Of the three, he seemed the likeliest to talk. Kirby appeared to share
in Drew's thoughts on that subject, for now he bore down on the small
man.
"You expectin' some friends?" Compared to his tone of moments earlier,
the Texan's voice was now mildly friendly. "We'd like to know, seein' as
how we're thinkin' some hospitable thoughts 'bout entertainin' them
proper."
Simmy stared up at him, bewildered. Kirby shook his head, his expression
one of a man dealing with a stubbornly stupid child.
"Lissen, hombre, me--I'm from West Texas, an' that theah's Comanche
country, leastwise it was Comanche country 'fore we Tejanos moved in.
Now Comanches, they're an unfriendly people, 'bout the unfriendliest
Injuns, 'cept 'Paches, a man can meet up with. An' they have them some
neat little ways of makin' a man talk, or rather yell, his lungs out. It
ain't too hard to learn them tricks, not for a bright boy like me, it
ain't. You able to understand that?"
Kirby did not scowl, he did not even touch the little man. But as one
drawling word was joined to the next, Simmy held his body tighter
against the wall, as if to escape by pushing.
"I ain't done nothin'!" he cried.
"That's what I said, little man. You ain't done nothin'. But you're
goin' to do somethin'--talk!"
Simmy's pale tongue swept across working lips. "What ... you
want--wantta ... know?" he stuttered.
"You expectin' to meet some friends heah?"
"Th' rest o' the boys an' th' cap'n; they may be ketchin' up."
"How many 'boys'?"
Simmy's tongue tripped again. He swallowed. Drew thought he was trying
to produce a crumb of defiance. Kirby reached out, selecting Hatch's
bowie knife from the cache of captured weapons. He weighed it across the
palm of his hand as if trying its balance and then, with deceptive ease,
flipped it. The point thudded into the wall scant inches away from
Simmy's right ear, and the little man's head bobbed down so that his
nose hit one of his hunched-up knees.
"How many 'boys'?" Kirby repeated.
"Depends...."
"On what?"
"On how good th' raidin' is. After a fight thar's always some pickin's."
Drew was suddenly sick. What Simmy hinted at was the vulture work among
the dead and the wounded too enfeebled to protect themselves from being
plundered. He saw Kirby's lips set into a thin line.
"Kinda throw a wide rope, don't you, little man? How many 'boys'?"
"Maybe five ... six...."
"An' this heah cap'n?"
"He tells us wheah thar's good pickin's." For a moment the man produced
a spark of spite. "He's a Reb, like you----"
"Have you used this place before?" Drew broke in. If this were either a
regular or temporary rendezvous for this jackal pack, the quicker they
were away, the better.
"No, the cap'n said to meet here tonight."
"I don't suppose he said _when_?" Kirby's question was answered by a
shake of Simmy's unkempt head.
Boyd suddenly moved in his cocoon of blankets, struggling to sit up, and
Drew went to him.
He was coughing again with a strangling fight for breath which was
frightening to watch. Drew steadied him until the attack was over and he
lay in the other's arms, gasping. The liquid in the pot on the fire was
cooked by now. Perhaps if Boyd had some of that in him.... But dared
they stay here?
Kirby squatted back on his heels as Drew settled Boyd on his blankets
and went to unhook the pot. Then the Texan supported the younger boy as
Drew ladled spoonfuls of the improvised broth into his mouth.
"Th' doc'll come," Kirby murmured. "Croff promised to guide him heah.
But this gang business--"
"I don't see how we can move him now...." Drew was feeding the broth
between Boyd's lips, trying to ease the cough, his wits too dulled to
tackle any problem beyond that.
"Which means we gotta keep company from movin' in. If we could raise us
a few of the boys now...." Kirby was speculative.
"If you went back to camp, gave the alarm. Traggart doesn't want a gang
like this runnin' loose around here. They say they're Union; maybe they
do have some connection with the Yankees."
"With a Reb cap'n throwin' in with 'em? Most of these polecats play both
sides of the border when it'll git them anythin' they want. An' they
could try an' pay their way with the Yankees by tellin' 'bout our
movements heah."
"Could you make it to camp, fast?"
Kirby grunted. "Sure, easy as driftin' downriver on one of them theah
steamers. But leavin' you heah with that mess of skunks is somethin'
else."
"Weatherby's out there. Anything or anyone gettin' by him would have to
come in on wings."
"An' wings don't come natural to this breed of critter! All right, I
don't see how theah's much else we can do. We can't go pullin' the kid
'round any more. I'll give Weatherby the high sign an' make it back as
quick as I can. Let's see if these heah ropes is staked out tight."
He made a careful inspection of their three captives' bonds, and Drew
laid the assorted armament to hand. But Kirby hesitated by the door.
"You keep your eyes peeled, amigo. Weatherby--he can pull that
in-and-out game through the loft like he did before. But one man can't
be all over the range at once."
"I know." Drew studied the remnants of battered furniture about the
room. He thought he could pull the bed frame across the outer door, and
shove the table and bench in front of the door to the lean-to. And
there was a section of wall right under the broken window which could
not be seen by anyone outside. "I've some precautions in mind."
"I'm ridin' then. See you." Kirby was gone with a wave of hand.
Boyd was quiet again. The broth must have soothed him. Drew shifted the
other's body to the floor on the spot of safety under the window. As he
returned to gather up the arms he noted that Jas' was watching him.
Some of the first shock of his wound had worn off so that the guerrilla
was not only aware of his present difficulties but was eyeing Drew in a
manner which suggested he had not accepted the change in their roles as
final. Drew hesitated. He could tie back that wounded hand, too, but he
was sure the other could not use it to any advantage, and Drew could not
bring himself to cause the extra pain such a move would mean. Not that
he had any illusions concerning the bushwhacker's care for him, had
their situation been reversed.
Simmy, once Kirby had gone, moved against the wall, holding up his head
with a sigh of relief. He, too, watched Drew move the furniture. And
when the scout did not pay any attention to him he spoke. "Wotcha gonna
do wi' us, Reb?"
Hatch's eyes, over the gag, were glaring evil; Jas' was watching the two
Confederates with an intent measuring stare; but Simmy wilted a little
when Drew looked at him directly.
"You're prisoners of war. As Union scouts...."
Simmy wriggled uncomfortably, and Drew continued the grilling.
"You _are_ Union scouts?"
"Shore! Shore! We's Union, ain't we, Jas'?" he appealed eagerly to his
fellow.
Jas' neither answered nor allowed his gaze to wander from Drew.
"Then you'll get the usual treatment of a prisoner." Drew was short,
trying to listen for any movement beyond the squalid room. Weatherby was
out there, and Drew put a great deal of trust in the Cherokee's ability.
But what if the "captain" and the remaining members of this outlaw gang
arrived before Kirby returned with help? Seeing that Boyd appeared to be
asleep, Drew once again inspected his weapons, checking the loading of
revolvers and rifle.
Jas's rifle was one of the new Spencers. The Yankees loaded those on
Sunday and fired all week, or so the boys said. It was a fine piece, new
and well cared for. He examined it carefully and then looked up to meet
Jas's flat stare, knowing that the guerrilla's hate was the more bitter
for seeing his prized weapon in the enemy's hands.
The Spencer, Simmy's Enfield, old and not very well kept, five Colts
beside his own, Hatch's bowie knife and another, almost as deadly
looking, which had been found on Jas', equipped Drew with a regular
arsenal. But it was not until he settled down that Drew knew he faced a
far more deadly enemy--sleep. The fatigue he had been able to battle as
long as he was on the move, hit him now with the force of a clubbed
rifle. He knew he dared not even lean back against the wall or relax any
of his vigilance, not so much over the prisoners and Boyd, as over
himself.
Somehow he held on, trying to move. The pile of wood by the hearth was
diminishing steadily. He would soon have to let the fire die out. To
venture out of the house in quest of more fuel was too risky. And
always he was aware of Jas's tight regard. Simmy had fallen asleep, his
thin, weasel face hidden as his head lolled forward on his chest.
Hatch's eyes were also closed.
Drew straightened with a start, conscious of having lost seconds--or
moments--somewhere in a fog. He jerked aside, perhaps warned by his
scout's sixth sense more than any real knowledge of danger. There was a
searing flash beside his head, the bite of fire on his cheek. If he had
not moved, he would have received that blazing brand straight between
the eyes. Now he rolled, snapping out a shot.
A man shouted hoarsely and Drew strove to avoid a kick, struggling to
win to his feet, unable to tell just what was happening.
13
_Disaster_
Simmy's animallike howling filled the room. Jas', his hand bleeding
afresh, sopping through the bandage his captors had twisted about the
wound, sprawled forward, clawing with those reddened fingers for the
Spencer. While Hatch, eyes and upper portions of his hair-matted cheeks
bulging over the gag, kicked out, striving to come at Drew with the
frenzy of a man making a last desperate play.
The brand Jas' had hurled was smoldering on Boyd's blankets. Drew sent
it flying with the toe of his boot and made a quick movement to stamp
out a small spurt of flame. Then he kicked it again, spinning the
Spencer back against the wall.
Simmy's cry died to a whimper. A wide stain spread over his nondescript
coat just above the belt, and Drew knew that his first shot had found
that target. But he was in charge of the situation once again. Both
Hatch and Jas' had subsided, the one eyeing the threat of Drew's weapon,
the other again nursing his hand, his face drawn into a grin of agony.
The smell of burning cloth was a sour stench. Drew moved to beat out a
new blaze in the bedcovers. He coughed in acrid smoke and felt the
smart of the burn along his neck and jaw where the brand had hit him.
Simmy rolled on the floor, bent double.
"Drew!" Boyd was struggling free of his blankets, up on one elbow,
staring about him as one who had wakened into a nightmare rather than
having come out of such a dream.
"It's all right...."
But was it? Hatch had subsided. Jas' was quiet; there was nothing to
fear from Simmy. Only that same sense which was part of any scout's
equipment nagged at Drew, warning him that the crisis was not over.
He went down on one knee beside Simmy, endeavoring to roll him over to
examine his wound. The guerrilla's mouth was slackly open, his small,
predator's eyes were oddly bewildered, as if he could not comprehend
what had happened to him or why. As Drew fumbled with his clothing to
lay bare the wound, Simmy twisted, his legs pulling up a little. Then
his head rolled, and Drew sat back on his heels. There was no longer any
need for aid.
Boyd still rested on his elbow, listening. He could hear Hatch's thick
breathing and Jas's, a crack of charred wood breaking on the hearth, a
slashing against the broken window ... the storm had begun again. Only
those were not the sounds they were listening for.
Drew visited in turn each of the flimsy barricades he had erected after
Kirby left. He had no way of telling time. How long had it been since
the Texan left? It could not be too far from morning now, yet the sky
outside the windows was still as black as night.
"Drew!" Boyd pulled his other hand free, pointing to the ceiling over
their heads.
The loft! And the route Weatherby had made use of when he had gone up
that ladder, dropped out of a window above, and returned with his
prisoner through the front door. But if the Cherokee had come back to
the cabin, surely the disturbance in the room below would have brought
him down. Unless he was otherwise occupied.... How? And by whom?
Drew went to the foot of the ladder, not looking up to show his
suspicion, but only to listen. He was certain he heard a scraping sound.
Was it someone making his way through a small window? No one who had
been weeks in Weatherby's company could believe that the Indian would
betray his movements in that manner.
Drew left the ladder, collected the Spencer, and joined Boyd. The rest
of the weapons lay at hand, and Drew sorted them out swiftly, piling
them between Boyd and his own post. From here, as he had earlier
planned, they had both doors, two windows, and the ladder to the loft
under surveillance. The other window was over the level of their heads.
As long as they kept below its sill, anyone shooting through it could
not touch them.
Boyd hitched his shoulders higher against the wall. He was still
flushed, his eyes too bright, but he was certainly more himself than he
had been any time since they had brought him here. Now he reached for
one of the Colts, resting it on his body at chest level.
"Who are they?" he whispered, glancing at the prisoners.
"Guerrillas," Drew replied.
"More company comin'?"
"Might be. Anse went for the boys."
But Boyd's chin lifted an inch or two, a slight gesture to indicate the
ceiling again. He brought his other hand up, and using both, cocked the
Colt, that click carrying with almost a shot's sharp twang through the
room.
Jas' was again staring at Drew, his lips a silent snarl. But the scout
believed that as long as he was alert, weapons in hand, he had nothing
more to fear from his prisoners. They had made their reckless gamble and
had lost.
The opening at the top of the ladder was a square of dark, hardly
touched by the flickering light of the dying fire.
"You theah...." The barking hail came from without, strident, startling.
"We have you surrounded."
It was the voice of an educated man with the regional softening of
vowels. Simmy's cap'n? What then had happened to Weatherby? Boyd braced
the barrel of his Colt on a bent knee, its sights centered on the front
door. But Drew still watched the loft opening.
"Last chance ... come out with your hands up!" The voice was very close
now. And the unknown apparently knew at least part of the situation in
the cabin. Which meant either very clever scouting, or that they had
taken Weatherby. But Drew, knowing the habits of the guerrillas, dared
not follow that last thought far. He tried to locate the man outside; he
was in front all right, but surely not directly in line with the door.
"Cap'n!" Jas' called, his gaze daring Drew to shoot. "There's only two
of 'em, and one's sick."
There was a flicker of movement in the trap opening. Drew fired, to be
answered by a yelp of pain and surprise. Perhaps he had not entirely
removed one of the attackers from the effective list, but the fellow
would be more cautious from now on.
There was only a short second between his shot and an answering
fusillade from outside. The panes in the other windows shattered and
Hatch, gurgling incoherently behind his gag, kicked to roll himself
behind the flimsy protection of the bedstead.
"You almost got one of your own men then!" Drew called. Feverishly he
tried to think of a way to play for time. Weatherby might be dead, but
Kirby could have reached the headquarters camp and already be well on
his way back with reinforcements.
Hatch's gurgling was louder. And now Jas' had transferred his attention
to the broken windows and what might be beyond them. There was a
creaking above. Drew tried to deduce from those sounds whether one man
or two moved overhead. The fire was dying fast. Should he try to urge it
into new life with the last of the wood, or would the dark be more to
his benefit?
Shots again, but not crashing through the windows now; these were
outside. A man screamed shrilly. Then a horse cried in pain. Drew heard
the pounding of hoofs, and in the loft a quick shuffling. More shots....
Boyd laughed hysterically, and then coughed, until he bent over the Colt
he still grasped, gasping. Drew steadied him against his shoulder,
trying to picture for himself what was happening outside. It sounded
very much as if Kirby's relief force had arrived and that the "cap'n"
and his gang were in retreat.
"Drew! Everythin' all right?" There was no mistaking Kirby's voice.
He had brought not only four other scouts from the camp, but also
Lieutenant Traggart and the doctor. And as the major portion of that
relief force crowded into the room Drew leaned back against the wall,
very glad to let other authority take over.
"Guerrilla scum," was the lieutenant's verdict on their prisoners. "They
say they're Union ... or ours, whichever works best at the time. There's
another one dead out there, and he's wearing one of _our_ cavalry
jackets!"
"Officer's?" Drew wondered if they had picked off the "cap'n."
"No, you thinkin' he was this renegade officer Kirby was talkin' about?
I don't think this is the one. He's a pretty nasty-lookin' specimen,
though. Four of 'em at least got away. We'll take these two into camp
and see what they can tell us. The General will be interested. I'd say
this one's a Yankee deserter." He studied Jas'.
The young man in the blue jacket spat, and one of the scouts hooked his
fingers in the other's collar, jerking him roughly to his feet.
"Mount and start back with them!" Traggart ordered. "How's the boy,
suh?"
Boyd had wilted back into his blankets when the stimulation of the fight
was gone. He was still conscious, but his coughing shook his whole body.
"Lung fever, unless he gets the right care." The surgeon was going about
his business with dispatch. "I hate to move him, but there's no sense in
remaining here as a target for more of this trash." He glanced at Jas'
and Hatch impersonally. "Lucky we brought the wagon. Tell Henderson to
bring it up. We'll take him to the Letterworth house for now--"
Reeling a little when he tried to walk, Drew found himself sharing the
accommodation of the wagon with Boyd, a canvas slung across them to keep
off the gusts of rain. He fell asleep as they bumped along, unable to
fight off exhaustion any longer.
Twenty-four hours later he was back on duty with the advance. Boyd was
housed in such comfort as any could hope to find, and the cavalry was on
the move. Buford's men were to picket along the Cumberland River. There
was a new feel to the army. Drew sensed it as he rode with the small
headquarters detachment. Empty saddles, too many of them, and the
growing belief--evidenced in mutters passed from man to man--that they
were engaged in a nearly hopeless bid.
Franklin, which for Drew had been a wild gallop across some fields, a
strip of cloth seized from the enemy to set beneath a guidon of their
own, had been a major disaster for the Army of the Tennessee. Forrest's
energy and drive kept the cavalry a sharp-edged weapon, still to be used
with telling effect. But they all sensed the clouds gathering over their
heads, not those laden with the eternal chill rain, but ones which
carried with them a coming night.
It was so cold that men had to use both hands to cock their revolvers.
And Drew saw Croff swing from the saddle, draw his belt knife to cut the
hoof from a dead horse. The Cherokee glanced up as he looped his grisly
trophy to his saddle horn.
"Need the shoe," he explained briefly. "Runner has one worn pretty
thin." He patted the drooping neck of his mount.
Hannibal walked around the dead horse carefully. The mule was only a
skeleton copy of the sturdy, well-cared-for animal Drew had ridden out
of Cadiz. But he would keep going until he dropped, and his rider knew
it.
"Any trace of Weatherby?" Drew asked. The disappearance of the other
Cherokee scout at the cabin battle had continued as a mystery for their
own small company. None of those who had known him could credit the
Indian being taken unawares by the guerrilla force. He had vanished
somewhere in the dark of the night, and none of their searching a day
later, interrupted by orders to move, had turned up a clue.
"Not yet," Croff answered. "He may have made too wide a circle and run
into a Yankee picket. Someday, perhaps, we shall know. Look there!"
From their screen of cover they watched a blue cavalry patrol trot along
a lane.
"Headin' for th' home corral, an' lookin' twice over each shoulder while
they do it," commented Kirby. "Was we to let out a yell now, they'd drag
it so fast they'd dig their hoofs in clear down to the stirrup
leathers."
Drew shook his head. "Those are General Wilson's men ... can't be sure
with them that they wouldn't come poundin' up, sabers out, tryin' to
take a prisoner or two. Anyway, we don't stir them up, that's orders."
Kirby sighed. "Too bad. Cold as it is, a little fightin' would warm an
hombre up some. You know, for sure, the only way we're gonna git outta
this heah war is to fight our way out."
Croff reined his patient mount around. "The big fight is comin'--"
"Nashville?" Drew asked, aware of a somber shadow closing in on them
all.
The Cherokee shrugged. "Nashville? Maybe. The signs are not good."
"It's when the signs ain't good," Kirby observed, "that fellas lean on
their hardware twice as hard. Heard tell of gunfighters knotchin' their
irons for each man they take in a shootout. Me, I'm kinda workin' the
same idea for battles. An' I have me a pretty good tally--Shiloh,
Lebanon, Chickamauga, Cynthiana twice, Harrisburg, an' a mixed herd o'
little ones. Gittin' pretty long, that line o' knotches." His voice
trailed away as he watched the disappearing Yankee cavalrymen, but
somehow Drew thought he was seeing either more or less than blue-coated
men riding under a sullen December sky.
Yes, a long tally of battles, and all those small fights in between
which sometimes a man could remember better than the big ones, remember
too often and too well.
"The wagons pulled out of the Letterworth place this mornin'," Drew
said. "They were gone when I stopped by at noon--"
"Goin' south? Any news of the kid?"
"They took him along." There was a faint ray of comfort in the thought
that Boyd had been judged well enough to be moved with the rest of the
sick and wounded up from the temporary hospitals and shelters in the
neighborhood. The seriously ill certainly could not be moved. But he
wished he could have seen the boy; there was no telling when and where
they would meet again.
"Well," Kirby pointed out, "if the doc took him, it means they thought
he was able to make it. He's young an' tough. Bet he'll be back in line
soon."
"They'll travel slow," Croff added. "Drivin' hogs and cattle and all
those wagons, they ain't goin' to push."
Forrest, along with his prisoners, wagons, sick and wounded, the
barefoot, and dismounted men, was driving four-footed supplies south on
his way to the Tennessee River, and he was not likely to risk or
relinquish any of the spoil. Buford's Kentuckians lay in wait along the
Cumberland, hoping perhaps to echo, if only faintly, their earlier
successes against the gunboats and supply transports. And at Nashville a
battle was shaping....
Drew had ridden in to report when the first of the new retreat orders
came. General Buford, who had invited Drew up to the fire, sat listening
as the scout held his stiff hands to the blaze and listed the sum total
of the day's comings and goings as far as Yankee patrols were concerned.
"No sign of that missin' scout?" the General asked when Drew's account
was finished. "Pour yourself a cup of that, boy! It ain't coffee. In
fact, I don't inquire too deeply into what Lish does bring me to drink
nowadays. But it's kind of comfortin' to have something warm under your
belt in this weather. Blame-coldest, wettest winter I ever did see! No
sign of Weatherby?" he repeated as Drew sipped from the tin cup his
superior had pushed into his hands, not only grateful for the warmth
spreading through his insides, but also for the heat of the container he
cupped between his palms.
"No, suh, no sign at all."