by Andre Norton
12
_Guerrillas_
Boyd stirred. "Shelly?" His call sounded loud in the now silent room.Drew set his hand across the boy's mouth, dividing his attention betweenBoyd and Weatherby. They had no way of putting out the fire, whose lightmight be providing a beacon through the dark. The Indian moved back alittle from the window.
"Riders ... coming down the lane." His whisper was a thread.
Now Drew could hear, too, the ring of hoofs on the iron-hard surface ofthe ground. A horse nickered--one of those which had brought Boyd'sstretcher, or perhaps one of the newcomers.
Kirby whipped about the door and was now lost in the shadows of the nextroom. Weatherby looked to Drew, then to the loft ladder against the farwall. In answer to that unspoken question, Drew nodded.
As the Cherokee swung up into the hiding place, Drew eased one of hisColts out of the holster, pushing it under the folds of the blanketsaround Boyd. Then he swung the pot, with its burden of beef and water,out over the fire--to hang on its chain to boil.
"Shelly?" Boyd asked again. His eyes were open, too bright, and hestared about him, plainly puzzled. Then he looked up at his nurse, andhis forehead wrinkled with effort. "Drew?"
But Drew was listening to those oncoming hoofs. The strangers would seetwo horses. If they came in, they would find two men--it was as simpleas that. And if they wore the wrong color uniforms, Weatherby above, andKirby in the lean-to, would be ready and waiting for trouble. Drew laidfresh wood on the fire. Since he could not hide, he felt he'd better getas much light as possible in case of future trouble. The last they hadheard the Yankees were concentrating at Murfreesboro and Nashville. Butscouts would be out, dogging the flanks of the Confederate forces, justas he had done the opposite during the past few days.
There was silence now in the lane, a suspicious quiet. Drew deduced thatthe riders had dismounted and might be closing in about the cabin. Aprickle of chill climbed his spine. He touched the lump under theblanket which was his own insurance.
The door burst open, sent banging inward by a booted foot. And at thesame time a small pane in an opposite window shattered, the barrel of arifle thrust in four inches, covering him. Drew remained where he was,his left arm thrown protectingly across Boyd.
"Now ain't this somethin'?" The man who had booted in the door wasgrinning down at the two on the hearth. He wore a blue coat rightenough, but it was slick with old grease across the chest, stained onone shoulder, and his breeches were linsey-woolsey, his boots old andscuffed. And his bush of unkempt hair was covered with a battered hattopping a woolen scarf wound about ears and neck.
The chill on Drew's spine was a band of ice. This was noUnion trooper. The scout could identify a far worse threatnow--bushwhacker ... guerrilla, one of the jackals who hung on thefringe of both armies, looting, killing, and changing sides when itsuited their purposes. Such a man was a murderer who would kill anotherfor a pair of boots, a whole shirt, or the mere whim of the moment.
"Come in, Simmy, we's got us a pair o' Rebs," the man bawled over hisshoulder, and then turned to Drew. "Don't you go gittin' no ideas,sonny. Jas' thar, he's got a bead right on yuh, an' Jas' he's mightygood with that rifle gun. Now, you jus' pull out that Colt o' yourn an'toss it here. Make it fast, too, boy. I'm a mighty unpatient man--"
Drew pulled free the Colt still in its holster, tossing it across thefloor so that it spun against the fellow's boot. The big hairy handscooped it up easily and tucked the weapon barrel down in his belt.
A second man, smaller, with a thin face which had an odd lopsided look,squeezed through the door and sidled along the wall of the room, hisrifle pointed straight at Drew's head. He spat a blotch of tobacco juiceon the hearth, spattering the edge of the top blanket which coveredBoyd.
"What's th' matter wi' him?" he demanded.
"He's sick," Drew returned. "You Union?"
The big man grinned. "Shore, sonny, shore. We is Union ... scouts ...Union scouts." He repeated that as if pleased by the sound. "An' you isRebs, which makes you our prisoners. So he's sick, eh? What's thematter?"
"I don't know." Drew's fingers were only inches away from the Colt underthe blanket. But he could dare no such move with that rifle covering himfrom the window.
"Jas', any sign out thar?" the big man called.
"Petey ain't seen any, jus' two horses." The words came from behind thestill ready rifle.
"Wai, tell him to look round some more. An' you kin come in, Jas'. Thesehere Rebs ain't gonna be no trouble--is you, sonny?"
Drew shook his head. Luck appeared to be on his side. Once Jas' was inhere, they could hope to turn tables on the three of them, withWeatherby and Kirby taking them by surprise.
Jas' appeared in the doorway a moment or so later. He was younger thanhis two companions, younger and more tidy. His coat was also blue, andhe wore a forage cap pulled down over hair very fair in the firelight.There was a fluff of young beard on his chin, and he carried himselfwith the stance of a drilled man. Deserter, thought Drew.
The newcomer surveyed Drew and Boyd expressionlessly, his eyes oddlyshallow, and tramped past them to hold his hands to the blaze on thehearth, keeping his rifle between his knees. Then he reached up with hisweapon, hooked the barrel in the chain supporting the pot, and pulledthat to him, sniffing at the now bubbling contents.
"You, Reb"--the big man towered over Drew--"git this friend o' yourn an'drag him over thar. Us wants to git warm."
"Drew?" Boyd looked up questioningly, his feverish gaze passing on tothe guerrilla. "Where's Shelly?"
The big man's grin faded. His big boot came out, caught Drew's leg in avicious prod.
"Who's this here Shelly? Whar at is he?"
"Shelly was his brother," Drew said, nodding at Boyd. "He's dead."
"Dead, eh? How come sonny boy here's askin' for him then?" He leanedover them, and his fingers grabbed and twisted at the front of Drew'sthreadbare shell jacket. "I ask yuh, Reb, whar at is this heah Shelly?"He seemed only to flick his wrist, but the strength behind that movewhirled Drew away from Boyd, brought him part way to his feet, andslammed him against the wall--where the big man held him pinned withsmall expenditure of effort.
"Shelly's dead." Somehow Drew kept his voice even. Kirby ... Weatherby... They were there. "Boyd's out of his head with fever."
Jas' let the pot swing back over the fire, moving toward Boyd to leanover and stare at the boy's flushed face.
"Might be so," Jas' remarked. "Two horses, two men. Neither one much tobother about."
"Better be so!" The big man held Drew tight to the wall and cuffed himwith his other hand. Dazedly, his head ringing, Drew slipped to thefloor as the other released him. "Now"--that boot prodded Drewagain--"git your friend over thar, Reb."
Drew stumbled back and went on his knees beside Boyd. His fingers gropedunder the edge of the blanket, closing on the Colt. Jas' was inspectingthe pot again, and Simmy had moved forward to share the warmth of thehearth. With the revolver still in his hand, though concealed by theblanket, Drew pulled Boyd away from the fire as best he could, awarethe big man was watching closely.
Jas' reached up to the crude mantel shelf, brought down a wooden spoon,and wiped it on a handkerchief he pulled from an inner pocket.
"This ain't fancy grub," he observed to the room at large, "but it'sbetter than nothin'. You want Simmy to bring in Petey, Hatch?"
"Th' cap'n's comin'." Simmy's remark was made in a tone of objection.
Hatch swung his head around to eye the smaller man.
"You bring Petey in!" he ordered. "Now!" he added.
For a second or two it appeared that Simmy might rebel, but Hatch staredhim down. Jas' scooped out a spoonful of the pot's contents and blewover it.
"You fixin' on havin' a showdown with the captain, Hatch?" he asked.
The big man laughed. "I has me a showdown with anyone what gits too bigfor his breeches, Jas'. You, Reb--" he indicated Drew, with a thumbpoking through a ragged glove--"supposin' you jus' show us what you
gotin them pockets o' yourn."
Jas' laughed. "Don't figure to find anything worth takin' on a Reb doyou, Hatch? Most of 'em are poorer'n dirt."
"Now that's whar you figger wrong, Jas'." Hatch shook his head as mightone deploring the stupidity of the young. "Lotsa them little Reb boyshas got somethin' salted 'way, a nice watch maybe, or a ring or such.Them what comes from th' big houses kinda hold on to things from home.What you got, Reb?"
"A gun--in your back!"
Jas' spun in a half crouch, his rifle coming up. There was the explosionof a shot, making a deafening clap of thunder in the room. The youngerbushwhacker cried out. His rifle lay on the floor, and he was holding abloody hand. Kirby stood in the doorway, a Colt in each hand. And nowDrew produced his own hidden weapon, centering it on Hatch.
The door burst open for the second time as Simmy was propelled throughit, his hands shoulder high, palm out, and empty. Weatherby came behindhim, a gun belt slung over one shoulder, two extra revolvers thrust intohis own belt.
"They got Petey," Simmy gabbled. "Got him wi' a knife!" His forward rushbrought him against the wall, and he made no move to turn around to facethem. He could only plaster his body tight to that surface as if helonged to be able to ooze out into safety through one of its manycracks.
"Shuck th' hardware!" Kirby ordered.
Hatch's grin was gone. The fingers of his big hands were twitching, andthe twist of his mouth was murderous.
"Lissen--" the Texan's tone was frosty--"I've a finger what cramps on m'trigger when I git riled, an' I'm gittin' riled now. You loose off thattheah fightin' iron, an' do it quick!"
Hatch's hand went to his gun. He jerked it from the holster and slung itacross the floor.
"Now th' one you got holdin' up your belly ... an' your knife!"
The Colt that Hatch had taken from Drew and a bowie with a long bladejoined the armament already on the boards. Drew made a fast harvest ofall the weapons.
"Well, we sure got us some bounty hunter's bag," Kirby observed as heand Weatherby finished using the captives' own belts to pinion them.
"There may be more comin'; they talked about some captain." Drew broughtBoyd back to the warmth of the fire.
Weatherby nodded. "I'll scout." He disappeared out the door.
Jas' was rocking back and forth, holding on one knee the injured handKirby had roughly bandaged; his other arm was fastened behind him. Therewere tears of pain on his cheeks, but after his first outcry he had notuttered a sound. Hatch, on the other hand, had been so foul-mouthed thatKirby had torn off a length of the bed covering and gagged him.
Simmy sat now with his back against the wall, watching their every move.Of the three, he seemed the likeliest to talk. Kirby appeared to sharein Drew's thoughts on that subject, for now he bore down on the smallman.
"You expectin' some friends?" Compared to his tone of moments earlier,the Texan's voice was now mildly friendly. "We'd like to know, seein' ashow we're thinkin' some hospitable thoughts 'bout entertainin' themproper."
Simmy stared up at him, bewildered. Kirby shook his head, his expressionone of a man dealing with a stubbornly stupid child.
"Lissen, hombre, me--I'm from West Texas, an' that theah's Comanchecountry, leastwise it was Comanche country 'fore we Tejanos moved in.Now Comanches, they're an unfriendly people, 'bout the unfriendliestInjuns, 'cept 'Paches, a man can meet up with. An' they have them someneat little ways of makin' a man talk, or rather yell, his lungs out. Itain't too hard to learn them tricks, not for a bright boy like me, itain't. You able to understand that?"
Kirby did not scowl, he did not even touch the little man. But as onedrawling word was joined to the next, Simmy held his body tighteragainst the wall, as if to escape by pushing.
"I ain't done nothin'!" he cried.
"That's what I said, little man. You ain't done nothin'. But you'regoin' to do somethin'--talk!"
Simmy's pale tongue swept across working lips. "What ... youwant--wantta ... know?" he stuttered.
"You expectin' to meet some friends heah?"
"Th' rest o' the boys an' th' cap'n; they may be ketchin' up."
"How many 'boys'?"
Simmy's tongue tripped again. He swallowed. Drew thought he was tryingto produce a crumb of defiance. Kirby reached out, selecting Hatch'sbowie knife from the cache of captured weapons. He weighed it across thepalm of his hand as if trying its balance and then, with deceptive ease,flipped it. The point thudded into the wall scant inches away fromSimmy's right ear, and the little man's head bobbed down so that hisnose hit one of his hunched-up knees.
"How many 'boys'?" Kirby repeated.
"Depends...."
"On what?"
"On how good th' raidin' is. After a fight thar's always some pickin's."
Drew was suddenly sick. What Simmy hinted at was the vulture work amongthe dead and the wounded too enfeebled to protect themselves from beingplundered. He saw Kirby's lips set into a thin line.
"Kinda throw a wide rope, don't you, little man? How many 'boys'?"
"Maybe five ... six...."
"An' this heah cap'n?"
"He tells us wheah thar's good pickin's." For a moment the man produceda spark of spite. "He's a Reb, like you----"
"Have you used this place before?" Drew broke in. If this were either aregular or temporary rendezvous for this jackal pack, the quicker theywere away, the better.
"No, the cap'n said to meet here tonight."
"I don't suppose he said _when_?" Kirby's question was answered by ashake of Simmy's unkempt head.
Boyd suddenly moved in his cocoon of blankets, struggling to sit up, andDrew went to him.
He was coughing again with a strangling fight for breath which wasfrightening to watch. Drew steadied him until the attack was over and helay in the other's arms, gasping. The liquid in the pot on the fire wascooked by now. Perhaps if Boyd had some of that in him.... But daredthey stay here?
Kirby squatted back on his heels as Drew settled Boyd on his blanketsand went to unhook the pot. Then the Texan supported the younger boy asDrew ladled spoonfuls of the improvised broth into his mouth.
"Th' doc'll come," Kirby murmured. "Croff promised to guide him heah.But this gang business--"
"I don't see how we can move him now...." Drew was feeding the brothbetween Boyd's lips, trying to ease the cough, his wits too dulled totackle any problem beyond that.
"Which means we gotta keep company from movin' in. If we could raise usa few of the boys now...." Kirby was speculative.
"If you went back to camp, gave the alarm. Traggart doesn't want a ganglike this runnin' loose around here. They say they're Union; maybe theydo have some connection with the Yankees."
"With a Reb cap'n throwin' in with 'em? Most of these polecats play bothsides of the border when it'll git them anythin' they want. An' theycould try an' pay their way with the Yankees by tellin' 'bout ourmovements heah."
"Could you make it to camp, fast?"
Kirby grunted. "Sure, easy as driftin' downriver on one of them theahsteamers. But leavin' you heah with that mess of skunks is somethin'else."
"Weatherby's out there. Anything or anyone gettin' by him would have tocome in on wings."
"An' wings don't come natural to this breed of critter! All right, Idon't see how theah's much else we can do. We can't go pullin' the kid'round any more. I'll give Weatherby the high sign an' make it back asquick as I can. Let's see if these heah ropes is staked out tight."
He made a careful inspection of their three captives' bonds, and Drewlaid the assorted armament to hand. But Kirby hesitated by the door.
"You keep your eyes peeled, amigo. Weatherby--he can pull thatin-and-out game through the loft like he did before. But one man can'tbe all over the range at once."
"I know." Drew studied the remnants of battered furniture about theroom. He thought he could pull the bed frame across the outer door, andshove the table and bench in front of the door to the lean-to. Andthere was a section of wall right under the broken
window which couldnot be seen by anyone outside. "I've some precautions in mind."
"I'm ridin' then. See you." Kirby was gone with a wave of hand.
Boyd was quiet again. The broth must have soothed him. Drew shifted theother's body to the floor on the spot of safety under the window. As hereturned to gather up the arms he noted that Jas' was watching him.
Some of the first shock of his wound had worn off so that the guerrillawas not only aware of his present difficulties but was eyeing Drew in amanner which suggested he had not accepted the change in their roles asfinal. Drew hesitated. He could tie back that wounded hand, too, but hewas sure the other could not use it to any advantage, and Drew could notbring himself to cause the extra pain such a move would mean. Not thathe had any illusions concerning the bushwhacker's care for him, hadtheir situation been reversed.
Simmy, once Kirby had gone, moved against the wall, holding up his headwith a sigh of relief. He, too, watched Drew move the furniture. Andwhen the scout did not pay any attention to him he spoke. "Wotcha gonnado wi' us, Reb?"
Hatch's eyes, over the gag, were glaring evil; Jas' was watching the twoConfederates with an intent measuring stare; but Simmy wilted a littlewhen Drew looked at him directly.
"You're prisoners of war. As Union scouts...."
Simmy wriggled uncomfortably, and Drew continued the grilling.
"You _are_ Union scouts?"
"Shore! Shore! We's Union, ain't we, Jas'?" he appealed eagerly to hisfellow.
Jas' neither answered nor allowed his gaze to wander from Drew.
"Then you'll get the usual treatment of a prisoner." Drew was short,trying to listen for any movement beyond the squalid room. Weatherby wasout there, and Drew put a great deal of trust in the Cherokee's ability.But what if the "captain" and the remaining members of this outlaw gangarrived before Kirby returned with help? Seeing that Boyd appeared to beasleep, Drew once again inspected his weapons, checking the loading ofrevolvers and rifle.
Jas's rifle was one of the new Spencers. The Yankees loaded those onSunday and fired all week, or so the boys said. It was a fine piece, newand well cared for. He examined it carefully and then looked up to meetJas's flat stare, knowing that the guerrilla's hate was the more bitterfor seeing his prized weapon in the enemy's hands.
The Spencer, Simmy's Enfield, old and not very well kept, five Coltsbeside his own, Hatch's bowie knife and another, almost as deadlylooking, which had been found on Jas', equipped Drew with a regulararsenal. But it was not until he settled down that Drew knew he faced afar more deadly enemy--sleep. The fatigue he had been able to battle aslong as he was on the move, hit him now with the force of a clubbedrifle. He knew he dared not even lean back against the wall or relax anyof his vigilance, not so much over the prisoners and Boyd, as overhimself.
Somehow he held on, trying to move. The pile of wood by the hearth wasdiminishing steadily. He would soon have to let the fire die out. Toventure out of the house in quest of more fuel was too risky. Andalways he was aware of Jas's tight regard. Simmy had fallen asleep, histhin, weasel face hidden as his head lolled forward on his chest.Hatch's eyes were also closed.
Drew straightened with a start, conscious of having lost seconds--ormoments--somewhere in a fog. He jerked aside, perhaps warned by hisscout's sixth sense more than any real knowledge of danger. There was asearing flash beside his head, the bite of fire on his cheek. If he hadnot moved, he would have received that blazing brand straight betweenthe eyes. Now he rolled, snapping out a shot.
A man shouted hoarsely and Drew strove to avoid a kick, struggling towin to his feet, unable to tell just what was happening.
