The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

fortune to a blockade runner, but far more to men in the improvised hospitals behind the gray lines. Hale waved away Drew’s thanks, adding only a last warning: “Keep your bags dry if you contemplate a river crossing! I would like to make sure that those drugs do reach the right hands intact.”
    “Rennie!” Hart hailed him from the door. “There’s a boy here with a mule; he says it’s for you.”
    Pryor put down his glass. “It’s Hannibal. I think you will find him acceptable, suh. An even-tempered animal for the most part, and the surest-footed one I have ever ridden.”
    “Then you do ride him?” Boyd spoke for the first time.
    “Naturally he has been ridden—by me. I would not offer him otherwise, suh!” Pryor’s flash of indignation was quick. “Hannibal’s dam was Dido, a fine trotting mare. He’s an excellent mount.”
    The mule stood in the street, ears slightly forward, eyeing King warily. He was a big animal, groomed until his gray coat shone under the sun, wearing a well rubbed and oiled saddle and trappings. As Drew approached he lowered his head, sniffing inquiringly at the scout.
    “Your new master, Hannibal,” Pryor addressed the animal with the gravity of one making a formal introduction. “You are about to be mustered into the cavalry.”
    Hannibal appeared to consider this and then shook his big head up and down in a vigorous nod. Boyd laughed and Kirby offered vocal encouragement.
    “Mount up an’ see if you have to go smoothin’ out any humps.”
    “If you’re goin’ to ride that critter, git on!” Hart called. His tone expressed urgency as if he had learned something in town which should send them out of Cadiz in a hurry.
    Drew’s previous experience with mules had not been as a rider. He had heard plenty about their sure-footedness, their ability to keep going as pack animals and wagon teams when horses gave out, their intelligence, as well as that stubbornness which lay on the darker side of the scales. He advanced on Hannibal now a little distrustfully, settling into the saddle on the animal’s back with the care of one expecting some unpleasant reaction. But Hannibal merely swung his head about as if to make sure by sight, as well as pressure of weight on his back, that his rider was safely aloft.
    Relaxing, Drew saluted Pryor. “My thanks to you, suh.”
    “Think nothing of it, young man. Luck to you—all of you.”
    “That we can use, suh,” Kirby returned. “Adios.…”
    Hart’s impatience was so patent that Drew had only hasty thanks for Hale before the trooper had them on their way out of town. When they were at a trot Kirby joined their guide.
    “How come you workin’ on your critter’s rump with a double of rope? Git sight of some blue belly hangin’ out to dry-gulch us?”
    “We ain’t too welcome hereabouts.” Hart did look worried, and Drew was alert.
    “Yankees?” he asked.
    Hart shook his head. “Just some of the boys; they don’t want no attention pulled this way, not right now.”
    The bank money—and the guerrillas. Yes, holding up the Cadiz bank if and when any gold reached there, would appeal to the local irregulars, who might be so irregular as to be on the cold side of the law, even in wartime with the enemy their victim. Drew fitted one piece to another and thought he could guess the full pattern.
    Kirby looked from one to the other. Boyd was completely at a loss. A moment later the Texan spoke again.
    “Me, I’m never one to argue with local talent, specially if they wear their Colts low and loose. Doin’ that is apt to make a man wolf meat. Wheah to now—this heah river?”
    Drew nodded. The Cumberland must be scouted. And, after that, the more formidable barrier of the Tennessee. He had not needed Pryor’s warning about the latter. Ever since they had left Bardstown and knew they were headed for that barrier, Drew had been carrying worry at the back of his mind.
    But Pryor was also right about the Cumberland. Hart agreed to ride back to the company with the information to direct them to the best crossing. While Drew, Kirby, and Boyd went on to the last barrier between them and eventual escape southwest.
    Here the Tennessee was a flood, a narrow lake more than a river. As they traveled its eastern bank Boyd halted now and again to study the waste of water dubiously.
    “It’s wide,” he said in a subdued voice. Kirby spat accurately at a leaf drifting just below.
    “Need us some fish fixin’s heah,” he