out for blood. But how could they get into enemy hands the information
about this rats' nest?
"We can't take 'em ourselves, and we've no time to round up any of the
boys who might be passin' through."
"So we jus' leave heah an' forgit it?" Webb demanded.
"There's another way--risky, but it might work. Take the Yankees off our
trail and put them to doing something for us...."
"Sic 'em in heah, eh?" Kirby was watching Drew with dancing eyes. "How?"
"Yeah, how? Ride up to their camp an' say, 'We know wheah at theah's
some bushwhackers, come'n see'?" Webb asked scornfully. "After this
mornin' they won't even listen to a truce flag, I'm thinkin'."
Croff nodded. "That's right."
"Supposin' those sentries we passed back there were knocked out and two
of us took their places and the other two then laid a trail leadin'
here?"
"Showin' themselves for bait, plainlike?" Kirby asked.
"If we have to. The alarm will have gone out. I'm bettin' there're
patrols thick on that road."
"Any blue bellies travelin' theah now are gonna be bunched an' ready to
shoot at anything movin'."
"So," Croff cut in over Webb's instant objection, "you get some Yankees
a-hittin' it up after you, and you run for here. They're not all dumb
enough to ride right into this kind of country."
"We'll have to work it so they'll keep comin'. When you see them headin'
into the gorge after us, you move out of the sentry posts back across
this ridge and start cuttin' this camp down to size--pick off those
horses and put 'em afoot. That'll keep them here till the Yankees come."
"You know," Kirby said, "it's jus' crazy enough to work. Lordy--if it
was summer, I'd say we all had our brains sun-cured, but I'm willin' to
try it. Who does what?"
"Croff and Webb'll take out the sentries. We'll go hunt us up some
Yankees." As Kirby said, it was a wild plan anchored here and there on
chance alone. But the scouts were familiar with action as rash as this,
which _had_ worked. And they still had a few hours of daylight left in
which to try it.
They let a supply train go by on the road undisturbed. It was, Drew
noted, well guarded and the guard paid special attention to the woods
and fields flanking them. The word had certainly gone out to expect dire
trouble along that section of countryside.
"Have to be kinda hopin' for the right-sized herd," Kirby observed.
"Need a nice patrol. Too bad we ain't able to rope in, to order, jus'
what we need."
He went to a post farther south along the pike, and Drew settled
himself in his own patch of cover, with Hannibal close at hand. The
passing of time was a fret, but one they were used to. Drew thought over
the plan. Improvisation always had to play a large part in such a
project, but he believed they had a chance of success.
A bird note, clear and carrying, broke the silence of the winter
afternoon. Drew cradled the Spencer close to him. That was Kirby's
signal that around the bend he had sighted what they wanted.
It was a patrol, led by a bearded officer with a captain's bars on his
shoulders--quite an impressive turnout, consisting of some thirty men
and two officers. Watching them ride toward him, Drew's mouth went dry,
a shiver ascending his spine. To play fox to this pack of hounds was
going to be more of a task than he had anticipated. But it had to be
done.
He fired, carefully missing the captain by a small margin, as he saw the
spark his bullet struck from a roadside stone. Then he pumped one shot
after another over the heads of the startled men. As he mounted Hannibal
he caught a glimpse of Kirby cutting across the slope. The Texan rode
Indian fashion with most of his mount between him and the return fire
from the road. Drew kicked Hannibal into a leap, taking him half way out
of range and out of sight.
Then, with Kirby, he was pounding away. A branch was bullet-clipped over
his head, and he heard the whistle of shots. Unless he was very lucky,
this might be one piece of recklessness he would pay for dearly. But he
also heard what he had hoped for--the shouts of the hunters, the thud of
hoofs behind.
Now it was a game, much the same as the one they had played to lead the
Union troops into the cavalry trap at Anthony's Hill. They showed
themselves, to fire and fall back, riding a crisscross pattern which
would confuse the Yankees as to whether they were pursuing two men or
more. Drew watched for the landmarks to guide them back. Less than half
a mile would bring them to the gorge. Then they must ride fast to put a
bigger gap between them and the enemy so they could go to cover before
they struck the valley of the guerrilla camp.
They must depend upon Croff and Webb having successfully taken over the
sentry posts. But Drew faced those heights with some apprehension.
Kirby, on one of his cross runs, pulled near.
"They're laggin'. Better give 'em somethin' to try an' bite on!" He
brought his bay to a complete stop and aimed. When his carbine barked, a
horse neighed and went down. Then Kirby flinched, his weapon fell from
his hand, and he caught quickly at the horn of his saddle. From the
foremost of the blue riders there was a wild yell of exultation.
Drew whirled Hannibal and brought him at a run to the Texan's side.
"How bad?"
"Jus' creased me." But Kirby's expression gave the lie to his words.
"Git goin' ... don't be a dang-blasted fool!"
Drew scooped up the reins the other had let fall. Kirby must not be
allowed to lag. To be captured now was to lose all hope of being taken
as an ordinary prisoner of war. He booted Hannibal into the rocking
gallop the big mule was capable of upon occasion, and pulled the bay
along. Kirby was clinging to the horn, his language heated as he
alternately ordered or tried to abuse Drew into leaving him.
The Texan's plight had applied any spur the pursuers might have needed.
Confident they were now going to gather in at least two bushwhackers,
the shouting behind took on a premature shrilling of triumph. There was
a blast of shooting, and Drew marveled that neither man nor horse was
hit again.
He was into the mouth of the gorge, still leading Kirby's horse, but a
glance told him that the Texan would not be able to hold on much longer.
He was gray-white under his tan, and his head bobbed from side to side
with the rocking of the horse's running stride.
Their pursuers pulled pace a little, maybe fearing a trap. Drew gained a
few precious seconds by the headlong pace he had set from the time Kirby
had been wounded. But they dared not try to get up the steep sides of
the cut now.
He dared not erupt into the bushwhacker campsite, or could he? If Croff
and Webb were now making their way to the heights above, ready to fire
into the camp as they had planned, wouldn't that keep the men there busy
and cover his own break into the valley?
He heard firing again; this time the sound was ahead of him. Croff and
Webb were starting action, which meant that the Yankees would be drawn
on to see what was up. Kirby's horse was running beside Hannibal. The
Texan's eyes were closed, his left shoulder and upper sleeve bloody.
Riding neck and neck, they burst out of the gorge as rifle bullets
propelled from a barrel. The impetus of that charge carried them across
an open strip. There were yells ... shots.... But Drew's attention was
on keeping Kirby in the saddle.
Hannibal hit a brush wall and tore through it. Branches whipped back at
them with force enough to throw riders.
Kirby was swept off, gone before Drew could catch him. Then Hannibal
gave a wild bray of pain and terror. He reared and Drew lost grasp of
the bay's reins. The riderless horse drove ahead while Drew tried to
control the mule and turn him.
Tossing his head high, Hannibal brayed again. A man scuttled out of the
brush, and Drew only half saw the figure snap a shot at him.
He was aware of the sickening impact of a blow in his middle, of the
fact that suddenly he could pull no air into his straining lungs. The
reins were out of his hands, but somehow he continued to cling to the
saddle as the mule leaped ahead. Then under Hannibal's hoofs the ground
gave way, both of them tumbling into the icy stream. And for Drew there
was instant blackness, shutting out the need for breath, the terrible
agony which shook him.
"... dead. Get on after the others!"
The words made no sense. He was cold, wet, and there was a throbbing
pain beating through him with every thrust of blood in his veins. But he
could breathe again and if he lay very still, his nausea eased.
Then he heard it--not quite a bray, but a kind of moaning. The sound
went on and on--shutting everything else out of his ears--to hurt not
flesh, but spirit. He could stand it no longer.
With infinite labor, Drew turned his head. He felt the rasp of grit on
the skin of his burned cheek, and that small pain became a part of the
larger. He opened his eyes, setting his teeth against a wave of nausea,
and tried to understand what had happened to him.
Water washed over his legs and boots, numbing him to the waist. But his
arms, shoulders, and head were above its surface as he lay on his side,
half braced against a rock. And he could see across the stream to the
source of that mournful sound.
Hannibal was struggling to get to his feet. There was a wound in his
flank, a red river rilling from it to stain the water. And one of his
forelegs was caught between two rocks. Throwing his head high, the mule
bit at the branches of a willow. Several times he got hold and pulled,
as if he could win to his feet with the aid of the tooth-shredded wood.
Shudders ran across his body, and the sound he uttered was almost a
human moan of pain and despair.
Drew moved his arm, dully glad that he could. His fingers seemed
stiff--as if his muscles were taking their own time to obey his
will--but they closed on one of the Colts which had not been shaken free
from his holster when he fell. He pulled the weapon free, biting his lip
hard against the twinges that movement cost him.
Steadying the weapon on his hip, he took careful aim at Hannibal's head
and fired. The recoil of the heavy revolver brought a small, whistling
cry of pain out of him. But across the stream, the mule's head fell from
the willows, and he was mercifully still.
The sky was gray. Drew heard a snap of shots, but they seemed very far
away. And the leaden cold of the water crept farther up his body,
turning the throb into a cramp. He tried not to cry out; for him there
would be no mercy shot.
The rising tide of cold brought lethargy with it. He felt as if all his
strength had drained into the water tugging at him. Again, the dark
closed in, and he was lost in it.
Warm ... he was warm. And the painful spasms which had torn at him were
eased. He still had a dull ache through his middle, but there was warm
pressure over it, comforting and good. He sighed, fearful that a sudden
movement might cause the sharp pains to return.
Then he was moved, his head was raised, and something hard pressed
against his lower lip so that he opened his mouth in reflex. Hot liquid
lapped over his tongue. He swallowed and the warmth which had been on
the outside was now within him as well, traveling down his throat into
his stomach.
More warmth, this time on his forehead. Drew forced his eyes open.
Memory stirred, too dim to be more than a teasing uneasiness. Action was
necessary, important action. He focused his eyes on a brown face bearing
a scruff of beard on cheeks and chin.
"Webb...." It was very slow, that process of matching face to name. But
once he had done it, memory brightened.
"What happened--?"
They had ridden into the guerrilla camp site, he and Kirby, with the
Yankees on their heels. Painfully he could recall that. Then, later he
had been lying half in, half out of a creek, sicker than he had ever
been in his life. And Hannibal ... he had shot Hannibal!
Webb's hand came out of the half dark, holding the tin cup to his mouth
again.
"Drink up!" the other ordered sharply.
Drew obeyed. But he was not so far under, now. Objects around him took
on clarity. He was lying on the ground, not too far from a fire, and
there were walls. Was he in a cabin?
There had been a cabin before, but he had not been the sick one then.
The guerrillas!
"Bushwhackers?" He got that out more clearly. A shadow which had
substance, moved behind Webb. Croff's strongly marked features were
lined by the light.
"Dead ... or the Yankees have them."
Webb was making him drink again. With the other supporting his head and
shoulders, Drew was able to survey his body. A blanket was wrapped
tightly about his legs, and over his chest and middle a wet wad of
material steamed. When Webb laid him flat again, the two men, working
together, wrung out another square of torn blanket, and substituted its
damp heat for the one which had been cooling against him.
"What's the ... matter--? Shot?"
Croff reached to bring into the firelight a belt strap. Dangling it, he
held the buckle-end in Drew's line of vision. The plate was split, and
embedded in it was an object as big as Drew's thumb and somewhat
resembling it in shape.
"We took this off you," the Cherokee explained. "Stopped a bullet plumb
center with that."
"Ain't seen nothin' like it 'fore," Webb added, patting the compress
gently into place. "Like to ripe you wide open if it hadn't hit the
buckle! You got you a bruise black as charcoal an' big as a plate right
across your guts, but the skin's only a little broke wheah the plate cut
you some. An' if you ain't hurt inside, you're 'bout the luckiest fella
I ever thought to see in my lifetime!"
Drew moved a hand, touching the buckle with a forefinger. Then he filled
his lungs deeply and felt the answering pinch of pain in the region of
the bruise Webb described.
"It sure hurts! But it's better than a hole."
A hole! Kirby! Drew's hand went out to brace himself up, the compress
slid down his body, and then Webb was forcing him down again.
"What you tryin' to do, boy? Pass out on us agin? You stay put an' let
us work on you! This heah district's no place to linger, an' you can't
fork a hoss 'til we git you fixed up some."
Drew caught at the hand which pinned his shoulder. "Will, where's Anse?
You got him here too?" He rolled his head, trying to see more of the
enclosure in which he lay, but all he faced was a wall of rough stone.
Webb was wringing out another compress, preparing to change the
dressing.
"Where's Anse?" Drew demanded more loudly, and there was a faint echo of
his voice from overhead.
Croff flipped off the cooling compress as Webb applied the fresh one.
But Drew was no longer lulled by that warmth.
"He ain't here," replied the Cherokee.
"Where then?" Drew was suddenly silent, no longer wanting an answer.
"Looky heah, Drew"--Webb hung over him, peering intently into his
face--"we don't know wheah he is, an' that's Bible-swear truth! We saw
you two come out into the valley, but we was busy pickin' off hosses so
them devils couldn't make it away 'fore the Yankees caught up with 'em.
Then the blue bellies slammed in fast an' hard. They jus' naturally went
right over those bushwhackers. Maybe so, they captured two or three, but
most of them was finished off right theah. We took cover, not wantin'
to meet up with lead jus' because we might seem to be in bad company.
When all the shootin' was over an' you didn't come 'long, me and Injun
did some scoutin' 'round.
"We found you down by that crick, an' first--I'm tellin' it to you
straight--we thought you was dead. Then Injun, he found your heart was
still beatin', so we lugged you up heah an' looked you over. Later,
Injun, he went back for a look-see, but he ain't found hide nor hair of
Anse--"
"He was hit bad--in the shoulder--" Drew looked pleadingly from one to
the other--"when we smashed into that brush he was pushed right out of
the saddle, not far from that crick where you found me. Injun, he could
still be out there now ... bleedin'--hurt...."
Croff shook his head. "I backtracked all along that way after we found
you. There was some blood on the grass, but that could have come from
one of the bushwhackers. There was no trace of Anse, anywhere."
"What if he was taken prisoner!" Neither one of them would meet his eyes
now, and Drew set his teeth, clamping down on a wild rush of words he
wanted to spill, knowing that both men would have been as quick and
willing to search for the Texan as they had to bring Drew, himself, in.
No one answered him.
But Croff stood up and said quietly: "This is a pretty well-hidden cave.
The Yankees probably believe they've swept out this valley. You stay
holed up here, and you're safe for a while. Then when you're ready to
ride, Sarge, we'll head back south."
He stopped to pick up his carbine by its sling.
"Where're you going?"
"Take a look-see for Yankees. If they got Anse, there's a slim chance we
can learn of it and take steps. Leastwise, nosing a little downwind
ain't goin' to do a bit of harm." He moved out of the firelight with his
usual noiseless tread and was gone.
17
_Poor Rebel Soldier...._
"Sergeant Rennie reporting suh, at the General's orders." Drew came to
attention under the regard of those gray-blue eyes, not understanding
why he had been summoned to Forrest's headquarters.
"Sergeant, what's all this about bushwhackers?"
Drew repeated the story of their adventure in Tennessee, paring it down
to the bald facts.
"That nest was wiped out by the Yankee patrol, suh. Afterward Private
Croff found a saddlebag with some papers in it, which was in the remains
of their camp. It looks like they'd been picking off couriers from both
sides. We sent those in with our first report."
The General nodded. "You stayed near-by for a while after the camp was
taken?"
"Well, I was hurt, suh."
He saw that General Forrest was smiling. "Sergeant, that theah story
about your belt buckle has had a mightly lot of repeatin' up and down
the ranks. You were a lucky young man!"
"Yes, suh!" Drew agreed. "While I was laid up, Privates Croff and Webb
took turns on scout, suh. They located some of our men hidin'
out--stragglers from the retreat. They also rounded up a few of the
bushwhackers' horses and mules."
Forrest nodded. "You returned to our lines with some fifteen men and ten
mounts, as well as information. Your losses?"
Drew stared at the wall behind the General's head.
"One man missin', suh."
"You were unable to hear any news of him?"
"No, suh." The old weariness settled back on him. They had hunted--first
Croff and Webb--and then he, too, as soon as he was able to sit a
saddle. It was Weatherby's fate all over again; the ground might have
opened and gulped Kirby down.
"How old are you, Sergeant?"
Drew could not see what his age had to do with Kirby's disappearance,
but he answered truthfully: "Nineteen--I had a birthday a week ago,
suh."
"And you volunteered when--?"
"In May of '62, suh. I was in Captain Castleman's company when they
joined General Morgan--Company D, Second Kentucky. Then I transferred to
the scouts under Captain Quirk."
"The big raids ... you were in Ohio, Rennie? Captured?"
"No, suh. I was one of the lucky ones who made it across the river
before the Yankees caught up--"
"At Chickamauga?"
"Yes, suh."
"Cynthiana"--but now Forrest did not wait for Drew's affirmative
answer--"and Harrisburg, Franklin.... It's a long line of battles, ain't
it, boy? A long line. And you were nineteen last week. You know,
Rennie, the Union Army gives medals to those they think have earned
them."
"I've heard tell of that, suh."
The General's hand, brown, strong, went to the officer's hat weighing
down a pile of papers on the table. With a quick twist, Forrest ripped
off the tassled gold cord which distinguished it, smoothing out the loop
of bullion between thumb and forefinger.
"We don't give medals, Sergeant. But I think a good soldier might just
be granted a birthday present without any one gittin' too excited about
how military that is." He held out the cord, and Drew took it a bit
dazedly.
"Thank you, suh. I'm sure proud...."
A wave of Forrest's hand put a period to his thanks.
"A long line of battles," the General repeated, "too long a line--an end
to it comin' soon. Did you ever think, boy, of what you were goin' to do
after the war?"
"Well, there's the West, suh. Open country out there--"
Forrest's eyes were bright, alert. "Yes, and we might even hold the
West. We'll see--we'll have to see. Your report accepted, Sergeant."
It was plainly a dismissal. As Drew saluted, the General laid his hat
back on the tallest pile of papers. Busy at the table, he might have
already forgotten Drew. But the Kentuckian, pausing outside the door to
examine the hat cord once more, knew that he would never forget. No,
there were no medals worn in the ragged, thin lines of the shrinking
Confederate Army. But his birthday gift--Drew's fist closed about the
cord jealously--that was something he would have, always.
Only, nowadays, how long was "always"?
"That's a right smart-lookin' mount, Sarge!" Drew looked at the pair of
lounging messengers grinning at him from the front porch of
headquarters. He loosened the reins and led the bony animal a step or
two before mounting.
Shawnee, nimble-footed as a cat, a horse that had known almost as much
about soldiering as his young rider. Then Hannibal, the mule from Cadiz,
that had served valiantly through battle and retreat, to die in a
Tennessee stream bed. And now this bone-rack of a gray mule with one lop
ear, a mind of his own, and a gait which could set one's teeth on edge
when you pushed him into any show of speed. The animal's long,
melancholy face, his habit of braying mournfully in the moonlight--until
Westerners compared him unfavorably with the coyotes of the Plains--had
earned him the name Croaker; and he was part of the loot they had
brought out of the bushwhackers' camp.
As unlovely as he appeared, Croaker had endurance, steady nerves, and a
most un-mulelike willingness to obey orders. He was far from the ideal
cavalry mount, but he took his rider there and back, safely. He was
sure-footed, with a cat's ability to move at night, and in scout circles
he had already made a favorable impression. But he certainly was an
unhandsome creature.
"Smart actin's better than smart lookin'," Drew answered the disparagers
now. "Do as well yourselves, soldiers, and you'll be satisfied."
Croaker started off at a trot, sniffling, his good ear twitching as if
he had heard those unfriendly comments and was storing them up in his
memory, to be acted upon in the future.
January and February were behind them now. Now it was March ...
spring--only it was more like late fall. Or winter, with the night
closing in. Drew let Croaker settle to the gait which suited him best.
He would visit Boyd and then rejoin Buford's force.
The army, or what was left of it hereabouts, was, as usual, rumbling
with rumor. The Union's General Wilson had assembled a massive hammer of
a force, veterans who had clashed over and over with Forrest in the
field, who had learned that master's tricks. Seventeen thousand mounted
cavalrymen, ready to aim straight down through Alabama where the war had
not yet touched. Another ten thousand without horses, who formed a
backlog of reserves.
In the Carolinas, Johnston, with the last stubborn regiments of the Army
of the Tennessee, was playing his old delaying game, trying to stop
Sherman from ripping up along the coast. And in Virginia the news was
all bad. The world was not spring, but drab winter, the dying winter of
the Confederacy.
Wilson's target was Selma and the Confederate arsenal; every man in the
army knew that. Somehow Bedford Forrest was going to have to interpose
between all the weight of that Yankee hammer and Selma. And he had done
the impossible so often, there was still a chance that he _could_ bring
it off. The General had a free hand and his own particular brand of
genius to back it.
Drew's fingers were on the front of his short cavalry jacket, pressing
against the coil of gold cord in his shirt pocket. No, the old man
wasn't licked yet; he'd give Wilson and every one of those twenty-seven
thousand Yankees a good stiff fight when they came poking their long
noses over the Alabama border!
"He gave you what?" Boyd sat up straighter. His face was thin and no
longer weather-beaten, and he'd lost all of that childish arrogance
which had so often irritated his elders. In its place was a certain
quiet soberness in which the scout sometimes saw flashes of Sheldon.