courier for the Kentucky general, saw Forrest--with his tough,
undefeated, and undefeatable escort--riding ahead.
They had Wilson's Cavalry drawn up to meet them. But they had handled
Wilson before, briskly and brutally. This was the old game they knew
well. Drew saw the glitter of sabers along the Union ranks and smiled
grimly. When were the Yankees going to learn that a saber was good for
the toasting of bacon and such but not much use in the fight? Give him
two Colts and a carbine every time! There was a fancy dodge he had seen
some of the Texans use; they strung extra revolver cylinders to the
saddle horn and snapped them in for reloading. It was risky but sure was
fast.
"They've got Springfields." He heard Kirby's satisfied comment.
"I'm goin' to get me one of those," Boyd began, but Drew rounded on him
swiftly.
"No, you ain't! They may look good, but they ain't much. You can't
reload 'em in the saddle with your horse movin', and all they're good
for in a mixup is a fancy sort of club."
The Confederate infantry were moving up toward the Union breastworks,
part of which was a formidable stone wall. And now came the orders for
their own section to press in. They pushed, hard and heavy, while swirls
of blue cavalry fought, broke, re-formed to meet their advance, and
broke again. They routed out pockets of blue infantry, sending some
pelting back toward the Harpeth.
A wave of retreating Yankees crossed the shallow river. Forrest's men
dismounted to fight and took the stream on foot, the icy water splashing
high. It was wild and tough, the slam of man meeting man. Drew wrested a
guidon from the hold of a blue-coated trooper as Hannibal smashed into
the other's mount with bared teeth and pawing hoofs. Waving the trophy
over his head and yelling, he pounded on at a knot of determined
infantry, aware that he was leading others from Buford's still-mounted
headquarter's company, and that they were going to ride right over the
Yankee soldiers. Men threw away muskets and rifles, raised empty hands,
scattered in frantic leaps from that charge.
Then they were rounding up their blue-coated prisoners and Drew, the
pole of the captured guidon braced in the crook of his elbow as he
reloaded his revolver, realized that the shadows were thickening, that
the day was almost gone.
"Rennie!" Still holding the guidon, Drew obeyed the beckoning hand of
one of the General's aides. He put Hannibal to a rocking gallop to come
up with the officer.
"Withdrawin'--behind the river. Pass the word to gather in!"
Drew cantered back to wave in Kirby, Boyd, and the others who had made
that charge with him. It was retreat again, but they did not know then
that Franklin had cost them Hood's big gamble. Forty-five hundred men
swept out of the gray forces--killed, wounded, missing, prisoners. Five
irreplaceable generals were dead; six more, wounded or captured. The
Army of the Tennessee was slashed, badly torn ... but it was not yet
destroyed.
That night the cavalry was on the march, driven by Forrest's tireless
energy. They hit skirmishers at a garrisoned crossroads, using Morton's
field batteries to cut them a free path. And through the bitter days of
early December they continued to show their teeth to some purpose.
Blockhouses along the railroads and along the Cumberland were taken,
with Murfreesboro their goal. Life was a constant alert, a plugging away
of weary men, worn-out horses, bogged-down wagons, relieved now and then
from the morass of exhaustion by sharp spurts of fighting, the
satisfaction of rounding up a Yankee patrol or blockhouse squad, the
taking of some supply train and finding in its wagons enough to give
them all mouthfuls of food.
Murfreesboro was strongly garrisoned by the enemy, too strong to be
stormed. But on the morning of the seventh a Yankee detachment came out
of that fort and Forrest's men deployed to entice them farther afield.
Buford's command was lying in wait--let the blue bellies get far enough
from the town and they could cut in between, perhaps even overrun the
remaining garrison and accomplish what Forrest himself had believed
impossible, the taking of Murfreesboro.
They made part of that ... fought their way into the town. Drew pounded
along in a compact squad led by Wilkins. He saw the sergeant sway in the
saddle, dropping reins, his face a clay-gray which Drew recognized of
old. Snatching at the now trailing rein, Drew jerked the other's mount
out of the main push.
The sergeant's head turned slowly; his mouth looked almost square as he
fought to say something. Then he slumped, tumbling from the saddle into
the embrace of an ornamental bush as his horse clattered along the
sidewalk. Drew knew he was already dead.
Buford's men went into Murfreesboro right enough, well into its heart.
But they could not hold the town. Only that thrust was deep and well
timed; it saved the whole command. For, though they did not know it yet,
on the pike the infantry had broken. For the first time Forrest had seen
men under his orders run from the enemy in panic-stricken terror. Only
the cavalry had saved them from a wholesale rout.
Drew trudged over the stubble of a field, leading Hannibal and Wilkins'
mount. There had been no way of bringing the sergeant's body out of
town, and Drew had reported the death to Lieutenant Traggart, who
officered the scouts. He felt numb as he headed for the spark of fire
which marked their temporary camp, numb not only with cold and hunger,
but with all the days of cold, hunger, fighting, and marching which lay
behind. It seemed to him that this war had gone on forever, and he found
it very hard to remember when he had slept soundly enough not to arouse
to a quick call, when he had dared to ride across a field or down a
road without watching every bit of cover, every point on the landscape
which could mask an enemy position or serve the same purpose for the
command behind him.
As he came up to the fire he thought that even the flames looked
cold--stunted somehow--not because there had not been enough wood to
feed them, but because the fire itself was old and tired. Blinking at
the flames, he stood still, unaware of the fact that he was swaying on
feet planted a little apart. He could not move, not of his own volition.
Someone coughed in the shadow fringe beyond the light of those tired
flames. It was a short hard cough, the kind which hurt Drew's ears as
much as its tearing must have hurt the throat which harbored it. He
turned his head a fraction to see the bundle of blankets housing the
cougher. Then the reins of mule and horse were twisted from his stiff
fingers, and Kirby's drawl broke through the coughing.
"You, Larange, take 'em back to the picket line, will you?"
The Texan's hands closed about Drew's upper arms just below the arch of
his shoulders, steered him on, and then pressed him down into the
limited range of the fire's heat. From somewhere a tin plate
materialized, and was in Drew's hold. He regarded its contents with eyes
which had trouble focusing.
A thick liquid curled stickily back and forth across the surface of the
plate as he strove to hold it level with trembling hands. Into the
middle of that lake Kirby dropped white squares of Yankee crackers, and
the pungent smell of molasses reached Drew's nostrils, making his mouth
water.
Snatching at the crackers, he crammed his mouth with a dripping square
coated with molasses. As he began to chew he knew that nothing before
that moment had ever tasted so good, been so much an answer to all the
disasters of the day. The world shrank; it was now the size of a
battered tin plate smeared with molasses and the crumbs of stale
crackers.
Drew downed the mass avidly. Kirby was beside him again, a steaming tin
cup ready.
"This ain't nothin' but hotted water. But maybe it can make you think
you're drinkin' somethin' more interestin'."
With the tin cup in his hands, Drew discovered he could pay better
attention to his surroundings. He glanced around the small circle of men
who messed together. There was Larange, coming back from the horse
lines, Webb, the Tennesseean from the mountains, Croff and Weatherby,
Cherokees of the Indian Nations, and Kirby, of course. But--Drew was
searching beyond the Texan for the other who should be there.
Absently he sipped the hot water, almost afraid to ask a question. Then,
just because of his inner fears, he forced out the words: "Where's
Boyd?"
When Kirby did not answer, Drew's head lifted. He put down his cup and
caught the Texan's arm.
"He made it out of town; I know that. But where _is_ he?"
"Ovah theah." Kirby nodded at the blanket-wrapped figure in the shadows.
"Seems like he ain't feelin' too well...."
Drew wasted no time in getting to his feet. On his hands and knees, he
scrambled across the space separating him from the roll of blankets. His
questing hand smoothed across a ragged bullet tear in the top one,
recognizing it to be Kirby's by that mark. The pale oval of Boyd's face
turned toward him.
"What's the matter, boy?"
Drew could hear the other's harsh, fast breathing just as he had when
they had found the injured boy at Harrisburg. Drew's fingers touched a
burning-hot cheek.
"Got ... me ... sniffles." Boyd's mumble ended in another bout of those
sharp coughs. "'Member--sniffles? Hot soup an' bricks in bed, an' onion
cloth for the throat...." He repeated all the Oak Hill remedies for a
severe cold.
Bricks to warm the bed, hot soup of Mam Gusta's expert concocting, a
thick onion poultice to ease the pain in throat and chest and draw out
inflammation: every one of those were as far beyond reach now as Oak
Hill itself! For a moment Drew was gripped with a panic born of utter
frustration.
"Shelly? You there, Shelly?" Boyd's hoarse voice came from the dark.
"I'm sure thirsty, Shelly!"
Drew turned his head. Kirby had been behind him, but now the Texan was
back to the fire, ladling more hot water out of the pot. When he
returned, Weatherby was with him. Drew slipped his arm under that
restlessly turning head to support the boy while the Texan held the tin
cup to Boyd's lips. They got a few mouthfuls into him before he turned
his head away with a ghost of some of his old petulance.
"I'm hungry, Shelly. Tell Mam Gusta...."
Weatherby squatted down on the other side of Boyd's limp body and put
his hand to the boy's forehead.
"Fever."
"Yes." Drew knew that much.
"There's a farmhouse two miles that way." Weatherby nodded to the south.
"Maybe nobody there, but it will be cover--"
"You can find it?" Drew demanded.
The Cherokee scout answered quickly. "Yes. You tell the lieutenant, and
we'll go there."
Kirby's hand rested on Drew's shoulder for a moment. "I'll track down
Traggart. You and Weatherby here get the kid into that cover as quick as
you can. This ain't no weather for an hombre with a cough to be out
sackin' in the bush."
Kirby was back again before they had rigged a blanket stretcher between
two horses.
"The lieutenant says to stay with th' kid till mornin'. He'll send the
doc along as soon as he can find him. Trouble is, we may have to ride on
tomorrow...."
But Drew put that worry out of his mind. No use thinking about tomorrow;
the present moment was the most important. With Weatherby as their
guide, they started off at a walk, heading into the night across
ice-rimmed fields while the rising wind brought frost to bite in the air
they pulled into their lungs.
There was no light showing in the black bulk of the house to which
Weatherby steered them. It was small, hardly better than a cabin, but
the door swung open as Kirby knocked on it; and they could smell the
cold, stale odor of a deserted and none-too-clean dwelling. But it was
shelter, and exploring in the dark, Kirby announced that there was
firewood piled beside the hearth.
By the light of the blaze Weatherby brought alive they found an old
bedstead backed against the wall, a tangle of filthy quilts cascading
from it. One look at them assured Drew that Boyd would be far better
left in his blankets on the floor itself.
The Cherokee scout prowled the room, looking into the rickety wall
cupboards, venturing through another door into a second smaller room,
really a lean-to, and then going up the ladder into a loft.
"They left in a hurry, whoever lived here," he reported. "They left
this--" He held out a dried, shrunken piece of shriveled salt beef.
"We can boil it," Kirby suggested. "Make a kinda broth; it might help
the kid. Any sign of a pot--?"
There was a pot, encrusted with corn-meal remains. Weatherby took it
outside and returned, having scrubbed its interior as clean as possible,
and filling it with a cup or so of water. "There's a well out there."
Boyd was asleep, or at least Drew hoped it was sleep. The boy's face was
flushed, his breathing fast and uneven. But he hadn't coughed for some
time, and Drew began to hope. If he could have a quiet day or two here,
he might be all right. Or else the surgeon could send him along on one
of the wagons for the sick and wounded--the wagons already on the move
south. If the doctor would certify that Boyd was ill....
Weatherby was busily shredding the wood-hard beef into the pot of water.
His busy fingers stopped; his dark eyes were now on the outer door. Drew
stiffened. Kirby's fingers closed about the butt of a Colt.
"What--" Drew asked in the faintest of whispers.
The Cherokee dropped the remainder of the uncut beef into the pot. Knife
in hand, he moved with a panther's fluid grace to the begrimed window
half-covered with a dusty rag.
12
_Guerrillas_
Boyd stirred. "Shelly?" His call sounded loud in the now silent room.
Drew set his hand across the boy's mouth, dividing his attention between
Boyd and Weatherby. They had no way of putting out the fire, whose light
might be providing a beacon through the dark. The Indian moved back a
little from the window.
"Riders ... coming down the lane." His whisper was a thread.
Now Drew could hear, too, the ring of hoofs on the iron-hard surface of
the ground. A horse nickered--one of those which had brought Boyd's
stretcher, or perhaps one of the newcomers.
Kirby whipped about the door and was now lost in the shadows of the next
room. Weatherby looked to Drew, then to the loft ladder against the far
wall. In answer to that unspoken question, Drew nodded.
As the Cherokee swung up into the hiding place, Drew eased one of his
Colts out of the holster, pushing it under the folds of the blankets
around Boyd. Then he swung the pot, with its burden of beef and water,
out over the fire--to hang on its chain to boil.
"Shelly?" Boyd asked again. His eyes were open, too bright, and he
stared about him, plainly puzzled. Then he looked up at his nurse, and
his forehead wrinkled with effort. "Drew?"
But Drew was listening to those oncoming hoofs. The strangers would see
two horses. If they came in, they would find two men--it was as simple
as that. And if they wore the wrong color uniforms, Weatherby above, and
Kirby in the lean-to, would be ready and waiting for trouble. Drew laid
fresh wood on the fire. Since he could not hide, he felt he'd better get
as much light as possible in case of future trouble. The last they had
heard the Yankees were concentrating at Murfreesboro and Nashville. But
scouts would be out, dogging the flanks of the Confederate forces, just
as he had done the opposite during the past few days.
There was silence now in the lane, a suspicious quiet. Drew deduced that
the riders had dismounted and might be closing in about the cabin. A
prickle of chill climbed his spine. He touched the lump under the
blanket which was his own insurance.
The door burst open, sent banging inward by a booted foot. And at the
same time a small pane in an opposite window shattered, the barrel of a
rifle thrust in four inches, covering him. Drew remained where he was,
his left arm thrown protectingly across Boyd.
"Now ain't this somethin'?" The man who had booted in the door was
grinning down at the two on the hearth. He wore a blue coat right
enough, but it was slick with old grease across the chest, stained on
one shoulder, and his breeches were linsey-woolsey, his boots old and
scuffed. And his bush of unkempt hair was covered with a battered hat
topping a woolen scarf wound about ears and neck.
The chill on Drew's spine was a band of ice. This was no
Union trooper. The scout could identify a far worse threat
now--bushwhacker ... guerrilla, one of the jackals who hung on the
fringe of both armies, looting, killing, and changing sides when it
suited their purposes. Such a man was a murderer who would kill another
for a pair of boots, a whole shirt, or the mere whim of the moment.
"Come in, Simmy, we's got us a pair o' Rebs," the man bawled over his
shoulder, and then turned to Drew. "Don't you go gittin' no ideas,
sonny. Jas' thar, he's got a bead right on yuh, an' Jas' he's mighty
good with that rifle gun. Now, you jus' pull out that Colt o' yourn an'
toss it here. Make it fast, too, boy. I'm a mighty unpatient man--"
Drew pulled free the Colt still in its holster, tossing it across the
floor so that it spun against the fellow's boot. The big hairy hand
scooped it up easily and tucked the weapon barrel down in his belt.
A second man, smaller, with a thin face which had an odd lopsided look,
squeezed through the door and sidled along the wall of the room, his
rifle pointed straight at Drew's head. He spat a blotch of tobacco juice
on the hearth, spattering the edge of the top blanket which covered
Boyd.
"What's th' matter wi' him?" he demanded.
"He's sick," Drew returned. "You Union?"
The big man grinned. "Shore, sonny, shore. We is Union ... scouts ...
Union scouts." He repeated that as if pleased by the sound. "An' you is
Rebs, which makes you our prisoners. So he's sick, eh? What's the
matter?"
"I don't know." Drew's fingers were only inches away from the Colt under
the blanket. But he could dare no such move with that rifle covering him
from the window.
"Jas', any sign out thar?" the big man called.
"Petey ain't seen any, jus' two horses." The words came from behind the
still ready rifle.
"Wai, tell him to look round some more. An' you kin come in, Jas'. These
here Rebs ain't gonna be no trouble--is you, sonny?"
Drew shook his head. Luck appeared to be on his side. Once Jas' was in
here, they could hope to turn tables on the three of them, with
Weatherby and Kirby taking them by surprise.
Jas' appeared in the doorway a moment or so later. He was younger than
his two companions, younger and more tidy. His coat was also blue, and
he wore a forage cap pulled down over hair very fair in the firelight.
There was a fluff of young beard on his chin, and he carried himself
with the stance of a drilled man. Deserter, thought Drew.
The newcomer surveyed Drew and Boyd expressionlessly, his eyes oddly
shallow, and tramped past them to hold his hands to the blaze on the
hearth, keeping his rifle between his knees. Then he reached up with his
weapon, hooked the barrel in the chain supporting the pot, and pulled
that to him, sniffing at the now bubbling contents.
"You, Reb"--the big man towered over Drew--"git this friend o' yourn an'
drag him over thar. Us wants to git warm."
"Drew?" Boyd looked up questioningly, his feverish gaze passing on to
the guerrilla. "Where's Shelly?"
The big man's grin faded. His big boot came out, caught Drew's leg in a
vicious prod.
"Who's this here Shelly? Whar at is he?"
"Shelly was his brother," Drew said, nodding at Boyd. "He's dead."
"Dead, eh? How come sonny boy here's askin' for him then?" He leaned
over them, and his fingers grabbed and twisted at the front of Drew's
threadbare shell jacket. "I ask yuh, Reb, whar at is this heah Shelly?"
He seemed only to flick his wrist, but the strength behind that move
whirled Drew away from Boyd, brought him part way to his feet, and
slammed him against the wall--where the big man held him pinned with
small expenditure of effort.
"Shelly's dead." Somehow Drew kept his voice even. Kirby ... Weatherby
... They were there. "Boyd's out of his head with fever."
Jas' let the pot swing back over the fire, moving toward Boyd to lean
over and stare at the boy's flushed face.
"Might be so," Jas' remarked. "Two horses, two men. Neither one much to
bother about."
"Better be so!" The big man held Drew tight to the wall and cuffed him
with his other hand. Dazedly, his head ringing, Drew slipped to the
floor as the other released him. "Now"--that boot prodded Drew
again--"git your friend over thar, Reb."
Drew stumbled back and went on his knees beside Boyd. His fingers groped
under the edge of the blanket, closing on the Colt. Jas' was inspecting
the pot again, and Simmy had moved forward to share the warmth of the
hearth. With the revolver still in his hand, though concealed by the
blanket, Drew pulled Boyd away from the fire as best he could, aware
the big man was watching closely.
Jas' reached up to the crude mantel shelf, brought down a wooden spoon,
and wiped it on a handkerchief he pulled from an inner pocket.
"This ain't fancy grub," he observed to the room at large, "but it's
better than nothin'. You want Simmy to bring in Petey, Hatch?"
"Th' cap'n's comin'." Simmy's remark was made in a tone of objection.
Hatch swung his head around to eye the smaller man.
"You bring Petey in!" he ordered. "Now!" he added.
For a second or two it appeared that Simmy might rebel, but Hatch stared
him down. Jas' scooped out a spoonful of the pot's contents and blew
over it.
"You fixin' on havin' a showdown with the captain, Hatch?" he asked.
The big man laughed. "I has me a showdown with anyone what gits too big
for his breeches, Jas'. You, Reb--" he indicated Drew, with a thumb
poking through a ragged glove--"supposin' you jus' show us what you got
in them pockets o' yourn."
Jas' laughed. "Don't figure to find anything worth takin' on a Reb do
you, Hatch? Most of 'em are poorer'n dirt."
"Now that's whar you figger wrong, Jas'." Hatch shook his head as might
one deploring the stupidity of the young. "Lotsa them little Reb boys
has got somethin' salted 'way, a nice watch maybe, or a ring or such.
Them what comes from th' big houses kinda hold on to things from home.
What you got, Reb?"
"A gun--in your back!"
Jas' spun in a half crouch, his rifle coming up. There was the explosion
of a shot, making a deafening clap of thunder in the room. The younger
bushwhacker cried out. His rifle lay on the floor, and he was holding a
bloody hand. Kirby stood in the doorway, a Colt in each hand. And now
Drew produced his own hidden weapon, centering it on Hatch.
The door burst open for the second time as Simmy was propelled through
it, his hands shoulder high, palm out, and empty. Weatherby came behind
him, a gun belt slung over one shoulder, two extra revolvers thrust into
his own belt.
"They got Petey," Simmy gabbled. "Got him wi' a knife!" His forward rush
brought him against the wall, and he made no move to turn around to face
them. He could only plaster his body tight to that surface as if he
longed to be able to ooze out into safety through one of its many
cracks.
"Shuck th' hardware!" Kirby ordered.
Hatch's grin was gone. The fingers of his big hands were twitching, and
the twist of his mouth was murderous.
"Lissen--" the Texan's tone was frosty--"I've a finger what cramps on m'
trigger when I git riled, an' I'm gittin' riled now. You loose off that
theah fightin' iron, an' do it quick!"
Hatch's hand went to his gun. He jerked it from the holster and slung it
across the floor.
"Now th' one you got holdin' up your belly ... an' your knife!"
The Colt that Hatch had taken from Drew and a bowie with a long blade
joined the armament already on the boards. Drew made a fast harvest of
all the weapons.
"Well, we sure got us some bounty hunter's bag," Kirby observed as he
and Weatherby finished using the captives' own belts to pinion them.
"There may be more comin'; they talked about some captain." Drew brought
Boyd back to the warmth of the fire.
Weatherby nodded. "I'll scout." He disappeared out the door.
Jas' was rocking back and forth, holding on one knee the injured hand
Kirby had roughly bandaged; his other arm was fastened behind him. There
were tears of pain on his cheeks, but after his first outcry he had not
uttered a sound. Hatch, on the other hand, had been so foul-mouthed that
Kirby had torn off a length of the bed covering and gagged him.