The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

trip in—and out—of town.
    CHAPTER 7
    A Mule for a River
    For a Confederate patrol, they looked respectable enough as they rode into Cadiz. Though they lacked the uniformity of a Yankee squad, their dark shirts, “impressed” breeches, and good boots gave an impression of a common dress, and Kirby had even acquired a hat.
    They slung their captured rifles before entering town and progressed at a quiet amble which suggested good will. But there was no mistaking the fact that they attracted attention, immediately and to some purpose. A small boy, balancing on a fence, put his fingers to his mouth and released a piercing whistle.
    King’s response to that was vigorous. Rearing, until he stood almost upright on his hind feet, the stallion pawed the air. Drew barely kept his seat. He fought with all his knowledge of horsemanship to bring the stud back to earth and under control. And he could hear Kirby’s laugh and Boyd calling out some inarticulate warning or advice.
    “Better git that mule—or run down this one’s mainspring some,” the Texan said when Drew had King again with four feet on the ground, though weaving in a sideways dance.
    “You men—what are you doing here?” A horseman looked over the heads of the crowd to the four troopers.
    “Passin’ through, suh. Leastwise we was, until greeted—” Kirby answered courteously.
    Drew assessed the questioner’s well-cut riding clothes, his good linen, and fine gloves. The rider was middle-aged, his authority more evident because of that fact. This was either one of the wealthy planters of the district or some important inhabitant of Cadiz. There was a wagon drawing up behind him, a span of well-cared-for mules in harness with a Negro driver.
    The mules held Drew’s attention. King’s reaction to that sudden whistle was a warning. He had no wish to ride such an animal into a picket skirmish. The sleekness of the mules appealed to his desire to rid himself of the unmanageable stud.
    Now he edged the sidling King closer to the wagon. The driver watched him with apprehension. Whether he guessed Drew’s intention or whether he dreaded the near approach of the stallion was a question which did not bother the scout.
    “You there,” Drew hailed the driver. “I’ll take one of those mules!”
    As always, he hated these enforced trades and spoke in a peremptory way, wanting to get the matter finished.
    “You, suh—” the solid citizen turned his horse to face the scout—“what gives you the right to take that mule?”
    With a visible sigh of relief, the Negro relaxed on the driver’s seat, willing to let the other carry on the argument.
    “Nothing, except I have to have a mount I can depend upon.” Drew did not know why he was explaining, or even why he wanted the mule so acutely right now. Except that he was tired, tired of the days in the saddle, of being on the run, of these small Kentucky towns into which they rode to loot and ride off again. The Yankees in Bardstown had been fair game, and their bluff there had been an adventure. But Calhoun left a sour taste in his mouth, and he didn’t like the vague order which had brought him to Cadiz. So his dislike boiled over, to settle into a sullen determination to rid himself of one irritation—this undependable horse.
    “Do I assume, suh, that you are part of General Morgan’s command?” Sharp blue eyes studied Drew across the well-curried backs of the mules.
    “Yes, suh.”
    The man gave a nod, which might have been for some thought of his own.
    “We have heard some rumors of your coming, suh,” the other continued. “You, Nelson,” he spoke to the Negro, “take this team up to the livery stable and tell Mr. Emory I want Hannibal saddled! Then you bring him back here and give him to this gentleman!”
    “Yes, suh. Hannibal—wi’ saddle—for this young gentlem’n.”
    “Hannibal, suh,” the man said to Drew, “is a mule, but a remarkable one, riding trained and strong. I think you will find him quite usable. Do I understand we are about to be favored by a visit from General Morgan?”
    Drew dismounted. Now he made a business of squinting up at the sun as if to tell time. “Not for a while, suh.” He remained cautious; though he guessed that his questioner’s sympathies were at least not openly Union.
    There was a stir in the gathering crowd. Hart was leaning from his saddle, talking earnestly to two men flanking him on either side.
    “May I offer you some refreshment,