by Andre Norton
Once more the Yell arose in sharp ululating wails, and the ragged line swept from the road, tightening into a semblance of the saber blades Morgan’s men disdained to use…clashed.… Then, after what seemed like only a moment’s jarring pause, it was on the move once more while before it crumpled motes of blue were carried down the slope to the riverbank, there to steady and stand fast.
Drew’s throat was aching and dry, but he was still croaking hoarsely, hardly feeling the slam of his Colts’ recoils. They were up to that blue line, firing at deadly point-blank range. And part of him wondered how any men could still keep their feet and face back to such an assault with ready muskets. By his side a man skipped as might a marcher trying to catch step, then folded up, sliding limply to the trampled grass.
Men were flinging up hands holding empty cartridge boxes along the attacking line—too many of them. Others reversed the empty carbines, to use them in clubbing duels back and forth. The Union troops fell back, firing still, making their way into the railroad cut. Now the river was a part defense for them. Bayonets caught the sunlight in angry flashing, and they bristled.
“You…Rennie.…”
Drew lurched back under the clutch of a frantic hand belonging to an officer he knew.
“Get back to the horse lines! Bring up the holders’ ammunition, on the double!”
Drew ran, panting, his boots slipping and scraping on the grass as he dodged around prone men who still moved, or others who lay only too still. A horse reared, snorted, and was pulled down to four feet again.
“Ammunition!” Drew got the word out as a squawk, grabbing at the boxes the waiting men were already tossing to him. Then, through the haze which had been riding his mind since the battle began, he caught a clear sight of the fifth man there.… And there was no disguising the blond hair of the boy so eagerly watching the struggle below. Drew had found Boyd—at a time he could do nothing about it. With his arms full, the scout turned to race down the slope again, only to sight the white flag waving from the railroad cut.
More prisoners to be marched along, joining the other dispirited ranks. Drew heard one worried comment from an officer: they would soon have more prisoners than guards.
He went back, trying to locate Boyd, but to no purpose. And the rest of the day was more confusion, heat, never-ending weariness, and always the sense of there being so little time. Rumors raced along the lines, five thousand, ten thousand blue bellies on the march, drawing in from every garrison in the blue grass. And those who had been hunted along the Ohio roads a year before were haunted by that old memory of disaster.
Once more they made their way through the streets of Cynthiana, where the acrid smoke of burning caught at throats, adding to the torturous thirst which dried a man’s mouth when he tore cartridge paper with his teeth. Drew and Croxton took sketchy orders from Captain Quirk, their eyes red-rimmed with fatigue above their powder-blackened lips and chins. Fan out, be eyes and ears for the column moving into the Paris pike.
Croxton’s grin had no humor in it as they turned aside into a field to make better time away from the cluttered highway.
“Looks like the butter’s spread a mite thin on the bread this time,” he commented. “But the General’s sure playin’ it like he has all the aces in hand. Which way to sniff out a Yankee?”
“I’d say any point of the compass now—”
“Listen!” Sam’s hand went up. “Those ain’t any guns of ours.”
The rumble was distant, but Drew believed Croxton was right. Through the dark, guns were moving up. The wasps were closing in on the disturbers of their nest, and every one of them carried a healthy stinger. He thought of what he had seen today: too many empty cartridge boxes, Enfield rifles still carried by men who would not, in spite of orders, discard them for the Yankee guns with ammunition to spare. Empty guns, worn-out men, weary horses…and Yankee guns moving confidently up through the night.
CHAPTER 3
On the Run—
“They’re comin’! Looks like the whole country’s sproutin’ Yankees outta the ground.”
They were, a dull dark mass at first and then an arc of one ominous color advancing in a fast, purposeful drive, already overrunning the pickets with only a lone shot here and there in defiance. They rode up confidently, dismounted, and charged—to be thrown back once. But there were too many of them, and they moved with the precision of men who knew what was to be done and that they could do it. Confederates were trapped before they could reach their horses; there was a wild whirling scramble of a fight flowing backward toward the river.
Men with empty guns turned those guns into clubs, fighting to hold the center. But the enemy had already cut them off from the Augusta road and the bridge, and the river was at their backs. Water boiled under a lead rain. Drew saw an opening between two Union troopers. Flattening himself as best he could on Shawnee’s back, he gave the roan the spur. What good could be accomplished by the message he carried now—to bring up half the horse holders as reinforcements—was a question.
However, he was never to deliver that message, for the horse lines had been stampeded by the first wave of flying men. Here and there a holder or two still tried to control at least one wild horse of the four he was responsible for, but there were no reserves for the fighting line. And—Drew glanced back—no battle to lead them into if there were.
Men and horses were struggling, dying in the river. The bridge…he gaped at the horror of that bridge…horses down, kicking and dying, barring an escape route to their riders. And the blue coats everywhere. Like a stallion about to attack, Shawnee screamed suddenly and reared, his front hoofs beating the air. A spurting red stream fountained from his neck; an artery had been hit.
Drew set teeth in lip, and plugged that bubbling hole with his thumb. Shawnee was dying, but he was still on his feet, and he could be headed away from the carnage in that water. Drew, his face sick and white, turned the horse toward the railroad tracks.
“Drew!”
Croxton? No, but somehow Drew was not surprised to see Boyd trying to keep his feet, being dragged along by two plunging horses, their eyes white-rimmed with terror. The only wonder was that the scout had heard that call through the din of screaming and shouting, the wild neighs of the horses, and the continual crackle of small arms’ fire.
“Mount! Mount and ride!” He mouthed the order, not daring to pull up Shawnee, already past Boyd and his horses. The roan’s hoofs spurned gravel from the track line now. And Boyd drew level with him and mounted one of the horses, continuing to lead the other. There was a cattle guard ahead to afford some protection from the storm churning along the river.
“Where?” Boyd called.
Drew, his thumb still planted in the hole which was becoming Shawnee’s death, nodded to the guard. They made it, and Drew kneed the roan closer to the extra horse Boyd led, slinging his saddlebags across to the other mount. Then he dismounted, releasing his hold on the roan’s wound. For the second time Shawnee cried, but this time it was no warrior’s protest against death; it was the nicker of a question. The answering shot from Drew’s Colt was lost in the battle din. He was upon the other horse before Shawnee had stopped breathing.
“Come on!” Drew’s voice was strident as he spurred, herding Boyd before him. Two of them, then three, four, as they came out on the bank of a millpond. Across that stretch of water there was safety, or at least the illusion of safety.
“Drew!” For the second time he was hailed. It was Sam Croxton, holding onto the saddle horn with both hands, a stream of red running from a patch of blood-soaked hair over one ear. He swayed, his eyes wide open as those of the frightened horses, but fastened now on Drew as if the other were the one stable thing in a mad world.
“Can you stick on?” Drew leaned across to catch the reins the other had dropped.
A small spark of understanding awoke in those wide eyes. “I’ll stick,” the words came thickly. “I ain’t gonna rot in that damned prison again—never!”
“Boyd…on his other side! We’ll try gettin’ him across together.”
“Yes, Drew.” Boyd’s voice sounded unsteady, but he did not hesitate to bring his own mount in on Croxton’s right.
“You’d best let me take that theah jump first, soldier.” The stranger sent his horse in ahead of Drew’s. “It don’t necessarily foller that because that’s water a man can jus’ natcherly git hisself across in one piece. I’ll give it a try quicker’n you can spit and holler Howdy.”
As if he were one with the raw-boned bay he bestrode, he jumped his mount into the waiting pond. Still threshing about in the welter of flying water, he glanced back and raised a hand in a come-ahead signal.
“Bottom’s a mite missin’, but the drop ain’t so much. Better make it ’fore them fast-shootin’ hombres back theah come a-takin’ you.”
Though they did not move in the same reckless fashion as their guide, somehow they got across the pond and emerged dripping on the other side. The determination which had made Croxton try the escape, seemed to fade as they rode on. He continued to hold to the horn, but he slumped further over in a bundle of misery. Their pond guide took Boyd’s station to the right, surveying the half-conscious man critically.
“This hoorawin’ around ain’t gonna do that scalpin’ job no good,” he announced. “He can’t ride far ’less he gits him a spell of rest an’ maybe has a medicine man look at that knock—”
Croxton roused. “I stick an’ I ride!” He even got a measure of firmness into his tone. “I don’t go to no Yankee prison.…” He tried to reach for the reins, but Drew kept them firmly to hand.
There was a shot behind them, three or four more fugitives plunged down to the millpond, and the last one in line fired back at some yet unseen pursuer.
“Then we git!” But across Croxton’s bowed shoulders the other shook his head warningly at Drew.
He was young and as whipcord thin and tough as most of those over-weary men from the badgered and now broken command, but he was not tense, riding rather with the easy adjustment to the quickened pace of a man more at home in the saddle than on foot. His weather-browned face was seamed with a scar which ran from left temple to the corner of his mouth, and his hair was a ragged, unkempt mop of brown-red which tossed free as he rode, since he was hatless.
With Croxton boxed between them, Drew and the stranger matched pace at what was a lope rather than a gallop as Boyd ranged ahead. Another flurry of shots sounded from behind, and they cut across a field, making for the doubtful cover of a hedge. There was no way, Drew decided after a quick survey, for them to get back into town and join the general retreat. The Yankees must be well between them and any of the force across the Licking.
When they had pushed through the hedge they were faced by a lane running in the general northwest direction. It provided better footing, and it led away from the chaos at Cynthiana. With Croxton on their hands it was the best they could hope for, and without more than an exchange of glances they turned into it, the wounded man’s horse still between them.
The cover of the hedge wall provided some satisfaction and Drew dared to slow their pace. Under his tan Sam was greenish-white, his eyes half closed, and he rode with his hands clamped about the saddle horn as if his grip upon that meant the difference between life and death. But Drew knew he could not hope to keep on much longer.
There might be Confederate sympathizers in the next farmhouse who would be willing to take in the wounded scout. On the other hand, the inhabitants could just as well be Union people. It was obvious that Sam could not keep going, and it was just as obvious to Drew that they—or at least he—could not just ride on and leave him untended by the side of the road.
“Boyd!” So summoned, the youngster reined in to wait for them. “You ride on! You, too!” Drew addressed the stranger.
Boyd shook his head, though he glanced at the winding road ahead. “I ain’t leavin’ you!” His lip was sticking out in that stubborn pout.
At that moment Drew could have lashed out at him and enjoyed it, or at least found a satisfaction in passing on some of his own exasperation and frustration.
“We got a far piece to travel,” commented the stranger. “An’ I guess I’ll string along with you, ’less, of course, this heah is a closed game an’ you ain’t sellin’ any chips ’cross the table. Me, I’m up from Texas way—Anson…Anse Kirby, if you want a brand for the tally book. An’ most all a Yankee’s good for anyway is to be shucked of his boots.” He freed one foot momentarily from the stirrup and surveyed a piece of very new and shiny footware with open admiration. It was provided with a highly ornate silver spur, not military issue but Mexican work, Drew guessed.
“You from Gano’s Company?” the scout asked.
Kirby nodded. “Nowadays, but it was Terry’s Rangers ’fore I stopped me a saber with this heah tough old head of mine an’ was removed for a while. That Yankee almost fixed me so m’ own folks wouldn’t know me from a fresh-skinned buffala—not that I got me any folks any more.” He grinned and that expression was a baring of teeth like a wolf’s uninhibited snarl. “You one of Quirk’s rough-string scout boys, ain’t you? We sure raised hell an’ put a chunk under it back theah. Them Yankees are gonna be as techy as teased rattlers. An’ I don’t see as how we can belly through the brush with this heah hombre. He’s got him a middle full of guts to stick it this far. Long ’bout now he must have him a horse-size headache.…”
Croxton swayed and only Drew’s crowding their horses together kept the now unconscious scout from falling into the road dust. Kirby steadied the limp body from the other side.
“Keep pullin’ him ’round this way, amigo, an’ he’ll be planted permanent, all neat an’ pretty with a board up at his head.”
“There’s a house—back there.” Boyd pointed to the right, where a narrow lane angled away from their road, a small house to be seen at its end.
Drew, Croxton’s weight resting against his shoulder, studied the house. The distant crackle of carbine fire rippled across the fields and came as a rumble of warning. It was plain that Croxton could not ride on, not at the pace they would have to maintain in order to outdistance pursuit; nor could he be left to shift for himself. To visit the house might be putting them straight into some Yankee’s pocket, but it was the only solution open now.
“Hey, those mules!” Boyd had already ventured several horse lengths down the lane. Now he jerked a forefinger at two animals, heads up, ears pointed suspiciously forward, that were approaching the fence at a rocking canter. “Those are Jim Dandy’s! You remember Jim Dandy, Drew?”
“Jim Dandy—?” the other echoed. And then he did recall the little Englishman who had been a part of the Lexington horse country since long before the war. Jim Dandy had been one of the most skillful jockeys ever seen in the blue grass, until he took a bad spill back in ’59 and thereafter set himself up as a consultant trainer-vet to the comfort of any stable with a hankering to win racing glory.
To a man like Jim Dandy politics or war might not be all-important. And the fact that he had known the households of both Oak Hill and Red Springs could count for a better reception now. At least they could try.
“No use you gettin’ into anything,” Drew told the Texan. “You and Boyd go on! I’ll take Croxton in and see if they’ll take care of him.”
Kirby looked back down the road. “Don’t see no hostile sign heah ’bouts,” he drawled. “Guess we can spare us some time to bed him down proper on th’ right range. Maybeso you’ll find them in theah as leery of strangers as a rustler of the sheriff—”
The Texan’s references might be obscure, but he helped Drew transfer Croxton from the precarious balance in the wounded man’s own saddle to Drew’s hold, and then rode at a walking pace beside the scout while Boyd trailed with the led horse.
There was a pounding of hoofs on the road behind. A half dozen riders went by the mouth of the land at a distance-eating gallop. In spite of the dust which layered them Drew saw
they were not Union.
“Them boys keep that gait up,” Kirby remarked, “an’ they ain’t gonna make it far ’fore their tongues hang out ’bout three feet an’ forty inches. That ain’t no way to waste good hoss flesh.”
“Got a good hold on him?” he asked Drew a moment later. At the other’s nod he rode forward into the yard at the end of the lane.
“Hullo, the house!” he called.
A man came out of the stable, walking with a kind of hop-skip step. His blond head was bare, silver fair in contrast to Boyd’s corn yellow, and his features were thin and sharp. It was Jim Dandy, himself.
“What’s all this now?” he asked in that high voice Drew had last heard discussing the virtues of rival horse liniments at Red Springs. And he did not look particularly welcoming.
“Mr. Dandy—” Drew walked his horse on, Croxton sagging in his hold, his weight a heavy pull on his bearer’s tired arms—“do you remember me? Drew Rennie, of Red Springs.” He added that quickly for what small guarantee of respectability the identification might give. Certainly in his present guise he did not look Alexander Mattock’s grandson.
Dandy rested his weight on his good leg and swung his shorter one a little ahead. And his hand went to the loose front of his white shirt.
“Now that’s a right unfriendly move, suh. I take it right unfriendly to show hardware ’fore you know the paint on our faces—”
The smaller man’s hand fell away from his concealed weapon, but Kirby did not reholster the Colt which had appeared through some feat of lightning movement in his grip.
“You’re not going to take my horses!” Even if there was no gun in Dandy’s hand, his voice stated a fact they could not doubt he meant.
“Nobody’s takin’ hosses,” the Texan answered. “This heah soldier’s got him a mighty sore head, an’ he needs some fixin’. We ain’t too popular round heah right now, an’ he can’t ride. So—”
