The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

gentlemen. I am James Pryor, at your service—”
    Automatically Drew responded to the manners of Red Springs. “Drew Rennie, suh. Anson Kirby, Boyd Barrett.…” He looked around for Hart, only to see the other disappearing into an alley with his two companions from the crowd.
    “Suh, that’s a right heartenin’ offer,” Kirby said, smiling. “Trail dust sure does make a man’s throat dryer’n an alkali flat!”
    “Mark Hale over here has just the answer for that difficulty, gentlemen. If you will accompany me—”
    They left the glare of the sunlit street, following their host into a small shop where a quantity of strange smells fought for supremacy. Kirby stared about him puzzled, but his look changed to an expression of pure bafflement and outrage as Pryor gave his order to the smaller man who came from a back room.
    “Mark, these gentlemen need some of that good lemonade you make—if you have some cold and ready.”
    Drew heard Kirby’s muffled snort of protest and wanted so badly to laugh that the struggle to choke off that sound was a pain in his chest. Mr. Pryor smiled at them blandly.
    “M’ boys, nothing better on a really hot day than some of Mark’s lemonade. Nothing like it in this part of Kentucky. Ah, that looks like a draft fit for the gods, Mark, it certainly does!”
    Hale had bobbed out of his inner room again, shepherding before him a Negro boy who walked with exaggerated caution, balancing a tray on which stood four tall glasses, beaded with visible moisture. There was a sprig of green mint standing sentry in each.
    “Drink up, gentlemen.” Under Mr. Pryor’s commanding eye they each took a glass and a first sip.
    But it was good—cool as it went slipping down the throat bearing that blessed chill with it, tart on the tongue, and fresh. Drew had sipped, but now he gulped, and he noted over the rim of his own glass, that Kirby was following his example. Mr. Pryor consumed his portion at a more genteel rate of intake.
    “This allays that trail dust of yours, Mr. Kirby?” He inquired with no more than usual solicitude, but there was a faint trace of amusement in his small smile.
    Kirby met the challenge promptly. “Ably, suh, ably!” He raised his half-filled glass. “To your very good health, suh. I don’t know when I’ve had me a more satisfyin’ drink!”
    Pryor bowed. He was still smiling as he glanced at Drew.
    “You have business in Cadiz, suh? Beyond that of swapping that firebreather of yours for another mount, I mean? Perhaps I can be of service in some other way.…”
    Drew cradled his glass in both hands. The condensing moisture made it slippery, but the chill was pleasant to feel.
    “Do you have any news about the Cumberland River, suh?” he asked. Pryor might have usable information, and there was no reason to disguise that part of their objective. Short of turning about and fighting their way through about a quarter of the aroused Yankee army, the fugitives did have to cross the Cumberland and the Tennessee, and do both soon.
    “The Cumberland, suh, is not apt to give you much trouble.” Pryor sipped at his glass with a relish. “If, of course, you contemplate a try at the Tennessee—that will be a different matter. I trust your commander will be amply prepared for difficulties there. But General Morgan is not to be easily caught napping, or so his reputation stands. I wish you the best of luck.”
    “Is that your horse out there, young man?” the proprietor of the drugstore addressed Drew. “That big stallion?”
    Drew put his glass on the counter and spun around. “What’s he doin’ now?”
    “Nothing,” Hale returned quickly. “Ransome!” Out of nowhere Hale’s servant appeared. “Get the saddlebags from that horse.”
    Surprised at this highhanded demand for his property, Drew waited for enlightenment. When Ransome returned with the bags, Hale took them, moved quickly to a cabinet, and unlocked it. By handfulls he took small boxes from the shelves inside, added some paper packets, and then buckled the straps tightly over the new bulge.
    “I understand,” he said in his dry, precise voice, “there is a pressing need for quinine, morphine, and the like in the South?”
    Drew could only nod as Hale held out the bags.
    “Give this to your surgeon, young man, with my compliments. There is little enough we can do, but this is something.”
    Drew stammered his thanks, knowing that those boxes and packets crammed into his bags meant a