The Andre Norton Megapack

by Andre Norton

  Boyd pushed up. “Mr. Dandy, you know me—Boyd Barrett. And this isDrew Rennie. We have Yankees after us. And you never said you were Union—”

  Dandy shrugged. “No matter to me what you wear…blue…gray—you’re all a bunch of horse thieves, like as not. You, Mr. Boyd, what you doing riding with these here Rebs? And what’s the matter with that man? Got him a lick on the head, eh? Well—” he crossed with his lurching walk to stand by Drew, studying the now unconscious Croxton—“all right.” His voice was angry, as if he were being pushed along a path he disliked. “Get him into the stable. I ain’t yet took sides in this here bloody war, and I ain’t going to now. But the man’s hurt. Unload him and don’t tell me what he’s been doing back there to get him that knock. I don’t want to know.”

  He led the way into the stable, and moments later Croxton was as easy as they could make him on an improvised bed of straw and clean horse blankets. Dandy turned to them with Croxton’s gun belt swinging free in his hand, still weighted down with two revolvers.

  “You want these?”

  Drew glanced at his two companions. His own carbine was gone; he had dropped it at the verge of the millpond when he had taken charge of Croxton. Boyd was without any weapons, and Kirby had only side arms. Drew started to reach for the belt and then shook his head. If Sam was able to ride soon, he would need those. And the rest of them could take their chances at getting more arms. Boyd opened his mouth as if to protest, but he did not say anything as Drew refused the Colts.

  “You keep ’em—for him.”

  The ex-jockey nodded. “Better be riding on, Mr. Rennie. They’ll come looking, and I don’t fancy having any fight here. With luck we’ll get your friend on his feet all right and tight, and he can slip south when the dust is down a bit. But you’d better keep ahead of what can come down the pike now.”

  Kirby moved, the spurs jangling musically on his boots. “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout that theah road,” he announced. “Any other trail outta heah we can take?”

  “Cross the pasture—” Dandy directed with a thumb—“then a cornfield, and you’ll hit the pike again. Cuts off about a mile.”

  “That sounds right invitin’.” The Texan led the way back to the yard and their waiting mounts. “Obliged to you, suh. Now,” he spoke to Drew, “I’d say it’s time to raise some dust. Ain’t far to sundown, an’ we oughta git some countryside between us an’ them rip-snortin’ javalinas—”

  “Javalinas?” Drew heard Boyd repeat inquiringly.

  “Kid—” the Texan reined his bay—“there is some mean things in this heah world. Theah is Comanches an’ Apaches, an’ a longhorn cow with a calf hid out in a thicket, an’ a rattler, what’s feelin’ lowdown in his mind. An’ theah’s javalinas, the wild boars of the Rio country. Then theah’s men what have had to ride fast on a day as hot as this, swallerin’ dust an’ thinkin’ what they’re gonna do when they catch up to them as they’re chasin’; an’ those men’re ’bout as mean as the boars—”

  Drew lifted his hand to Jim Dandy and followed the other two through the pasture gate. Now he grinned.

  “You sound like one speakin’ from experience—of bein’ chased, that is.”

  Kirby chuckled. “I’m jus’ a poor little Texas boy, suh. ’Course we do a bit of fast ridin’. Mostly though I’ve been on the other end, doin’the chasin’. An’ I know how it feels to eat dust an’ git a mite riled doin’ it. I’d say we could maybe help ourselves a bit though.”

  “How?” Boyd asked eagerly.

  “You”—Drew rounded on him—“can cut cross-country and get home!” There was nothing in Boyd’s clothing or equipment to suggest that he had been a part of the now scattered raiders. “If the Yankees stop you,” Drew continued, “you can spin them a tale about riding out to see the fight. And Major Forbes’s name ought to help.”

  Boyd’s scowl was a black cloud on his grimy young face. “I’m one of General Morgan’s men.”

  “Only a fool,” remarked Kirby, “stops to argue with a mule, a skunk, a cook, or a boy what’s run away to join the army. You figgerin’ to take this kid home personal?”

  “You’ll have to tie me to a horse to do it!” Boyd flared up.

  “No thanks for your help.” Drew frowned at Kirby, then turned to Boyd again. “No, I can’t take you back now. But I’ll see that you do go back!”

  Boyd laughed, high, with a reckless note. “I’m comin’ along.”

  “As I was sayin’,” Kirby returned to his half suggestion of moments before, “we can see ’bout helpin’ ourselves. Them Yankees are mighty particular ’bout their rigs; they carry ’nough to outfit a squad right on one trooper.”

  Drew had already caught on. “Stage an ambush?”

  “Well, now, let’s see.” Kirby looked down at his own gear, then critically inspected Drew and Boyd in turn. “We could do with carbines. Them blue bellies had them some right pretty-lookin’ hardware—leastways them back by the river did. An’ I don’t see no ration bags on them theah hosses you two are ridin’. Yes, we could do with grub, an’ rifle-guns…maybe some blue coats.… Say as how we was wearin’ them we could ride up to some farm all polite an’ nice an’ maybe git asked in to rest a spell an’ fill up on real fancy eats. I ’member back on the Ohio raid we came into this heah farm…wasn’t nobody round the place at all. We sashayed into the kitchen an’ theah, jus’ sittin’ easylike an’ waitin’ right on the table, was two or three pies! Ain’t had me a taste since as good as them theah pies. But maybe with a blue coat on us we could do as well heah ’bouts.”

  There was merit in the Texan’s suggestion. Drew, from past experience, knew that. His only hesitation was Boyd. The youngster was right. Short of subduing him physically and taking him back tied to his saddle through the spreading Union web, Drew had no chance of returning Boyd to Oak Hill. But to lead him into the chancy sort of deal Kirby had outlined was entirely too dangerous.

  “You mean—we hold up some Yankees and just take their uniforms an’ carbines an’ things?” It was already too late. Boyd had seized upon what must have seemed to him an idea right out of the dashing kind of war he had been imagining all these past weeks.

  “It has been done, kid,” the Texan affirmed. “’Course we got to find us two or three poor little maverick blue bellies lost outta the herd like. Then we cut ’em away from the trail an’ reason with ’em.”

  “That ought to be easy.” Boyd’s enthusiasm was at the boiling point. “The Yankees are all cowards—”

  Kirby straightened in his saddle, the lazy good humor gone from his face.

  “Kid, don’t git so lippy ’bout what you ain’t rightly learned yet. Yankees can fight—they can fight good. You saw ’em do that today. And don’t you ever forgit it!”

  Boyd was disconcerted, but he clung doggedly to his belief. “One of Morgan’s men can take on five Yankees.”

  Drew laughed dryly. “You saw that happen just this mornin’, Boyd. And what happened? We ran. They fight just as hard and as long, and most of them just as tough as we do. And don’t ever think that the man facin’ you across a gun is any less than you are; maybe he’s a little better. Keep that in mind!”

  “Yes, you read the aces an’ queens in your hand ’fore you spreads your money out recklesslike,” Kirby agreed. “So, if we find the right setup, we move, but—”

  Drew swung up one hand in the horseman’s signal of warning. “Something—or someone—is on the move…ahead there!” he warned.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Eleventh Ohio Cavalry

  They had worked their way around the edge of the cornfield, and now they could look out on a hard-surfaced road which must be the pike. Riding along that in good order were a company of men—thirty, Drew counted. And four of those had extra horses on leading reins. He also saw ten carbines…and the owners of those were alert.

  “Stand where you are!” The slight man leading that skeleton troop posted ahead. His shell jacket had the three yellow bars of a c
aptain on its standing collar, and Drew saluted. This was the first group of fugitives he had seen who were more than frightened men running their horses and themselves into exhaustion.

  “Rennie, Private, Quirk’s Scouts,” Drew reported himself.

  Kirby’s salute was delivered with less snap but as promptly. “Kirby, Private, Gano’s.”

  “Captain William Campbell,” the officer identified himself crisply. “Any more of you?” He looked to Boyd and then at the cornfield beyond.

  “Barrett’s a volunteer,” Drew explained. This was no time to clarify Boyd’s exact status. “There’re just the three of us.”

  “You headin’ somewheah special, Cap’n?” the Texan asked. “Or jus’ travelin’ for your continued health?”

  Campbell laughed. “You might call it that, Kirby. But if we stick together, I think all of us may stay healthy.”

  Kirby turned his horse into the pike. “Sounds like a good argument to me, suh. You have any idea wheah at we are, or wheah we could be headin’?”

  “Northwest is the best I can say. If we strike far enough to the west, we may be able to flank the troops spread out to keep us away from the river. Best plan for now, anyway. And the more men we can pick up, the better.”

  “Scattered some, ain’t we?” Kirby assented. “You give the orders, Cap’n, suh. We ain’t licked complete yet.”

  There was a low growl arising from the company on the pike as the Texan’s comment reached them. They might have run and gone on running most of that long day, but they were no longer running; they were moving in reasonable order and to some purpose, with a direction in view and a form of organization, no matter how patched together they were. Campbell spoke directly to Drew: “You know anything about this section of the country?”

  “Some, but it’s been almost three years since I was here. I know nothin’ about any Union garrison—”

  “Those we’ll have to worry about as they come. But you ride advance for us now. Send in any stragglers you come across. The night is almost here, and that’s in our favor.”

  So Drew and Kirby, with Boyd trailing, ranged ahead of the small troop. And pick up more stragglers they did—some twenty men in the last hour before twilight closed down.

  “I’m hungry,” Boyd said, approaching Drew. “There’re farms around. Why can’t we get something to eat?”

  “Here.” Drew fumbled in the saddlebags he had transferred from Shawnee to this new mount back by the river. He handed over a piece of hardtack, flinty-surfaced and about as appetizing as a stone. “That’s the best you’ll get for a while.”

  Boyd stared at it in dismay. “You can’t eat a thing like this! It’s a piece of rock.” Indignantly he hurled it away.

  “You get down and pick that up! Now!”

  Boyd, flushed and hot-eyed, gazed at Drew for a long moment. The flush faded and he moved uneasily in his saddle, but not out of the range of Drew’s attention. At length, unhappily, he dismounted and went to pick the gray-white chunk out of a weed tangle. Holding it gingerly, he came back to his horse.

  “If you don’t want it—give!” Drew held out his hand.

  Boyd, realizing the other meant just what he said, fingered the hardtack and finally dropped it into that waiting palm.

  “You eat hard and you sleep on the soft side of a board—if you’re lucky enough to find a board. You ride till your seat is blistered and until you can sleep in the saddle. You drink mud green with scum if that’s all you can find to drink, and you think it’s mighty fine drinkin’, too. This ain’t—” Drew’s thoughts flitted back to his meeting with Aunt Marianna on the Lexington road—“all saber wavin’ and chargin’ the enemy and playin’ hero to the home folks; this is sweatin’ and dirt on you and your clothes, goin’ mighty hungry, and cold and wet—when it’s the season for goin’ cold and wet. It’s takin’ a lot of the bad, with not much good. And if you don’t cut off home now, you’ll ride our way, keepin’ your mouth shut and doin’ as you’re told!”

  Boyd swallowed visibly. “All right.” But there was a firmness in that short answer which surprised Drew. The other sounded as if he meant it, as if he were swearing the oath of allegiance to the regiment. Butcould he take it? A few days on the run, and Boyd would probably quit. Maybe if they got into some town and the Yankees didn’t smoke them out right away, Drew could send a telegram and Boyd would be collected. Drew tried to console himself with that thought all the time another part of him was certain that Boyd intended to prove he could stick through all the rigors Drew had just outlined for him.

  But in any event the boy’s introduction to war was going to be as unromantic as anyone could want, short of being thrown cold and untrained into a major battle. They must be prepared for a bad time until they made it out of the Union lines and south again.

  The night closed down, dark and moonless, with a heaviness in the air which was oppressive. Campbell had to grant men and horses a breathing period. He put out pickets, leaving the rest of them to lie with their mounts saddled and to hand. Drew loosened the girth, stripped off saddle and blanket, and wiped down the sweaty back of his new mount. But he dared not leave the gelding free. So, against all good practice, he re-equipped the tired beast. No mount was going to be able to take that kind of treatment for long. They had a half dozen spare horses, and undoubtedly they could “trade” worn-out mounts for fresh ones along the way. But such ceaseless use was cruel punishment, and no man wanted to inflict it. War was harder on horses than men. At least the men could take their chances and had a fraction of free will in the matter.

  Drew awoke at a tug of his sleeve, flailed out his arm, and struck home. Kirby laughed in the gray dawn.

  “Now that theah, kid, is no way to go ’round wakin’ up a soldier. He may take you for a blue belly as has come crawlin’ into his dreams. It’s all right, amigo—jus’ time to git on the prowl again.”

  Feeling as if he had been beaten, Drew slowly got to his feet. Men were moving, falling into line. And one was arguing with Captain Campbell.

  “It could work, Cap’n,” the trooper urged. “Ain’t a lot of the boys wearin’ Yankee truck they took outta the warehouses? Them what ain’t can act like prisoners. Jus’ say we’re the Eleventh Ohio—they’s stationed near Bardstown and it would seem right, them ridin’ down to take them some prisoners. The old man, he’s got a rich farm and sets a powerful good table. Might even give us a right smart load of provisions into the bargain. It’s worth a try, suh.…”

  “Rennie!” So summoned, Drew reported to their new commander.

  “Know anything about a Thomas McKeever livin’ in this section?”

  Drew’s memory produced a picture of a round-faced, cheerful man who liked to play chess and admired Lucilla’s pickled watermelon rind to the point of begging a crock of it every time he visited Red Springs.

  “Yes, suh. He’s Union—got two sons with Colonel Wolford. Owns a big farm and raises prime mules—”

  “You know him personally?”

  “Yes, suh. He’s a friend of my grandfather; they used to visit back and forth a lot.”

  “Then he’d know you.” Campbell’s fingernails rasped through the stubble on his chin.

  “So Rennie heah could be one of our prisoners, suh. That theah might convince Mistuh McKeever we’s what we say—” the trooper pressed his point.

  “Could be. It’s gospel truth we ain’t goin’ to get far with our bellies flat on our backbones. And it might work. Now, all of you men, listen.…” Campbell explained, gave orders, and put them through a small drill. A dozen men without any Union uniform loot to distinguish them were told to play the role of prisoners; the others exchanged and drew out of saddlebags pieces of blue clothing to make their appearance as the Eleventh Ohio.

  “They ain’t gonna expect too much.” The trooper who had first urged the plan was optimistic. “We can pass as close to militia—”

  “You hope!” Kirby was in the prisoner’s section, and it was plain he did not
relish a role which meant that he had to strip himself of weapons. “You—” he fixed his attention on the man to whom he must hand his Colts when the time came—“keep right ’longside, soldier. If I want to get those six-guns, I want ’em fast an’ I want ’em sure—not ’bout ten yards away wheah I can’t git my hands on ’em!”

  Their gnawing hunger drove them all into agreeing to the masquerade. Drew could not recall his last really full meal. Just thinking about food made a warm, sickish taste rise in his mouth. He brought out the hardtack which Boyd had so indignantly rejected the night before, and holding the chunk balanced on his saddle horn, rapped it smartly with the butt of a revolver. It broke raggedly across, and then he was able to crack it again between his fingers.

  “Here—” He held out a two-inch piece to Boyd, and this time there was no refusal. The younger boy’s cheek showed a swollen puff as he sucked away at the fragment.

  Drew offered a bite to the Texan.

  “Right neighborly, amigo,” Kirby observed. “’Bout this time, me, I’m ready to exercise m’ teeth on a stewed moccasin, Comanche at that, were anybody to ask me to sit down an’ reach for the pot.”

  They rode on at a comfortable pace and for some reason met no other travelers on the pike. Drew found his new mount had no easy shuffle like Shawnee’s. The gelding was a black with three white feet and a proudly held head—might even be Denmark stock—but for some reason he didn’t relish moving in company. And, left without close enough supervision from his rider, he tended either to trot ahead or loiter until he was out of line. Drew was continually either reining him in or urging him on.

  “Kinda a raw one,” Kirby commented critically. “He ain’t no rockin’-chair hoss, that’s for sure. If I was you, I’d look round for somethin’ better to slap m’ tree on—”

  Drew pulled rein for the tenth time, his exasperation growing. “I might do just that.” Shawnee had been worth fifty of this temperamental blooded hunter.