by Andre Norton
The infantry, back under the solid security of Joe Johnston’s leadership, had marched on into North Carolina—to face Sherman’s destructive sweep there. In the west, the only effective Confederate force still in the field east of the Mississippi was Forrest’s Cavalry. And they had been granted twenty days’ furlough to return home if they could get there, and gather clothing and fresh horses. The sun was far down the western horizon of the Confederacy, but to the men who rode with Forrest it had not yet set.
“Th’ kid wants to go.…”
That was the worst of it. When they listened to Boyd’s eager talk, saw him make the effort to get on his feet again, they were almost convinced that the youngster could make the trip back through enemy-held territory to Oak Hill. Kirby, though he had no ties in Kentucky, was willing to chance the journey to help Boyd home. But those miles between, where they must skulk and maybe even fight their way—living out, eating very light—Boyd could not stand that. The surgeon’s verdict was that such an idea was utter folly.
“I’ll try to get a letter through with one of the boys,” Drew said. “Major Forbes ought to be able to furnish Cousin Merry with safe conduct on that side; we could have the General take care of it from this end. Then she could take him home with her when he was able to travel.”
“You write the letter fast. The Kaintucks are makin’ tracks today—”
Drew swung into the saddle, and they headed back to camp.
“Now that we ain’t headin’ north, you thinkin’ of joinin’ Croff an’ Webb?”
Men on furlough had been given their orders to collect supplies from home, but also to devil the Yankees when and where they could. They were to fire into transports along the rivers and rout and capture any Union patrols small enough to be attacked when and where they came across them. The Cherokee scout and others who could not return home asked for their own type of furlough, determined to hunt the district below Franklin. Since such men could be of great nuisance value well within the enemy lines, they were granted permission and were even now preparing to move out.
Drew, who had held off from committing himself to the expedition until he had the final verdict on Boyd, knew that Kirby was eager to go. And Drew felt that old restlessness, which gripped him whenever he thought of spending days in camp. He could do nothing for Boyd, but they might be able to accomplish something in Tennessee.
“All right.” He saw Kirby grin at his answer. The plan was one after the Texan’s heart, and Drew knew what it had meant to him to hold back from it.
“You tell the kid?”
“Dr. Fairfax did.” At least he had not had to deliver that blow, a small relief which did not, however, lighten his sense of responsibility.
“How’d he take it?”
“Quiet—on the surface.”
The Boyd who once would have fought stubbornly to get his own way, the Boyd who would have pulled himself out of that big rocker and announced fiercely that he was riding home whether the doctor said Yes or No—that Boyd was gone. Perhaps this new acceptance of hard facts was a matter of growing up. Drew clung to that. There was little he could do, except not go home without him.
“The kid’s gonna be all right?”
“Doc hopes so, if he takes it easy.”
“Ever feel like this heah war’s runnin’ down?”
“I don’t see how we can keep on much longer.”
“Some of the boys are talkin’ Texas. Git us down theah an’ we can go off—be a republic again. Wouldn’t be the first time the Tejanos stood up all by themselves. Supposin’ this fightin’ heah stops…you ridin’ for Texas?”
“I might.”
Kirby slapped his hand on the horn of his Mexican saddle. “Now that’s what an hombre wants to hear. You change pasture on a good colt, makes him even fatter! Come blue bellies all ovah this heah territory, we jus’ shift range. An’ nobody gonna take Texas! Even the horny toads would spit straight in a Yankee’s eye—”
“How ’bout it, Sarge?” They were at the cluster of rail-walled huts where the scouts had established a temporary headquarters. Webb hailed them from the door of one of those dwellings where he was rolling up the rubber cloth laid over corn husks to form the floor. “You Kaintuck bound?”
“No. Ridin’ with you boys. Doc thinks Boyd can’t try it.”
“Good enough, Sarge. We’re pullin’ out soon as Injun draws us some travelin’ rations. Jus’ enough to get us theah. We can eat off the Yankees later.”
Since 1861 the clothing of the Confederate Army at large had never matched the colorful sketches hopefully issued by the Quartermaster General’s department. Perhaps in Richmond or some state capitol the gold-lace exponents did appear in tasteful and well-tailored gray with the proper insignia of rank. Forrest’s men, equipped from the first by the unwilling enemy, wore blue, a blue tempered tactfully and ingeniously by butternut shirts, dyed breeches—when there was time to do any dyeing—and slouch hats. But as Drew rode out with his squad he might have been leading a Union rather than a Rebel patrol, which, of course, was part of the necessary cover for venturing into the jaws of a very alert lion.
Parts of West Tennessee were still Confederate-held and through those they rode openly. But the countryside could offer them nothing in the way of forage. Two armies had stripped it bare during the past few months. Sometimes foraging parties on opposite sides had been known to combine forces under a private truce, or had fought brisk, bitter skirmishes to decide which would collect the spoils. If there remained a hog or chicken still running loose, it certainly possessed the power of invisibility.
They slipped across the river in one of the boats kept by local contacts acting in the scouts’ service. Drew questioned the boy who owned their transportation.
“Sure they’s bummers-out. Yankees say they’s ourn, but they ain’t!” he returned indignantly. “They ain’t ridin’ for nobody but their own selves. Cut off a Yankee an’ shoot him for the boots on his feet—do the same if they want a hoss. Git ketched an’ they tell as how they’s scouts, workin’ secret-like. Scouts o’ ourn—if we ketch ’em; Yankees—do the blue bellies take ’em. But they ain’t nothin’ but lowdown trash as nobody wants, for sure!” He dug his pole into the water as if he were impaling a guerrilla on it. “They’s mean, plenty mean, suh. Don’t go foolin’ ’round them!”
“Any special place they hang out?” Drew wanted to know.
The boy shook his head. “Oh, they holes up now an’ then somewheahs. But they’s a lotta empty houses ’bout nowadays. An’ the bummers kin hide out good without no one knowin’ they be theah—till they git ready to jump. Cut off a supply wagon or raid a farm or somethin’ like that.”
“Ridin’ the south side of the law.” Kirby settled his gun belt in a more comfortable circle about his thin middle. “Bet they know all the tricks of hoppin’ back an’ forth ’cross the border ahead of the sheriff, too. Time somebody collected bounty on those wolves’ scalps.”
Ridding the country of such vermin was indeed a worthy occupation. And their private quest for an answer to Weatherby’s fate might be a part of that. But their first duty was to the army: The gathering of information, and any discomfort they could deal the Yankees, must be their primary project.
Croff brought them into a camping site he had chosen for just such use. It lay at the head of a small rocky ravine down the center of which ran an ice-sealed thread of stream. It was not quite a cave, but provided shelter for them and their mounts. It was a clear night, and the ground was reasonably hard.
They ate hard salt beef and cold army bread made with corn meal, grease, and water the night before.
“Leave here in the early mornin’.” The Cherokee outlined his suggestions. “There’s a road leadin’ to the turnpike that’s three or four miles from here. Last I heard, a bridge had washed out on the pike. Anybody ridin’ from Pulaski to Columbia has to turn out and take this other way—”
“Good cover on it?” Drew asked.
“The
best.”
“I jus’ got me one question,” Kirby interrupted. “Say we was to gobble us up a bunch of strayin’ Yankees along this road, what’re we gonna do with ’em after? Four of us don’t make no army, an’ we ain’t gonna be able to detach no prisoner guard. ’Course theah are them what’s said from the first that the only good Yankees are them laid peacefullike in their graves. But I don’t take natural to shootin’ men what are holdin’ up the sky with both hands.”
“Orders are to spread confusion,” Drew observed. “I’d say if we hit quick and often, take a prisoner’s boots, maybe, and his horse, and his gun—”
“Also,” Webb added, “his rations an’ his overcoat, be he wearin’ one.”
“Then turn him loose, after parolin’ him—”
“The Yankees don’t honor a parole no more,” Kirby objected.
“What if they don’t? A lot of men comin’ in sayin’ they’ve been paroled will stir up trouble. Remember, from what we’ve heard, a lot of the Yankees ain’t any happier about fightin’ on and on than we are. So we take prisoners, get their gear, keep what we can use, destroy the rest, and turn the men loose. If we can move around enough, maybe we can draw some of Wilson’s men out of that big army he’s supposed to be gatherin’ to hit us south. It’s the old game Morgan played.”
Croff grunted. “It may be old, but I’ve seen it work. All right, we parole prisoners and light out cross-country after a strike.”
“I’ve been thinkin’—” Kirby was checking the loading of his Colts—“if we start heah, we can sorta work our way in, coyote right up close to Franklin. They’ll be expectin’ us to light out for the home range, not go jinglin’ in to wheah they’ve forted up. Might raise a sight of smoke that way. Git Wilson’s boys on the prod, for sure.”
“Franklin—?” Croff repeated.
“Little below, maybe. From what that boy said, those bushwhackers move around pretty free,” Drew reminded him, certain the Cherokee was back to the desire to search for Weatherby.
“We’ll see what kind of luck we have along this road, Injun-scouted. You take first watch, Injun?”
“Yeah.” Drew heard rather than saw the Cherokee leave their camp, bound for a lookout point. The other three bedded down, anxious to snatch as much rest as possible.
Long before dawn they were on the move again, threading through the winter-seared woods. Croff brought them out unerringly behind a sagging rail fence well masked with the skeleton brush of the season. There was equally good cover on the other side of the road. Kirby climbed the fence, investigating a dark splotch on the surface of the lane.
“Fresh droppin’s. Been a sight of trailin’ ’long heah recent.”
The rest was elementary. There was no need for orders. Croff and Webb holed up on one side of the lane well apart; Drew and Kirby did the same on the other. Waiting would be sheer boredom and in this weather the height of discomfort.
The gray of early morning sharpened the land about them. Boyd would have enjoyed this game of tweaking a wildcat’s tail. Drew chewed his lower lip, tasting the salt of sweat, the grit of road dust. Just now was no time to think of Boyd; he must concentrate on the business before him.
He heard the sharp chittering of an aroused squirrel, repeated in two shrill bursts. But his own ear close to the ground told him they were to expect company. There was the regular thud of horses’ hoofs, the sound of mounts ridden in company and at an even pace. The only remaining question was whether it was a Union patrol and small enough for the four of them to handle.
One, two…two more…five of them, topping a small rise. A cavalry patrol…and the odds were not too impossible.
Drew sighted sergeant’s stripes on the leader’s jacket. It would depend upon how alert that noncom was. Wilson was drawing in new levies, so these men could be new to the district, even green in the army.
The Yankee sergeant was past Kirby’s post now, and after him the first two of his squad. He paid no attention to the bushes.
Webb’s carbine and Kirby’s Colts cracked in what seemed like a single spat of sound. One of the troopers in the rear shouted, grabbing at a point high on his shoulder, the other one was thrown as his horse reared, its upraised forefeet striking another man from the saddle as he endeavored to turn his mount.
Drew fired, and saw the sergeant’s carbine fall as he caught at the saddle horn, his arm hanging limp.
“Surrender!” As Drew shouted that order into the tangle below, he leaped to the right. A single shot clipped through the bushes where he had been, answered by a blast from Webb.
Then hands were up, men stared white-faced and sullen at the fence behind which might be a whole company of the enemy. Drew came into the open, the Spencer he had taken from Jas’ covering the sergeant. For the expression on the noncom’s face suggested that, wounded as he was, he would like nothing better than to carry on the struggle—with Drew as his principal target.
“Go ahead, get it over with!” He spat at Drew.
For a second Drew was bewildered, and then he suddenly guessed that the Union soldier expected to be shot out of hand.
His anger was hot. “We don’t shoot prisoners!”
“No? The evidence is not in favor of that statement,” the Yankee spoke dryly, his accent and choice of words that of an educated man.
“What brand you think we’re wearin’, fella?” Kirby had come out of concealment, his Colt steady on the captives.
“Guerrillas, I’d say,” the sergeant returned hardily. Drew realized then that their mixture of clothing must have stamped them as the very outlaws they wanted to hunt down, as far as the Union troopers were concerned.
“Now that’s wheah you’re sure jumpin’ your fences,” Kirby’s half grin vanished. “We’re General Forrest’s men, not guerrillas. Or ain’t you never heard tell of Forrest’s Cavalry? Seems like anyone wearin’ blue an’ forkin’ a hoss ought to know who’s been chasin’ him to Hell an’ gone over most of Tennessee. Lucky I ain’t in a sod-pawin’ mood, hombre, or I might jus’ want to see how a blue-belly sarge looks without an ear on his thick skull, or maybe try a few Comanche tricks of hair trimmin’! Guerrillas—!”
The Union sergeant glanced from Kirby and Drew to his own men. One was sitting on the edge of the road, nursing his head between his hands. Another had his hand to his shoulder, and the sticky red of fresh blood showed between his fingers. The two others, very young, stood nervously, their hands high. If the Yankee noncom was thinking of trying something, his material was not promising. Drew broke the moment of silence with a warning.
“You’re surrounded, subject to fire from both sides, Sergeant! I suggest surrender. You will be treated as prisoners of war and given parole. Weare from General Forrest’s command. We’re scouts. Believe me, if we had wished to, we could have shot every one of you out of the saddle before you knew we were here. Guerrillas would have done just that.”
The logic of that argument reached the Union sergeant. He still eyed Drew straightly, but there was a ruefulness rather than hostile defiance in his voice as he asked:
“What do you plan to do with us?”
“Nothing.” Drew was crisp. “Give us your parole, leave your arms, your horses, your rations—if you are carrying any. Then you are free to go.”
“We’ve been ordered not to take parole,” the sergeant objected.
“General Forrest hasn’t given any orders not to grant it,” Drew countered. “As far as I am concerned, you can take it, we’ll accept your word.”
“All right.” The other dismounted awkwardly, and with one hand unbuckled his saber, dropping his belt and gun.
Kirby went among the men gathering up their weapons. Then he and Drew tended the slight wounds of their enemies.
“You’ll both do until you can get to town,” Drew told them. “And you’ve a road and plenty of daylight to help you foot it.…”
To Drew’s surprise, the sergeant suddenly laughed. “This ain’t going to sit well with the cap
tain. He swore all you Rebs were run out of here a couple of weeks ago.”
“You can assure him he’s wrong.” Drew saw a chance to confuse the enemy. “We’re very much around. You’ll be seem’ a lot of us from now on, a lot more.”
They watched the squad in blue, now afoot, plod on down the road. When they were out of sight around a bend, Webb and Croff came out of hiding to inspect the spoil. Unfortunately the Yankees had not possessed rations, but their opponents acquired five horses, five Springfields, four sabers, and three Colts, as well as welcome rounds of ammunition—a fine haul.
Croff methodically smashed the stocks of the Springfields against a rock and pitched the ruined weapons back of the fence. They had seen during the retreat just how useless those rifles were for mounted men. The sabers were broken the same way, but the rest of the plunder was shared.
Webb appropriated one of the captured mounts. They stripped the others of their gear, taking what they wanted in the way of blankets and saddle equipment, and were putting the horses on leading ropes when a volley of shots ripping through the early morning froze them. Croff whirled to face the road down which the Yankees had vanished.
“Came from that direction—”
They mounted, taking not the open road but a cross route the Cherokee indicated. Coming out on the crest of a slope, they were above another of those hollows through which the road ran. And in that way lay still blue figures. Drew’s carbine swung up as men broke from ambush and headed toward those forms. No Confederate force would have wantonly butchered unarmed and wounded men, nor would the Yankees. Which left the scum they both hated—the bushwhackers!
Just as the crack of the murder guns had earlier torn the quiet, so did the Confederate answer come now. Three of those advancing on their victims dropped. One more cried out, staggering toward the concealing bush. Then more broke from cover beyond, going into flight up the other rise.
“Croff! Webb! After them!” The Cherokee scout was already booting his horse into a run.
Drew and Kirby reached the road together. Slipping from Hannibal, Drew knelt by the Union sergeant, turning the man over as gently as he could. But there was no hope. The Yankee’s eyes opened; he stared up with a cold and terrible hate.
