Ride Proud, Rebel! Read online

  17

  _Poor Rebel Soldier...._

  "Sergeant Rennie reporting suh, at the General's orders." Drew came toattention under the regard of those gray-blue eyes, not understandingwhy he had been summoned to Forrest's headquarters.

  "Sergeant, what's all this about bushwhackers?"

  Drew repeated the story of their adventure in Tennessee, paring it downto the bald facts.

  "That nest was wiped out by the Yankee patrol, suh. Afterward PrivateCroff found a saddlebag with some papers in it, which was in the remainsof their camp. It looks like they'd been picking off couriers from bothsides. We sent those in with our first report."

  The General nodded. "You stayed near-by for a while after the camp wastaken?"

  "Well, I was hurt, suh."

  He saw that General Forrest was smiling. "Sergeant, that theah storyabout your belt buckle has had a mightly lot of repeatin' up and downthe ranks. You were a lucky young man!"

  "Yes, suh!" Drew agreed. "While I was laid up, Privates Croff and Webbtook turns on scout, suh. They located some of our men hidin'out--stragglers from the retreat. They also rounded up a few of thebushwhackers' horses and mules."

  Forrest nodded. "You returned to our lines with some fifteen men and tenmounts, as well as information. Your losses?"

  Drew stared at the wall behind the General's head.

  "One man missin', suh."

  "You were unable to hear any news of him?"

  "No, suh." The old weariness settled back on him. They had hunted--firstCroff and Webb--and then he, too, as soon as he was able to sit asaddle. It was Weatherby's fate all over again; the ground might haveopened and gulped Kirby down.

  "How old are you, Sergeant?"

  Drew could not see what his age had to do with Kirby's disappearance,but he answered truthfully: "Nineteen--I had a birthday a week ago,suh."

  "And you volunteered when--?"

  "In May of '62, suh. I was in Captain Castleman's company when theyjoined General Morgan--Company D, Second Kentucky. Then I transferred tothe scouts under Captain Quirk."

  "The big raids ... you were in Ohio, Rennie? Captured?"

  "No, suh. I was one of the lucky ones who made it across the riverbefore the Yankees caught up--"

  "At Chickamauga?"

  "Yes, suh."

  "Cynthiana"--but now Forrest did not wait for Drew's affirmativeanswer--"and Harrisburg, Franklin.... It's a long line of battles, ain'tit, boy? A long line. And you were nineteen last week. You know,Rennie, the Union Army gives medals to those they think have earnedthem."

  "I've heard tell of that, suh."

  The General's hand, brown, strong, went to the officer's hat weighingdown a pile of papers on the table. With a quick twist, Forrest rippedoff the tassled gold cord which distinguished it, smoothing out the loopof bullion between thumb and forefinger.

  "We don't give medals, Sergeant. But I think a good soldier might justbe granted a birthday present without any one gittin' too excited abouthow military that is." He held out the cord, and Drew took it a bitdazedly.

  "Thank you, suh. I'm sure proud...."

  A wave of Forrest's hand put a period to his thanks.

  "A long line of battles," the General repeated, "too long a line--an endto it comin' soon. Did you ever think, boy, of what you were goin' to doafter the war?"

  "Well, there's the West, suh. Open country out there--"

  Forrest's eyes were bright, alert. "Yes, and we might even hold theWest. We'll see--we'll have to see. Your report accepted, Sergeant."

  It was plainly a dismissal. As Drew saluted, the General laid his hatback on the tallest pile of papers. Busy at the table, he might havealready forgotten Drew. But the Kentuckian, pausing outside the door toexamine the hat cord once more, knew that he would never forget. No,there were no medals worn in the ragged, thin lines of the shrinkingConfederate Army. But his birthday gift--Drew's fist closed about thecord jealously--that was something he would have, always.

  Only, nowadays, how long was "always"?

  "That's a right smart-lookin' mount, Sarge!" Drew looked at the pair oflounging messengers grinning at him from the front porch ofheadquarters. He loosened the reins and led the bony animal a step ortwo before mounting.

  Shawnee, nimble-footed as a cat, a horse that had known almost as muchabout soldiering as his young rider. Then Hannibal, the mule from Cadiz,that had served valiantly through battle and retreat, to die in aTennessee stream bed. And now this bone-rack of a gray mule with one lopear, a mind of his own, and a gait which could set one's teeth on edgewhen you pushed him into any show of speed. The animal's long,melancholy face, his habit of braying mournfully in the moonlight--untilWesterners compared him unfavorably with the coyotes of the Plains--hadearned him the name Croaker; and he was part of the loot they hadbrought out of the bushwhackers' camp.

  As unlovely as he appeared, Croaker had endurance, steady nerves, and amost un-mulelike willingness to obey orders. He was far from the idealcavalry mount, but he took his rider there and back, safely. He wassure-footed, with a cat's ability to move at night, and in scout circleshe had already made a favorable impression. But he certainly was anunhandsome creature.

  "Smart actin's better than smart lookin'," Drew answered the disparagersnow. "Do as well yourselves, soldiers, and you'll be satisfied."

  Croaker started off at a trot, sniffling, his good ear twitching as ifhe had heard those unfriendly comments and was storing them up in hismemory, to be acted upon in the future.

  January and February were behind them now. Now it was March ...spring--only it was more like late fall. Or winter, with the nightclosing in. Drew let Croaker settle to the gait which suited him best.He would visit Boyd and then rejoin Buford's force.

  The army, or what was left of it hereabouts, was, as usual, rumblingwith rumor. The Union's General Wilson had assembled a massive hammer ofa force, veterans who had clashed over and over with Forrest in thefield, who had learned that master's tricks. Seventeen thousand mountedcavalrymen, ready to aim straight down through Alabama where the war hadnot yet touched. Another ten thousand without horses, who formed abacklog of reserves.

  In the Carolinas, Johnston, with the last stubborn regiments of the Armyof the Tennessee, was playing his old delaying game, trying to stopSherman from ripping up along the coast. And in Virginia the news wasall bad. The world was not spring, but drab winter, the dying winter ofthe Confederacy.

  Wilson's target was Selma and the Confederate arsenal; every man in thearmy knew that. Somehow Bedford Forrest was going to have to interposebetween all the weight of that Yankee hammer and Selma. And he had donethe impossible so often, there was still a chance that he _could_ bringit off. The General had a free hand and his own particular brand ofgenius to back it.

  Drew's fingers were on the front of his short cavalry jacket, pressingagainst the coil of gold cord in his shirt pocket. No, the old manwasn't licked yet; he'd give Wilson and every one of those twenty-seventhousand Yankees a good stiff fight when they came poking their longnoses over the Alabama border!

  "He gave you what?" Boyd sat up straighter. His face was thin and nolonger weather-beaten, and he'd lost all of that childish arrogancewhich had so often irritated his elders. In its place was a certainquiet soberness in which the scout sometimes saw flashes of Sheldon.

  Now Drew pulled the cord from his pocket, holding it out for Boyd'sinspection. The younger boy ran it through his fingers wonderingly.

  "General Forrest's!" From it he looked to the faded weatherworn hat Drewhad left on a chair by the door. Boyd caught it up and pulled off theleather string banding its dented crown. Carefully he fitted onForrest's gift and studied the result critically. Drew laughed.

  "Like puttin' a new saddle on Croaker; it doesn't fit."

  "Yes, it does," Boyd protested. "That's right where it belongs."

  Drew, standing by the window, felt a pinch of concern. He found itdifficult nowadays to deny Boyd anything, let alone such a harmlessrequest.
r />   "The first lieutenant comin' along will call me for sportin' a general'sfeathers on a sergeant's head," he protested. "Nothin' from Cousin Merryyet? Maybe Hansford didn't make it through with my letter. He hasn'tcome back yet.... But--"

  "Think I'd lie to you about that?" Boyd's eyes held some of the oldblaze as he turned the hat around in his hands. "And what I told you isthe truth. The surgeon said it won't hurt me any to ride with the boyswhen you pull out. General Buford's ordered to Selma and Dr. Cowan'ssister lives there. He has a letter from her sayin' I can rest up at herhouse if I need to. But I won't! I haven't coughed once today, that'sthe honest truth, Drew. And when you go, the Yankees are goin' to movein here. I don't want to go to a Yankee prison, like Anse--"

  Drew's shoulders hunched in an involuntary tightening of muscles as hestared straight out of the window at nothing. Boyd had insisted from thefirst that the Texan must be a prisoner. Drew schooled himself into theold shell, the shell of trying not to let himself care.

  "General Buford said I was to ride in one of the headquarters wagons. Heneeds an extra driver. That's doin' something useful, not just sittin'around listenin' to a lot of bad news!" The boy's tone was almost raw inprotest.

  And some of Boyd's argument made sense. After the command moved out hemight be picked up by a roving Yankee patrol, while Selma was still sofar behind the Confederate lines that it was safe, especially withForrest moving between it and Wilson.

  "Mind you, take things easy! Start coughin' again, and you'll have tostay behind!" Drew warned.

  "Drew, are things really so bad for us?"

  The scout came away from the window. "Maybe the General can hold offWilson ... this time. But it can't last. Look at things straight, Boyd.We're short on horses; more'n half the men are dismounted. And more ofthem desert every day. Men are afraid they'll be sent into the Carolinasto fight Sherman, and they don't want to be so far from home. The womenwrite or get messages through about how hard things are at home. A mancan march with an empty belly for himself and somehow stick it out, butwhen he hears about his children starvin' he's apt to forget all therest. We're whittled 'way down, and there's no way under Heaven ofgettin' what we need."

  "I heard some of the boys talkin' about drawin' back to Texas."

  "Sure, we've all heard that big wishin', but that's all it is, justwishin'. The Yankees wouldn't let up even if they crowded us clear backuntil we're knee-deep in the Rio Grande. It's close to the end now--"

  "No, it ain't!" Boyd flared, more than a shade of the old stubbornnessback in his voice. "It ain't goin' to be the end as long as one of uscan ride and hold a carbine! They can have horses and new boots, theirsupplies, and all their men. We ain't scared of any Yankee who ever rodedown the pike! If you yell at 'em now, they'd beat it back the way theycame."

  Drew smiled tiredly. "Guess we're on our way now to do some of thatyellin'." The end was almost in sight; every trooper in or out of thesaddle knew it. Only some, like Boyd, would not admit it. "Remember whatI say, Boyd. Take it slow and ride easy!"

  Boyd picked up Drew's hat again, holding it in the sunlight comingthrough the window. The cord was a band of raw gold, gleaming brighter,perhaps, because of the shabbiness of the hat it now graced.

  "You don't ride easy with the General," he said softly. "You ride talland you ride proud!"

  Drew took the hat from him. Out of the direct sunbeam, the band stillseemed to hold a bit of fire.

  "Maybe you do," he agreed soberly.

  Now Boyd was smiling in turn. "You carry the General's hatband right upso those blue bellies can get the shine in their eyes! We'll lam 'emstraight back to the Tennessee again--see if we don't!"

  But almost three weeks later the Yankees were not back at the Tennessee;they were dressing their lines before the horseshoe bend of thedefending breastworks of Selma. Everything which could have gone wrongwith Forrest's plans had done just that. A captured courier had givenhis enemies the whole framework of his strategy. Then the cavalry hadtried to hold the blue flood at Bogler's Creek by a tearing franticbattle, whirling Union sabers against Confederate revolvers in the handsof veterans. It had been a battle from which Forrest himself broke freethrough a lane opened by the action of his own weapons and theconcentrated fury of his escort.

  Out of the city had steamed the last train while a stream of civilianrefugees had struggled away on foot, the river patrolled by pickets ofcavalry ordered to extricate every able-bodied man from the throng andpress him into the struggle. Forrest's orders were plain: Every maleable to fight goes into the works, or into the river!

  Now Drew and Boyd were with the Kentuckians, forming with Forrest'sescort a small reserve force behind the center of that horseshoe oframparts. Veterans on either flank, and the militia, trusted by none, inthe middle. Thin lines stretched to the limit, so that each dismountedtrooper in that pitiful fortification was six or even ten feet from hisnearest fellow. And gathering under the afternoon sun a mass of blue, avast, endless ocean....

  The enemy was dismounted, too, coming in on a charge as fearless andreckless as any the Confederates had delivered in the past. With thesharpness of one of their own sabers, they slashed out a trotting arc ofmen, cutting at Armstrong's veterans in the earthworks to be curledback under a withering fire, losing a general, senior officers, and men.But the rebuff did not shake them.

  A second Union attack was aimed at the center, and the militia broke.Bugles shrilled in the small reserve, who then pushed up to meet thatlong tongue of blue licking out confidently toward the city. This timethere was no stopping the Yankee advance. The reserve neither broke norfollowed the shambling panic-striken flight of the militia, but werepushed back by sheer weight of numbers to the unfinished second line ofthe city's defenses.

  Blue--a full tidal wave of it in front and wedges of blue overlappingthe gray flanks and appearing here and there even to the rear--

  Having thrown away his rifle, Drew was now firing with both Colts, neversure any of his bullets found their targets. He stood shoulder toshoulder with Boyd in a dip of half-finished earthwork when the buglecalled again, and down the ragged line of gray snapped an order unheardbefore--

  "Get out! Save yourselves!"

  Boyd fired, then threw his emptied Colt into the face of a tall manwhose blue coat bore a sergeant's stripes. His own emptied guns placedin their holsters, Drew caught up the carbine the Yankee had dropped. Hegave Boyd a shove.

  "Run!"

  They dodged in and out of a swirling mass of fighting men, somehowreaching the line of horse holders. Drew found Croaker standing stolidlywith dragging reins, got into the saddle, and reached down a hand to aidBoyd up behind him. In the early dusk he saw General Forrest--his ownheight and the proportions of his charger King Phillip distinguishableeven in that melee--gathering about him a nucleus of resistance as theybattled toward the city. And Drew headed Croaker in the General'sdirection.

  Boyd pawed at his shoulder as they burst into a street at thebone-shaking gallop which was the mule's fastest gait. A blue-coatedtrooper sat with his back against the paling of a trim white fence, onelax hand still holding the reins of a horse. Drew pulled Croaker up soBoyd could slip down. As he pulled loose the reins the Yankee slidinertly to the ground.

  A squad of blue coats turned the corner a block away, heading for them.Somewhere ahead, the company led by the General was fighting its waythrough Selma. Drew was driven by the necessity of catching up. The twoarmies were so mingled now that the wild disorder proved a cover forescaping Confederates.

  Twilight was on them as they hit the Burnsville road, coming into thetail end of the command of men from a dozen or more shattered regiments,companies, and divisions, who had consolidated in some order aboutForrest and his escort. These were all veterans, men tough enough tofight their way out of the city and lucky enough to find their mounts orothers when the order to get out had come. They were part of thestriking force Forrest had built up through months and years--temperedwith his own particular training and spirit--now p
eeled down to a finalhard core.

  In the darkness their advance tangled with a Union outpost, snapping upprisoners before the bewildered Yankees were aware that they, too, werenot Wilson's men. And the word passed that a Fourth United StatesRegulars' scouting detachment was camped not too far away.

  "We can take 'em, suh." Drew caught the assurance in that.

  "We shall, we certainly shall!" Forrest's drawl had sharpened as if hesaw in the prospect of this small engagement a chance to redeem thefutile shame of those breaking lines at Selma.

  "Not you, suh!"

  That protest was picked up, echoed by every man within hearing. Finallythe General yielded to their angry demands that he not expose himself tothe danger of the night attack.

  They moved in around the house, and somehow confidence was restored byfollowing the old familiar pattern of the surprise attack--as if in thissmall action they were again a part of the assured troops who had foughtgunboats from horseback, who had tweaked the Yankees' tails so often.

  Drew and Boyd were part of the detachment sent to approach thefire-lighted horse lot, coming from a different angle than the main bodyof the force. It was the old, old game of letting a dozen do the work offifty. But before they had reached the rail fence about that enclosure,there was a ripple of spiteful Yankee fire.

  "Come on!" The officer outlined against one of the campfires, lurchedand caught at the rails as the men he led crawled over or vaulted thatobstruction, overrunning the Union defenders with the vehemence of mendetermined to make up for the failure of the afternoon. It was a sharpskirmish, but one from which they came away with prisoners and a renewedbelief in themselves. Though they did not know it then, they had foughtthe last battle of the war for the depleted regiments of cavalry of theArmy of the Tennessee. The aftertaste of Selma had been bitter, but thesmall, sharp flurry at the Godwin house left them no longer feeling sobitter.

  "Where're we goin'?" Boyd pushed his horse up beside Croaker as theyswung on through the dark.

  "Plantersville, I guess." But something inside Drew added soundlessly:On to the end now.

  "We're not finished--" Boyd went on, when Drew interrupted:

  "We're finished. We were finished months ago." It was true ... they hadbeen finished at Franklin, their cause dead, their hopes dead,everything dead except men who had somehow kept on their feet, withweapons in their hands and a dogged determination to keep going. Why?Because most of them could no longer understand any other way of life?

  There was that long line of battles General Forrest had named.... Andmarching backward through weeks, months, and years a long line of men,growing more and more shadowy in memory. Among them was Anse--Drew triednot to think about that.

  Now, out of the dark there suddenly arose a voice, singing. Otherspicked up the tune, one of the army songs. Just as Kirby had sung tothem on the big retreat, so this unknown voice was singing them on towhatever was awaiting at Plantersville. The end was waiting and theywould have to face it, just as they had faced carbine, saber, field gunand everything else the Yankees had brought to bear against them.

  Drew joined in and heard Boyd's tenor, high but on key, take up therefrain:

  "On the Plains of Manassas the Yankees we met, We gave them a whipping they'll never forget: But I ain't got no money, nor nothin' to eat, I'm afraid that tonight I must sleep in the street."

  The Army of the Tennessee hadn't seen the Plains of Manassas, maybe, butthey had seen other fields and running Yankees in their time.

  Drew found himself slapping the ends of his reins in time to the tune.

  "I'm a poor Rebel soldier, and Dixie's my home--"

  Croaker brayed loudly and with sorrowful undertone, and Drew heard alaugh, which could only have come from General Forrest, floating back tohim through the dawn of a new morning.

  18

  _Texas Spurs_

  The soft wind curled languidly in through the open church window,stirring the curly lock which Boyd now and then impatiently pushed awayfrom his eyes ... was a delicate fingertip touch on Drew's cheek. Asubdued shuffle of feet could be heard as the congregation arose. It wasSunday in Gainesville, and a congregation such as could only havegathered there on this particular May 7, 1865. Rusty gray-brown,patched, and with ill-mended tears, which no amount of painstakingeffort could ever convert again into more than dimly respectableuniforms, a sprinkling of civilian broadcloth and feminine bonnets. Andacross the church a smaller block of once hostile blue....

  As the recessional formed, prayer books were closed to be slipped intopockets or reticules. The presiding celebrate moved down from the altar,his surplice tugged aside by the wandering breeze revealing the worncavalry boots of a chaplain.

  "For the beauty of the earth, For the beauty of the skies, For the love which from our birth Over and around us lies."

  Men's voices, hesitant and rusty at first, then rose confidently overthe more decorous hum of the regular church-goers as old memories wererenewed.

  "Lord of all, to Thee we raise This our Hymn of grateful praise."

  The hymn swelled, a mighty, powerful wave of sound. Drew's hard,calloused hands closed on the back of the pew ahead. Hearing Boyd'svoice break, Drew knew that within them both something had loosened. Theapathy which had held them through these past days was going, and theywere able to feel again.

  "Drew--" Boyd's voice quavered and then steadied, "let's go home...."

  They had shared the talk at camp, the discussion about slipping away tojoin Kirby Smith in Texas, and some had even gone before the officialsurrender of Confederate forces east of the Mississippi three daysearlier. But when General Forrest elected to accept Yankee terms, mostof the men followed his example. Back at camp they were making out theparoles on the blanks furnished by the Union Command, but so far noYankee had appeared in person. The cavalry were to retain their horsesand mules, and whole companies planned to ride home together toTennessee and Kentucky. Drew and Boyd could join one of those.

  As they moved toward the church door now three of the Union soldiers whohad attended the service were directly ahead of them in the aisle. Boydcaught urgently at Drew's arm.

  "Those spurs--look at his spurs!" He pointed to the heels of the middleYankee. Sunlight made those ornate disks of silver very bright. Drew'sbreath caught, and he took a long stride forward to put his hand on theblue coat's shoulder. The man swung around, startled, to face him.

  "Suh, where did you get those spurs?" Drew's tone carried the note ofone who expected to be answered promptly--with the truth.

  The Yankee had straight black brows which drew together in a frown as hestared back at the Confederate.

  "I don't see how that's any business of yours, Reb!"

  Drew's hand went to his belt before he remembered that there wasn't anyweapon there, and no need for one now. He regained control.

  "It's this much my business, suh. Those spurs are Mexican. They weretaken from a Mexican officer at Chapultepec, and the last time I sawthem they were worn by a very good friend of mine who's been missingsince February! I'd like very much indeed to know just how and where yougot them."

  Lifting one booted foot, the Yankee studied the spurs as if they hadsomehow changed their appearance. When his eyes came back to meet Drew'shis frown was gone.

  "Reb, I bought these from a fella in another outfit, 'bout two or threeweeks ago. He was on sick leave and was goin' home. I gave him good hardcash for 'em."

  "Did he say where he got them?" pressed Drew.

  The other shook his head. "He had a pile of stuff--mostly Reb--buckles,spurs, and such. Sold it all around camp 'fore he left."

  "What outfit are you?" Boyd asked.

  "Trooper, any trouble here?" A Yankee major bore down on them from oneside, a Confederate captain from the other.

  "No, suh," Drew replied quickly. "I just recognized a pair of spurs thistrooper is wearin'. They belonged to a friend of mine who's been missin'for some time. I hoped maybe the trooper knew someth
ing about him."

  "Well, do you?" the major demanded of his own man.

  "No, sir. Bought these in camp from a fella goin' on furlough. I don'tknow where he got 'em."

  "Satisfied, soldier?" the officer asked Drew.

  "Yes, suh." Before he could add another word the major was shepherdinghis men away.

  "I'm sorry." The Confederate captain shook his head. "Pity he didn'thave any more definite information for you." He glanced at Drew's setface. "But, Sergeant, the news wasn't all bad--"

  "No, suh. Only Anse never would have parted with those while he wasalive and could prevent it--never in this world!"

  "Where was your friend when he was reported missin'?"

  "We were on scout in Tennessee, and both of us were wounded. I was foundby our men, but he wasn't. There was just a chance he might have beentaken prisoner."

  "Men'll be comin' back from their prisons now. What's his name andcompany, Sergeant? I'll ask around."

  "Anson Kirby. He was with Gano's Texans under Morgan, and then hetransferred with me into General Buford's Scouts. He's about nineteen ortwenty, has reddish hair and a scar here--" With a forefinger Drewtraced a line from the left corner of his mouth to his left temple. "Hewas shot in the left shoulder pretty bad when we were separated."

  The captain nodded. "I'll keep a lookout. A lot of Texans pass throughhere on their way home."

  "Thank you, suh. Should you have any news, I'd be obliged to hear it. Myname's Drew Rennie, suh, and you can address a message care of theBarrett's, Oak Hill. That's in Fayette County, Kentucky."

  But the chance of ever receiving any such news was, Drew thought, veryimprobable. That afternoon when he tried to find Boyd, he, too, wasmissing and none of the headquarters company knew where the boy hadgone.

  "Ain't pulled out though," Webb assured. "Said as how you two wereplannin' to head north with the Kaintuck boys right after the old mansays good-bye. Guess I'll trail 'long with you for a spell. You gottacross Tennessee to git to Kaintuck."

  "Goin' home, Will?"

  "Guess so. Heard tell as how they burned out m' old man. Dunno, thattheah's sure hard-scrabble ground; we never did make us a good crop onit. Maybe so, we'll try somewheah's else now. Sorta got me an itchin'foot. Maybe won't tie down anywheah for a spell."

  "What about you, Injun?" Drew turned to Croff.

  "Goin' back to the Nations. Guess they had it hard there too, GeneralWatie and the Union 'Pins' raidin' back and forth. They'll need schoolsthough, and someone to teach 'em--"

  "You a teacher, Injun?" Webb was plainly startled.

  "Startin' to be one, before the bands started playin' Dixie so loud,"Croff said, smiling. "Maybe I've forgotten too much, though. I have tosee if I can fit me in behind a desk again."

  "Heah's th' kid--"

  Drew looked up at Webb's hail. Boyd walked toward them, his saddlebagsslung over one shoulder, under his arm the haversack for rations whichnormally hung from any forager's saddle horn. He dropped them by thefire and held two gleaming objects out to Drew.

  "Anse's spurs! How did you get them?"

  "Sold m' horse to the sutler at the Yankee camp. Then bought 'em. Thattrooper gave 'em to me for just what he paid: five dollars hard money.Said as how he could understand why you wanted to have them--"

  "But your horse!"

  Boyd grinned. "Looky here, Drew, more'n half of this heah Reb army isfootin' it home. I guess I can cross two little states without itfinishin' me off--leastwise I reckon anyone who has toughened it outwith General Forrest can do that much."

  Drew turned the spurs around in hands which were a little shaky. "We gotCroaker, and we'll take turns ridin'. No, two states ain't too far for acouple of troopers, specially if they have them a good stout mule intothe bargain!"

  * * * * *

  A hot copper sun turned late Kentucky May into August weeks ahead ofseason. Thunder muttered sullenly beyond the horizon. And a breezepicked up road dust and grit, plastering it to Croaker's sweating hide,their own unwashed skin.

  "Better ... ride...." Licking dust from his lips, Drew watched theweaving figure on the other side of the mule with dull concern. Theywere steadying themselves by a tight grip on the stirrups, and Croakerwas supporting and towing them, rather than their steering him.

  Boyd's head lifted. "Ride yourself!" He got a ghost of his old defianceinto that, though his voice was hardly more than a harsh croak ofwhisper. "I ain't givin' in now!"

  He leased his stirrup hold, staggering forward a step or two, and wouldhave gone face-down on the turnpike if Drew had not made a big effort toreach him. But the other's weight bore him along, and they both sprawledon the road. Croaker came to a halt, his head hanging until he couldhave nuzzled Drew's shoulder.

  They had made a brave start from Alabama, keeping up with the companythey joined until they were close to the Kentucky-Tennessee border. Thena blistered heel had forced Drew into the rider's role for two days, andthey had fallen behind. The rations they had drawn had been stretched asfar as they would go. Even though there were people along the waywilling to feed a hungry soldier, there were too many hungry soldiers.The farther north they traveled there was also a growing number ofplaces where a blue coat might be welcome, but a gray one stillsignified "enemy."

  Drew moved, and raised Boyd's head and shoulders to his knee. If hecould summon enough energy to reach the canteen hanging from Croaker'ssaddle.... Somehow he did, recklessly spilling a cupful of its contentson Boyd's face, and turning road dust into flecks of mud which freckledthe gaunt cheeks.

  "Ain't goin' t' ride--" Boyd's eyes opened and he took up the argumentagain.

  "Well," Drew lashed out, "I can't carry you! Or do you expect to bedragged?"

  Boyd's face crumpled and he flung up his arms to hide his eyes.

  "All right."

  With the aid of a sloping bank and an effort which left them both weaklypanting, Boyd was mounted and they started their slow crawl once more.

  "Drew!"

  He raised his head. Boyd had straightened in the saddle and was pointingahead, though his outstretched hand was shaking. "We made it--there'shome!"

  Beyond was the green of trees, a whole line of trees curving along agravel carriage drive. But somehow Drew could not match Boyd's joy. Hewas tired, so tired that he was aware of nothing really but the achingweariness of his body.

  They turned into the drive, the gravel crunching into his holed bootswhile the tree shadows made a green twilight. Croaker came to a stop,and Drew's eyes raised from the gravel to the line of one step and thenanother. His gaze finally came to a broad veranda ... to someone who hadbeen sitting there and who was now on her feet, staring wide-eyed backat the three of them. Then the gravel came up in a wave and he wasswallowed up in it and darkness--

  The sun, warm through the window, awoke a glint of reflection from thetop of the chest of drawers where rested a round cord of bullion withtwo tassels and a pair of fancy spurs. The wink of light was reflectedagain from the mirror before which Drew stood.

  "Jefferson's shirt has long enough sleeves, but all these billows!"Cousin Merry's tongue clicked against her teeth in exasperation. Herhand was in the middle of Drew's back, gathering up a good pleating oflinen, but he still had extra folds of cloth to spare over his ribs.Four days of rest and plenty of food was not sufficient to restore anypadding to his frame. "You certainly grew one way, but not the other!"

  Boyd, established in the big chair by the window, laughed.

  "I could take a few tucks," Drew offered.

  "_You_ could take a few tucks!" Her astonished face showed in the glassabove his shoulder.

  "Oh, I'm not too bad with a needle. Did you note those neat patches onmy breeches--?"

  "I noted nothing about those breeches; they went straight into the fire!Such rags...."

  "Miss Merry, ma'am--" small Hetty showed an eager face around the cornerof the door--"Majuh Forbes and Missus Forbes--they's downstairs."

  Drew faced
away from the mirror. "Why?" he demanded with almost hostileemphasis.

  Meredith Barrett untied the strings of her sewing apron. "Hetty, tellMam Gusta to set out some of the English biscuits and make tea." Thenshe turned back to face Drew. "Why, Drew? Rather--why not? They're yourkin, and I think that Marianna feels it deeply that you came here andnot to Red Springs. Not to go home...."

  "Home?" There was heat in that. "You, if anyone, know that Red Springswas never really my home. And Forbes is an officer in the Union Army.This is no time for a Reb to camp out in his house. My grandfatherwanted the place to be just Aunt Marianna's, didn't he?" He paused bythe chest of drawers, his hand going out to the spurs, the gold cord.Three years--in a way a small lifetime--all to be summed up now by aslightly tarnished cord from a general's hat, a pair of spurs a youngTexan had jauntily worn.

  But it _was_ a lifetime. He was not a boy any more, to have to endurehis elders making decisions for him. His future was his own, and he hadearned the right to that. Drew did not know that his face had hardened,that he suddenly looked a stranger to the woman who was watching himwith concern.

  "Please, Drew, you mustn't allow yourself to be so bitter--"

  "Bitter? About Red Springs, you mean? Lord, I never wanted the place. Ihate every brick of it, and I think I always have. But I don't hateForbes or Aunt Marianna if that's what you're afraid of. It's just thatI have no place there any more."

  Her mouth tightened. "But you have! You owe it to Marianna to listen toher now. This is important, Drew, more important than you can guess. No,Boyd--" her gesture checked her son as he arose from the chair--"this isnone of your affair. Come with me, Drew!"

  He picked up a borrowed coat, also much too wide for him, pulled it onover the bunchiness of his shirt, and followed her, swallowing what heknew to be a useless protest.

  The parlor was as bright with sun as the upper room had been. As Drewentered a pace or two behind Cousin Merry, the officer in blue strodeaway from the hearth to meet them. But Aunt Marianna forestalled herhusband's greeting, rising suddenly from a chair, her crinoline rustlingacross the carpet. She held out her hands, and then hesitated, studyingDrew's face, looking a little daunted, as if she had expected somethingshe did not find. The assurance she had displayed at their last meetingon the Lexington road was missing.

  "Drew?"

  He bowed, conscious that he must present an odd figure in theill-fitting clothing of Meredith Barrett's long dead husband.

  Major Forbes held out his hand. "Welcome home, my boy."

  My boy. Consciously or unconsciously the major's tone strove to thrustDrew into the past, or so he believed. The major might almost beconsidering Drew an unruly schoolboy now safely out of some scrape,welcome indeed if he would settle down quietly into the conventionalmold of Oak Hill or Red Springs. But he was no schoolboy, and at thatmoment the parlor of Oak Hill, for all its luxury and warmth, was a boxsealing him in stifling confinement which he could no longer endure.Drew held tight control over that resurgence of his old impatience,knowing that his first instinct had been right: the old life fitted himnow no better than his coat. But he answered civilly:

  "Thank you, suh."

  His proper courtesy apparently reassured his aunt. She came to him, herhands on his shoulders as she stood on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. "Drew,come home with us, dear--please!"

  He shook his head. "I don't belong at Red Springs, ma'am. I never did."

  "Nonsense!" Major Forbes put the force of a field officer's authorityinto that denial. "I do not and never did agree with many of AlexanderMattock's decisions. I do so even less when they pertain to yoursituation, my boy. You have every right to consider Red Springs yourhome. You must come to us, resume your interrupted education, take yourproper place in the family and the community--"

  Drew shook his head again. The major paused. He had been studying Drew,and now there was a faint shadow of uneasiness in his own expression. Hemight be slowly realizing that he was not fronting a repentant schoolboyrescued from a piece of regrettable youthful folly. A veteran was beingforced against his will to recognize the stamp of his own experience onanother, if much younger, man.

  "What are your plans?" he asked in another tone of voice entirely.

  "Drew--" Major Forbes waved aside that tentative interruption fromCousin Merry.

  "I don't know. But I can't stay here." That much he was sure of, OakHill, Red Springs, all of this was no longer necessary to him any morethan the outgrown toys of childhood could hold the interest of a man.Once, hurt and seeking for freedom, he had thought of the army as home.Now he knew he had yet to find what he wanted or needed. But there wasno reason why he could not go looking, even if he could not give a nameto the object of such a search. "I might go west. It's all new outthere, a good place to start on my own."

  There was a catch of breath from Aunt Marianna. The look she gave CousinMerry held something of accusation. "You told him!"

  "Told me what, ma'am?"

  "That your father is alive...." She saw his surprise.

  "Is that true, suh?" Drew appealed to the major.

  Forbes scowled, tugging at the belt supporting his saber. "Yes. We foundsome letters among your grandfather's papers after his death. Yourfather wasn't killed; he was in a Mexican prison during the war. When heescaped and returned to Texas, your grandfather had already been thereand taken your mother away. Hunt Rennie was too ill to followimmediately. Before he had recovered enough to travel, he was informedhis wife was dead, and he was allowed to believe that you died withher--at birth."

  "But why?" Alexander Mattock had disliked, even hated his grandson. Sowhy should he have lied to keep Drew with him at Red Springs?

  "Because of Murray," Cousin Merry said slowly, sadly. "It was a cruelthing to do, so cruel. Alexander Mattock was a hard man. He couldn'tbear opposition; it made him go close to the edge of sanity, I trulybelieve. I know we are not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but Ican't forgive him for what he did to those two. Melanie and Hunt were soyoung, young and in love. And your Uncle Murray deliberately pushed thatquarrel on Hunt. Jefferson was there; he tried to stop it. The duel was_not_ Hunt's fault----"

  "Uncle Murray and my father fought a duel?" Drew demanded.

  "Yes. Murray was badly wounded, and for a time his life was despairedof. Your grandfather swore out a warrant against Hunt for attemptedmurder! So he and Melanie ran away. They were so pitifully young!Melanie was just sixteen and Hunt two years older, though he seemed aman, having lived such a hard life on the frontier. They went back toTexas, and she was very happy there--I had some letters from her. Yes,she was happy until the War with Mexico began. Then Hunt was reportedkilled, his father, too. And she was left all alone with distant kin oftheirs. So your grandfather went down to fetch her home. I'll alwaysbelieve he really wanted to punish her for going against his will. Shedied--" her voice broke--"she died, because she had no will to live, and_then_ he was sorry. But just a little, not enough to blame himself any.Oh, no--it was still all Hunt's wickedness, he said, every bit of it! Hewas a hard man...." Cousin Merry faced Aunt Marianna with her chin up asif daring the other to object what she'd just said.

  Drew returned to the news he still found difficult to believe. "So myfather's alive, Major. Well, that gives me some place to go--Texas...."

  "Hunt Rennie's not in Texas." Cousin Merry spoke with such certaintythat all three of them gave her their full attention.

  "I married Jefferson Barrett six months after Melanie eloped. We went toEurope then for almost two years of traveling. Part of our mail musthave been lost. Hunt surely wrote to me! He liked Jefferson in spite ofthe differences in their ages. If I had only had the chance to tell himthe truth about you, Drew. But I never knew he was alive either. Youremember Granger Wood, Justin?"

  Major Forbes nodded. "He went out to California in '50."

  "Yes, and when the war broke out he rode back across the Arizona and NewMexico territories with General Johnston to enlist in the Confederateforces. A month ago h
e came back here and he called to tell me he sawHunt in Arizona in '61. He had a horse-and-cattle ranch there, also somemining holdings."

  "Drew"--Aunt Marianna caught his arm--"you won't be so foolish as to goout into that horrible wilderness hunting a man who doesn't even knowyou're alive--who's a perfect stranger to you? You must be sensible. Weknow that Father's will was very unjust, and we are not going to abideby its terms--half of Red Springs will be yours."

  Gently Drew released himself from her hold. "Maybe Hunt Rennie doesn'tknow I exist; maybe we won't even like each other if and when we domeet--I don't know. But Red Springs ain't my kind of world any more. AndI won't take anything my grandfather grudged givin' me. I may be young,only in another way, I'm old, too. Too old to come under a schoolin'rein again." He glanced across her shoulder, noticing that his speechhad registered with the major.

  "You're not goin' to start out this very afternoon, are you?" Forbesasked.

  Drew relaxed and laughed a little self-consciously, knowing that hisuncle had ceded him the victory in this first skirmish.

  "No, suh. You know, I brought two things home from the army--and one ofthem was a pair of Texas spurs. A mighty good man wore those. You'd haveto ride proud and tall in the saddle to match him. I told him once I wasgoin' to see Texas, and he said there was nothing to make a man stay onthe range where he had been born. Since I've always wanted to know whatkind of a man Hunt Rennie was--is--now maybe I'm goin' to do just that."

  * * * * *

  BY ANDRE NORTON

  Storm Over Warlock Galactic Derelict The Time Traders Star Born Yankee Privateer The Stars Are Ours!

  EDITED BY ANDRE NORTON

  Space Pioneers Space Service