with his two companions
from the crowd.
"Suh, that's a right heartenin' offer," Kirby said, smiling. "Trail dust
sure does make a man's throat dryer'n an alkali flat!"
"Mark Hale over here has just the answer for that difficulty, gentlemen.
If you will accompany me--"
They left the glare of the sunlit street, following their host into a
small shop where a quantity of strange smells fought for supremacy.
Kirby stared about him puzzled, but his look changed to an expression of
pure bafflement and outrage as Pryor gave his order to the smaller man
who came from a back room.
"Mark, these gentlemen need some of that good lemonade you make--if you
have some cold and ready."
Drew heard Kirby's muffled snort of protest and wanted so badly to laugh
that the struggle to choke off that sound was a pain in his chest. Mr.
Pryor smiled at them blandly.
"M' boys, nothing better on a really hot day than some of Mark's
lemonade. Nothing like it in this part of Kentucky. Ah, that looks like
a draft fit for the gods, Mark, it certainly does!"
Hale had bobbed out of his inner room again, shepherding before him a
Negro boy who walked with exaggerated caution, balancing a tray on which
stood four tall glasses, beaded with visible moisture. There was a
sprig of green mint standing sentry in each.
"Drink up, gentlemen." Under Mr. Pryor's commanding eye they each took a
glass and a first sip.
But it was good--cool as it went slipping down the throat bearing that
blessed chill with it, tart on the tongue, and fresh. Drew had sipped,
but now he gulped, and he noted over the rim of his own glass, that
Kirby was following his example. Mr. Pryor consumed his portion at a
more genteel rate of intake.
"This allays that trail dust of yours, Mr. Kirby?" He inquired with no
more than usual solicitude, but there was a faint trace of amusement in
his small smile.
Kirby met the challenge promptly. "Ably, suh, ably!" He raised his
half-filled glass. "To your very good health, suh. I don't know when
I've had me a more satisfyin' drink!"
Pryor bowed. He was still smiling as he glanced at Drew.
"You have business in Cadiz, suh? Beyond that of swapping that
firebreather of yours for another mount, I mean? Perhaps I can be of
service in some other way...."
Drew cradled his glass in both hands. The condensing moisture made it
slippery, but the chill was pleasant to feel.
"Do you have any news about the Cumberland River, suh?" he asked. Pryor
might have usable information, and there was no reason to disguise that
part of their objective. Short of turning about and fighting their way
through about a quarter of the aroused Yankee army, the fugitives did
have to cross the Cumberland and the Tennessee, and do both soon.
"The Cumberland, suh, is not apt to give you much trouble." Pryor sipped
at his glass with a relish. "If, of course, you contemplate a try at the
Tennessee--that will be a different matter. I trust your commander will
be amply prepared for difficulties there. But General Morgan is not to
be easily caught napping, or so his reputation stands. I wish you the
best of luck."
"Is that your horse out there, young man?" the proprietor of the
drugstore addressed Drew. "That big stallion?"
Drew put his glass on the counter and spun around. "What's he doin'
now?"
"Nothing," Hale returned quickly. "Ransome!" Out of nowhere Hale's
servant appeared. "Get the saddlebags from that horse."
Surprised at this highhanded demand for his property, Drew waited for
enlightenment. When Ransome returned with the bags, Hale took them,
moved quickly to a cabinet, and unlocked it. By handfulls he took small
boxes from the shelves inside, added some paper packets, and then
buckled the straps tightly over the new bulge.
"I understand," he said in his dry, precise voice, "there is a pressing
need for quinine, morphine, and the like in the South?"
Drew could only nod as Hale held out the bags.
"Give this to your surgeon, young man, with my compliments. There is
little enough we can do, but this is something."
Drew stammered his thanks, knowing that those boxes and packets crammed
into his bags meant a fortune to a blockade runner, but far more to men
in the improvised hospitals behind the gray lines. Hale waved away
Drew's thanks, adding only a last warning: "Keep your bags dry if you
contemplate a river crossing! I would like to make sure that those drugs
do reach the right hands intact."
"Rennie!" Hart hailed him from the door. "There's a boy here with a
mule; he says it's for you."
Pryor put down his glass. "It's Hannibal. I think you will find him
acceptable, suh. An even-tempered animal for the most part, and the
surest-footed one I have ever ridden."
"Then you do _ride_ him?" Boyd spoke for the first time.
"Naturally he has been ridden--by me. I would not offer him otherwise,
suh!" Pryor's flash of indignation was quick. "Hannibal's dam was Dido,
a fine trotting mare. He's an excellent mount."
The mule stood in the street, ears slightly forward, eyeing King warily.
He was a big animal, groomed until his gray coat shone under the sun,
wearing a well rubbed and oiled saddle and trappings. As Drew approached
he lowered his head, sniffing inquiringly at the scout.
"Your new master, Hannibal," Pryor addressed the animal with the gravity
of one making a formal introduction. "You are about to be mustered into
the cavalry."
Hannibal appeared to consider this and then shook his big head up and
down in a vigorous nod. Boyd laughed and Kirby offered vocal
encouragement.
"Mount up an' see if you have to go smoothin' out any humps."
"If you're goin' to ride that critter, git on!" Hart called. His tone
expressed urgency as if he had learned something in town which should
send them out of Cadiz in a hurry.
Drew's previous experience with mules had not been as a rider. He had
heard plenty about their sure-footedness, their ability to keep going as
pack animals and wagon teams when horses gave out, their intelligence,
as well as that stubbornness which lay on the darker side of the scales.
He advanced on Hannibal now a little distrustfully, settling into the
saddle on the animal's back with the care of one expecting some
unpleasant reaction. But Hannibal merely swung his head about as if to
make sure by sight, as well as pressure of weight on his back, that his
rider was safely aloft.
Relaxing, Drew saluted Pryor. "My thanks to you, suh."
"Think nothing of it, young man. Luck to you--all of you."
"That we can use, suh," Kirby returned. "Adios...."
Hart's impatience was so patent that Drew had only hasty thanks for Hale
before the trooper had them on their way out of town. When they were at
a trot Kirby joined their guide.
"How come you workin' on your critter's rump with a double of rope? Git
sight of some blue belly hangin' out to dry-gulch us?"
"We ain't too welcome hereabouts." Hart did look worried, and Drew was
alert.
"Yankees?" he asked.
Hart shook his head. "Just some of the boys; they don't want no
attention pulled this way, not right now."
The bank money--and the guerrillas. Yes, holding up the Cadiz bank if
and when any gold reached there, would appeal to the local irregulars,
who might be so irregular as to be on the cold side of the law, even in
wartime with the enemy their victim. Drew fitted one piece to another
and thought he could guess the full pattern.
Kirby looked from one to the other. Boyd was completely at a loss. A
moment later the Texan spoke again.
"Me, I'm never one to argue with local talent, specially if they wear
their Colts low and loose. Doin' that is apt to make a man wolf meat.
Wheah to now--this heah river?"
Drew nodded. The Cumberland must be scouted. And, after that, the more
formidable barrier of the Tennessee. He had not needed Pryor's warning
about the latter. Ever since they had left Bardstown and knew they were
headed for that barrier, Drew had been carrying worry at the back of his
mind.
But Pryor was also right about the Cumberland. Hart agreed to ride back
to the company with the information to direct them to the best crossing.
While Drew, Kirby, and Boyd went on to the last barrier between them and
eventual escape southwest.
Here the Tennessee was a flood, a narrow lake more than a river. As they
traveled its eastern bank Boyd halted now and again to study the waste
of water dubiously.
"It's wide," he said in a subdued voice. Kirby spat accurately at a leaf
drifting just below.
"Need us some fish fixin's heah," he agreed. "You swim?" he asked the
other two.
There had been ponds at home where both of them in childhood had paddled
about with most of the young male populations of Red Springs and Oak
Hill. But whether they could trust that somewhat limited skill to get
them over this flood was another matter.
"Some." Boyd appeared to have discovered caution.
"Me, I'm not sayin' yet," Kirby commented. "Splashin' 'round some in a
little-bitty wadin' pool, an' gittin' out in this, don't balance none.
Ain't every hoss takes kindly to water, neither. I'd say we'd better see
what's the chances of knockin' together a raft or somethin'. 'Less we
can find us a boat."
But boats were not to be found, unless they were willing to risk
discovery by trying to cross near a well-settled district. And when
Captain Campbell joined them that afternoon he insisted on the need of
speed over a longer reconnaissance.
"The Yankees are closing in," he told the trio by the river. "If we try
to cross at a town, they'll have a point to center on. Rafts, yes, we
can try to build rafts--have to ferry over the men who can't swim, and
our gear. This is the time we must push--fast."
The remote section of bank which Drew had chosen became a scene of
activity as the company came in--a tight bunch--not long after Campbell.
The stragglers came later, pushing beat-out horses, one or two riding
double. They had no tools other than bowie knives, and their attempts at
raft-building were not only awkward but in the most cases futile. When
they did have a mat which would stick together after a fashion, they
were determined to put it to the test at once.
None of them had much practice in getting horses over such a wide body
of water, and there were a great many freely voiced suggestions
concerning the best methods.
Kirby stood watching the first attempt, his face blank of expression, a
sign Drew had come to recognize as the Texan's withdrawal from a
situation or action of which he did not approve. There were five men
squeezed together on the flimsy-looking raft and they had strung out
their mounts in a line, the head of one horse linked by leading rope to
the tail of the one before him.
"You don't think it's goin' to work?" Drew asked Kirby.
The Texan shrugged. "Maybe, only hosses don't think like men. An' a
lotta hosses don't take kindly to gittin' wheah theah ain't no footin'.
Me, I want to see a little more, 'fore I roll out--"
Kirby's misgivings were amply justified. For that first voyage was
doomed to a tragic and speedy end. The second horse in line, losing
footing as the river bed fell away beneath him, reared in fright, caught
his forefeet over the rope linking him to his fellow, and so jerked his
head underwater by his own frenzied struggles. Before the men on the
wildly dipping raft were able to cut the now fright-maddened animals
loose, three in that string had drowned themselves by their uncontrolled
plunges, and the others were being dragged under.
Boyd dived from the upper bank before Drew could stop him. It was
madness to go anywhere near the struggling horses. But somehow Boyd's
blond head broke water at the side of the last gasping animal. He took a
grip on the water-logged mane, his body bobbing up and down with the
jerks of the horse's forequarters, until he had sawed through the lead
cord and was able to start the mount back toward the shore, swimming
beside him.
Drew was waiting with Kirby to give Boyd a hand up the bank.
"You could have been pulled under!"
Boyd was grinning. "But I wasn't. And the horse's all right, too." He
patted the wet haunch of the shivering animal. "That was bad--they
pulled each other down."
It was a disheartening beginning. But as the hours slipped by they had
better success. One horse, two, three could be towed on separate ropes
behind the raft. And in the morning there was a cockleshell of a boat
oared in by one of the men who had found it downriver.