The Andre Norton Megapack

by Andre Norton

  “Shot us…after all…murder—” he mouthed.

  “No!” Drew cried his protest. “Not us—”

  But that head rolled on his arm, and Drew was forced to swallow the fact that the other had died believing that treachery. Kirby arose from the examination of the rest of the bodies.

  “Got ’em all. Musta bin as easy as shootin’ weanlin’s. They didn’t have a chance! We got three—” He made a circle about one of the dead guerrillas—“but that don’t balance none.”

  Drew lowered the dead sergeant to the surface of the road.

  “It sure doesn’t!” he said bleakly. “We’ll go after them—if we have to ride clear to the Ohio!”

  CHAPTER 16

  Missing in Action

  “I’ve counted twenty at least,” Webb said over his shoulder. The scouts were belly-flat in cover, looking down into a scene of some activity. It almost resembled the cavalry camp they had left behind them to the south. There were the same shelters ingeniously constructed of brush and logs and a picket line for horses and mules. This hole must harbor a high percentage of deserters from both armies.

  “Only four of us,” Kirby remarked. “’Course I know we’re the tall men of the army, but ain’t this runnin’ the odds a mite high?”

  Croff chuckled. “He’s got a point there, Sarge.”

  “Seein’ as how what happened back there on the road could be pinned on us, we have to do something,” Drew returned. This whole section of country would boil over when those bodies were discovered. “And we ain’t the only ones. Any of our boys comin’ through here on furlough are like to be jumped for it if the Yankees catch them.”

  “That’s the truth if you ever spoke it, Sarge. I can see some hangin’s comin’ out of that ambush.”

  “Theah’s still twenty hombres down theah, an’ four of us. We can pick off a few from up heah, but they ain’t gonna wait around to git sniped. So, how we gonna spread ourselves—?”

  Kirby’s was the unanswerable question. They had trailed the fugitives from the ambush back to this tangled wilderness with infinite caution, bypassing two sentries so well posted and concealed they had been forced to judge that the motley collection of guerrillas were as experienced at this trade as the scouts. There was no time to try to round up any other bands of homing Confederates or prowling scouts, even if they knew where they could be located. This was really a Yankee problem partly as well.

  Because of that murderous ambush, the local Union commander should be 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 de
eply 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—”