by Andre Norton
“Just so you only think that, Anse, and don’t try any tastin’,” Drew warned. “We make our big talk to this captain, and then we move out—fast. You boys know the drill?”
“Sure,” Driscoll repeated. “We’re the big raiders come to gobble up all the blue bellies, ’less they walk out all nice an’ peaceful, leavin’ their popguns behind ’em for better men to use. I’d say that theah was the inn, Rennie—”
They saw their first Yankees, a blot of blue by the horse trough at the edge of the center square. And Drew, surveying the enemy with a critical and experienced eye, was sure that he was indeed meeting either green troops or militia. They were as wide-eyed in their return stare as the civilians on the streets around.
Kirby chuckled. “Strut it up, roosters,” he urged from the corner of his mouth. “Cutthroats, banditti, hoss thieves—jus’ downright bad hombres, that’s us. They expect us to be on the peck, all horns an’ rattles. Don’t disappoint ’em none! Their tails is half curled up already, an’ they’re ready to run if a horny toad yells Boo!”
To the outward eye the three riding leisurely down the middle of the Bardstown street had no interest in the soldiers by the trough. Drew in the middle, the white rag dropping from the barrel of his carbine, brought the black a step or two in advance. Just so had Castleman ridden into Lexington earlier, and that had been at night with a far more wary and dangerous enemy to face. The scout’s confidence rose as he watched, without making any show of his surveillance, the uneasy men ahead.
One of them broke away from the group, and ran into the inn.
“Wonder who’s roddin’ this outfit,” Kirby remarked. “That fella’s gone to rout him out. Do your talkin’ like a short-trigger man, Drew.”
They pulled rein in front of the inn and sat their horses facing the door through which the soldier had disappeared. His fellows edged around the trough and stood in a straggling line to front the Confederates.
“You!” Drew caught the eye of the nearest. “Tell your commanding officer General Morgan’s flag is here!”
The Yankee was young, almost as young as Boyd, but he had less assurance than Boyd. Now the boy stammered a little as he answered:
“Yes…yes, sir.” Then he added in a rush, “General who, sir?”
“General John Hunt Morgan, Confederate Cavalry, Army of the Tennessee, detached duty!” Drew made that as impressive as he could, whether it was worded correctly according to military protocol or not. It was, he thought with satisfaction, a nicely rounded, important-sounding speech, although a bit short.
“Yes, sir!” The boy started for the door, but he was too late.
The man who erupted from that portal was short and stout, his face a dramatic scarlet above the dark blue of his unbuttoned coat. He stopped short a step or two into the open and stood staring at the three on horseback, that scarlet growing more dusky by the second.
“Who…are…you?” His demand was expelled in heavy puffs of breath.
“Flag from General Morgan,” Drew repeated. Then to make it quite plain, he added kindly, “General John Hunt Morgan, Confederate Cavalry, Army of the Tennessee, detached duty.”
“But, but Morgan was defeated…at Cynthiana. He was broken—”
Slowly Drew shook his head. “The General has been reported defeated before, suh. No, he’s right here outside Bardstown. And I wouldn’t rightly say he was broken either, not with a couple of regiments behind him—”
“Couple of regiments!” The man was buttoning his coat, his red jowls sagging a little, almost as if Drew had used the carbine across his unprotected head. “Couple of regiments…Morgan…” he repeated dazedly. “Well,” sullenly he spoke to Drew, “what does he want?”
“You’re a captain,” Drew spoke crisply. “You’ll return with us to discuss surrender terms with an officer of equal rank!”
“Surrender!” For a moment some of the sag went out of the other.
“Two regiments—an’ you have maybe eighty or ninety men.” Kirby gazed with critical disparagement at such Union forces as were visible.
“One hundred and twenty-five,” the officer repeated mechanically and then glared at the Texan.
“One hundred and twenty-five then.” Kirby was willing to be generous. “All ready to hold this heah town. I don’t see no artillery neither.” He rose in his stirrups to view the immediate scene. “Goin’ to fight from house to house maybe—?”
“General Morgan,” Drew remarked to the company at large, “is not a patient man. But it’s your decision, suh. If you want to make a fight of it.” He shrugged.
“No! Well, I’ll talk…listen to your terms anyway. Get my horse!” he roared at the nearest soldier.
They escorted the captain with due solemnity out of Bardstown to meet Campbell, a well-armed guard in evidence strung out on the pike. The Union officer picked up enough assurance to demand to see the General himself, but Campbell’s show of surprised hauteur at the request was an expert’s weapon in rebuttal; and the other not only subsided but agreed without undue protest to Campbell’s statement of terms.
The Union detachment in town were to stack their arms in the square, leaving in addition their rations. They were to withdraw, unarmed, to a field outside and there await the patroling officer who would visit them in due course. Having agreed, the Union captain departed.
Campbell was already signaling the rest of the company out of cover.
“This is where we move fast. You all know what to do.”
But much had to be left to chance. Drew and Kirby surrendered their borrowed carbines to the rightful owners and prepared to join the first wave of that quick dash.
“Yahhhh-aww-wha—” There were no words in that, just the war cry which might have torn from an Indian warrior’s throat, but which came instead from between Kirby’s lips: the famous Yell with all its yip of victory as only an uninhibited Texan could deliver it. Then they were rushing, yelping in an answering chorus, four and five abreast, down the street under the shade of the trees, answered by screams and cries as the walks emptied before them.
Blue ranks broke up ahead, leaving rifles stacked, provisions in knapsacks. And the ragged crew struck at the spoil like a wave, lapping up arms, cartridge boxes, knapsacks. For only moments there was a milling pandemonium in the heart of Bardstown. Then once again that Yell was raised, echoed, and the pound of hoofs made an artillery barrage of sound. Armed, provisioned, and very much the masters of the scene, Morgan’s men were heading out of town on the other side, leaving bewilderment behind.
They pushed the pace, knowing that the telegraph wires or the couriers would be spreading the news. Perhaps the reputation of their commander might slow the inevitable pursuit, but it would not deter it entirely. They must put as much distance between themselves and the out-foxed Union garrison as they could. And Campbell continued to point them westward instead of south, since any enemy force would be marching in the other direction to cut them off.
Even if men could stand that dogged pace, driven by determination and fear of capture, horses could not. And through the next two days the inference was very clear: fall behind at your own risk; there will be no waiting for laggards to catch up. Nor any mounts furnished; you must provide your own.
Drew discovered the black gelding an increasing problem, but at least the horse provided transportation, and he tried to save the animal as best he could. Though when it was impossible to unsaddle, when one had to ride—and did—some twenty hours out of twenty-four, there was not much the most experienced horseman could do to relieve his mount.
Drew pulled up beside Kirby as he returned from a flank scout. The Texan had dropped to the rear of the small troop, holding his horse to not much more than a walk. Now and then he glanced to the receding length of the road as if in search of someone.
“Where’s Boyd?” Drew had ridden along the full length of the company and nowhere had he seen that blond head.
“Jus’ what I’m wonderin’.” Kirby came to
a complete halt. “I came back a little while ago, and nobody’s seen him.”
Drew pulled in beside the other. His horse’s head hung low as the gelding blew in gusty snorts. He tried to remember when he had seen Boyd last and when he did, that memory was not too encouraging.
“With Hilders…and Cambridge…” he said softly.
“Yeah.” Kirby’s thought seemed to match his. “Hilder’s mare is jus’ about beat, an’ Boyd rides light; that bay he got is holdin’ up like a corn-fed stud.”
“They were talkin’ to him when I went out on point.” Drew followed his own line of thought. “And he won’t listen to me—”
“It don’t foller that because you advise a hombre for his own good, he’s goin’ to take kindly to your interest in him,” the Texan observed. “You tell him Hilders an’ Cambridge are wearin’ skunk stripes, an’ he’s apt to claim ’em both as compadres. Suppose he don’t come in when we bed down; he coulda jus’ cut his picket rope an’ drifted, as far as we can prove.”
“Not if his bay turns up with one of them on top,” Drew replied.
“Them two are of the curly wolf breed.” Kirby shifted his newly acquired Enfield. “No tellin’ as how they would join up with us again did they make such a switch; might figure as how they could make it better time driftin’ on their own.”
The Texan had put his own fear into words. Drew pointed the gelding back down the road and booted the animal into a trot. A moment later he heard more drumming hoofs behind him; Kirby was following.
“This ain’t your trouble,” Drew reminded him.
“No, maybe it ain’t. But then, me, I’m jus’ a rough string rider from way back, an’ this may end in a smoke-up. Odds seem a mite one-sided now—Hilders is easy on the trigger. He won’t take kindly to anyone tryin’ to hang up his hide for dryin’—”
Drew studied the hoof-churned dust of the road. He could only hold a very slim hope of some trace along its margin. The gelding stumbled and tried to cut pace. Drew hardened his will, holding the animal to the trot. He knew that under saddle and blanket, sores were forming, that soon he would have no choice but a “trade” such as Hilders might be forcing now, though not at the expense of one of his own fellows.
Kirby was reading sign on the other side of the road. His sudden hand signal brought Drew to join him. Hoofprints marked the softer verge.
“Turned off not too long ago,” Drew commented.
Kirby nodded toward the brush. They were facing a small woodland into which a thin trace of path led. Good cover for trouble. Looping reins over his arm, Drew walked forward, Colt in hand, using scout tricks to cover the noise of his advance into the green shimmer of the trees.
The trail led ahead without any attempt at concealment. The other two troopers must have tricked Boyd into taking that way; maybe they had even put a revolver on him once they were off the road. It was only too easy for a man to straggle from the company and not be missed until hours and miles later.
“Now, sonny, there ain’t no use makin’ a big fuss.…”
Drew dropped the reins and slipped on.
“You can see for yourself, boy, that m’ hoss ain’t gonna be able to git much farther. You can nurse him along an’ take it easy. Them blue bellies ain’t gonna be hard on a nice little boy like you—no, suh, they ain’t—even if they find you. We jus’ trade fair an’ square. No trouble.…”
“’Course,” another, harsher voice cut in, “if you want to make it rough, well, that’s what you’ll git! We’re takin’ that hoss, no matter what!”
“You ain’t!” There was a short snap of sound, the cocking of a hand gun.
“Pull that on me, will you!”
“I’ll shoot! I’m warnin’ you…touch m’ horse, and I’ll shoot!” Boyd’s voice scaled higher.
Drew ran, his arm up to shield his face from the whip of branches. He came out at a small stream. Boyd was backed against a tree while the two others advanced on him from different directions.
“That’s enough!” Drew’s Colt was pointed at Hilders. The man’s head jerked around. “Get goin’,” the scout ordered.
Cambridge blinked stupidly, but Hilders took a step back to catch up the reins of a horse that stood dull-eyed, its head bent, pink foam roping from its muzzle as it breathed in heavy gasps.
“I said—get!” Drew advanced, and Hilders gave ground again, towing the trembling horse.
“Now, we don’t want no trouble,” Cambridge said hurriedly. “It woulda bin a fair trade.… Sonny, heah, ain’t got place in the company anyhow—”
“Get!” Drew’s weapon raised a fraction of an inch. Cambridge’s protest thickened into a mumble and he went. When both men had disappeared, Drew turned to Boyd.
“Put that away—” he flicked a finger at the other’s Colt—“and mount up. We’ll have to push to get back to the troop.”
He watched the other lead the bay away from the stream side. Kirby was right, the horse was in better condition than most of the others in the company, and sooner or later someone might again try to rank Boyd out of it. There were a good many in that hunted column who would see that in the same light as Hilders and Cambridge did and would say so, with the weight of public opinion to back them. Campbell had set their course for Calhoun—and in that town Boyd and the raiders must definitely part company.
CHAPTER 6
Horse Trade
“What’s this heah Calhoun like?” Kirby watched Drew loosen the saddle blanket, lifting it from the gelding as gently as he could.
“Not much—” Drew was beginning, then he sucked in his breath and stood staring at the nasty sight he had just uncovered. He slung the blanket to the ground as Boyd came up, leading the bay. It was the younger boy who spoke first.
“You ain’t goin’ to try to ride him now, Drew!” That protest came spontaneously. Drew thought that Shawnee’s end had put the last bit of steel over his feelings, but he had to agree with Boyd now: no one with any humanity could make the gelding carry so much as a blanket over that back, let alone saddle and rider.
“Here!” Roughly, his face flushed, Boyd jerked on the reins of his own mount, bringing the bay sidling toward Drew. “You can take Bruce.…”
He stooped, reaching for Drew’s saddlebags. “You have to ride scout. I’ll walk this one a while. Maybe he can carry me later. I ride light.”
Drew shook his head. “Not that light,” he commented dryly. “No, I guess this is where I do some tradin’—”
“House-smoke yonder…” Kirby pointed. They could see the thin trail of smoke rising steadily this windless morning. “Best make it fast—the cap’n is already thinkin’ about pointin’ up an’ headin’ out.”
Drew loosened his side arms in their holsters. He always hated this business, but it was part of a day’s work in the cavalry now. He just hoped that he wouldn’t have to do his impressing at gun point. He entrusted saddle and blanket to Boyd, but made the other wait outside the farmyard twenty minutes later as he shepherded the gelding into the enclosure where chickens squawked and ran witlessly and a dog hurled himself to the end of a chain, giving tongue like a hound on a hot scent.
Drew skirted that defender, moving toward the barn. But he was still well away from the half-open door when a woman hurried out, a basket in her hands, her face picturing surprise and apprehension. She stopped short to stare at Drew.
“Who are you—what do you want?” Her two questions ran together in a single breathless sentence. Drew looked beyond her. No one else issued from the barn or came in answer to the dog’s warning. He took off his hat.
“I need a horse, ma’am.” He said it bluntly, impatiently. After all, how could you make a demand like that more courteous or soft? The very fact that he had been driven to this made him angry.
For a moment she looked at him uncomprehendingly, and then her eyes shifted to the gelding. She came forward a step or two, and there was a blaze of anger in the gaze she directed once more to the man.
“T
hat horse’s galled raw!” She accused.
“Don’t you think I know it?” he returned abruptly. “That’s why I have to have another mount.”
A quick step back and she was between him and the door of the barn, holding the basket as a shield between them. It was full of eggs.
“You won’t get one here!” she snapped.
“Ma’am”—Drew had his temper under control now—“I don’t want to take your horse if you have one. But I’m under orders to keep up with the company. And I’m goin’ to do what I have to.…”
He dropped the gelding’s reins, walked forward, hoping she wouldn’t make him push around her. But apparently she read the determination in his face and stood aside, her expression bleak now.
“There’s only King in there,” she said. “And I wish you the joy of him, you thief!”
King proved to be a stallion, stabled in a box stall. Drew hesitated. The stud might be mean, harder to handle even than the gelding. But it was either taking him or being put afoot. If he could back this one even as far as Calhoun tomorrow—or the next day—he might be able to make a better exchange in town. It would depend on just how hard the stallion was to control.
Making soothing noises, he worked fast to bit and bridle the big chestnut. His experience with the Red Springs stud led him aright now. He came out of the barn leading the horse while the dog, its first incessant clamor stilled, growled menacingly from the end of its chain. The woman had disappeared, maybe into the fields beyond in search of help. Drew departed at a swift trot to where he had left Boyd.
“That’s all horse!” Boyd eyed Drew’s trade excitedly.
“Too much so, maybe. We’ll see.” He saddled quickly, glad that so far the chestnut had proved amiable. But how the stud might behave in troop company he had yet to learn. He mounted and waited for any signs of resentment, remembering the woman’s warning. King snorted, pawed the dust a bit, but trotted on when Drew urged him.
