The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

movin’ on, seein’ as how we ain’t really on speakin’ terms with the law heah ’bouts.”
    It would appear that Captain Campbell agreed with that. The order came to saddle up and move out. But they went with provision sacks slung from their saddles, a portion of McKeever’s bounty stowed away against tomorrow. And once they were past the house, the word came down the line for Drew to quit his prisoner’s role and join their commander.
    Campbell held a fragment of map as he let his mount’s pace fall to a slow walk. “There are about a hundred Union infantry stationed at Bardstown, according to Mr. McKeever. Know anything about the town?”
    “I was there once. My cousin went to St. Joseph’s for a term.”
    “Remember enough to find your way around?”
    “I don’t know, suh. But if there’s a Union garrison—?” He ended the sentence with an implied question.
    “What are we going to do there?” The captain grinned. “We’re going to collect some arms, I hope. Supposing you were a Yankee commander, Rennie, and a bold, bad raider like General Morgan was to ride clean up to your door with a regiment or two tailing him and say: ‘Your guns, suh, or your life!’ What would you do, especially if your troops were mostly militia and green men who hadn’t ever been in a real fight?”
    Drew understood. “Probably, suh, I’d tell General Morgan that he could have his guns, providin’ he kept his side of the bargain.”
    “As far as the Yankees in Bardstown may know, General Morgan could be headed their way right now with a regiment. I don’t think they’ve had time yet to learn just how badly we were scattered back there by the Licking River. You willing to take the flag in when we get there, Rennie? Pick a couple of outriders to go with you!”
    It was risky, but no more risky than bluffs he had seen work before. And they did need the weapons. Cutting westward now only kept them well inside Union territory. Somehow they would have to skulk or fight their way down through the southern part of Kentucky and then probably all the way across Tennessee—a tall order, but one which was just possible of accomplishment.
    “I’ll do it, suh.” Riding into Bardstown was no worse than riding over the rest of this countryside where any moment they might be swept up by the enemy.
    It was lucky they had brought rations with them from McKeever’s, for they took no more chances of trying for such supplies again. Once more they altered their advance, riding the pikes at night, hiding out by day.
    Hills then, and among them Bardstown. Drew borrowed a carbine, stringing a dubiously white strip of shirt tail from its barrel, and flanked by Kirby and Driscoll, a trooper Campbell had appointed, rode slowly up the broad street opening from the pike. Great trees arched overhead, almost as they had across the drive of the McKeever place, and the houses were fine, equal to the best about Lexington.
    A carriage pulled to the side, its two feminine occupants leaning forward a little under the tilt of dainty parasols, eyes wide. While their coachman stared open-mouthed at the three dirty, tattered cavalrymen riding with an assumption of ease, though armed, down the middle of the avenue.
    “You, suh.” It was the coachman who hailed Drew. “You soldier men?”
    Drew reined in the black, who this time obeyed without protest. The weary miles had taught the gelding submission if not perfect manners. Transferring his reins to the hand which also steadied the butt of his carbine against his thigh so that his “flag” was well in evidence, Drew swept off his dust-grayed hat and bowed to the ladies in the carriage.
    “General Morgan’s compliments, ladies,” he said, loud enough for his words to carry beyond the vehicle to the townspeople gathering on the walk. “Flag of truce comin’ in, ma’am.” He spoke directly to the elder of the two in the carriage. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to where I may find the Union commander?”
    “You’re from John Hunt Morgan, young man?” She shut her parasol with a snap, held it as if she was considering its use as a weapon.
    “Yes, ma’am. General Morgan, Confederate Army—”
    She sniffed. “You’ll find their captain at the inn, probably. Yankees and whiskey apparently have an affinity for one another. So John Morgan’s coming to pay us a visit?”
    “Maybe, ma’am. And where may I find the inn?”
    “Straight ahead,” the girl answered. “You really