The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

followed the other’s pointing finger. “Kinda green at the business,” he commented critically. “Sorta makin’ a sittin’ target of hisself. Like to tickle him up with a shot. We don’t git much action outta this.”
    “I’d say we’re plannin’ to go in now.”
    A squad of Buford’s advance filtered up through the trees, and an officer, his insignia of rank two-inch strips of yellowish ribbon sewed to the collar of a mud-brown coat, was conferring with Wilkins. Then the clear notes of the bugle charge rang out.
    Forrest’s men were as adept as Morgan’s raiders in making a show of force seem twice the number of men actually in the field. They now whirled in and out of a wild pattern which should impress the Yankee picket with the fact that at least a full regiment was advancing.
    Three miles from Pulaski the Yankees made a stand, slamming back with all they had, but Buford was pushing just as hard and determinedly. Gray-brown boiled out of cover and charged, yelling. That electric spark of reckless determination which had taken the Kentucky columns up the slope at Harrisburg flashed again from man to man. Drew tasted the old headiness which could sweep a man out of sanity, send him plunging ahead, aware only of the waiting enemy.
    The Union lines broke under those shock waves; men ran for the town behind them. But there was no taking that town. By early afternoon they had them fenced in, held by a show of force. Only in the night, leaving their fires burning, the Confederates slipped away.
    Rains hit again; guns and wagons bogged. But they kept on into rough-and-rocky country. They had taken enough horses from the Union corrals at the blockhouses to mount the men who had tramped patiently along the ruts in just that hope. Better still, sugar and coffee from the rich Yankee supply depot at the Brown farm was now filling Rebel stomachs.
    Drew sat on his heels by a palm-sized fire, watching with weary content the tin pail boiling there. The aroma rising from it was one he had almost forgotten existed in this world of constant riding and poor forage.
    “Hope it kicks in the middle an’ packs double.” Kirby rested a tin cup on one knee, ready and waiting. “Me, I like mine strong enough to rest a horseshoe on…gentlelike.”
    “Yankees are obligin’, one way or another.” Drew licked his fingers appreciatively. He had been exploring the sugar supply. “I’ve missed sweetenin’.”
    “Drink up, boys, and get ready to ride,” Wilkins said, coming out of the dark. “We’ve marchin’ orders.”
    Kirby reached for the pot and poured its contents, with careful measurement, into each waiting cup. “Wheah to now, Sarge? Seems like we’ve covered most of this heah range already.”
    “Huntsville. We have to locate a river crossin’.”
    Drew looked up. “Startin’ back, Sarge?”
    “Heard talk,” Wilkins admitted. “Most of the blue bellies in these parts are turnin’ lines to aim square at us. We can’t take on all of Sherman’s bully boys—”
    “Got him riled, though, ain’t we? All right.” Kirby was energetically fanning the top of his steaming cup with his free hand. “Git this down to warm m’ toes, Sarge, an’ I’ll stick them same toes in the stirrups an’ jingle off. Come on, Drew, no man never joined up with the army to git hisself a comfortable life.…”
    Certainly that last statement of the Texan’s was proven correct during the next six days. A feint toward the Yankee garrison at Huntsville occupied the enemy until the wagon train and artillery moved on to the Tennessee River. And along its northern banks, Buford’s Scouts ranged. Already high for the season the waters were still rising. And all the transportation they could collect were three ferry boats at Florence and a few skiffs, not enough to serve all the Confederate force pushing for that escape route.
    Athens, which Forrest had occupied on the upswing of the raid, was already back in Union hands, and the blue forces were closing in, in a countrywide sweep, backing the gray cavalry against the river.
    By the third of October Buford had the boats in action, ferrying across men, equipment, and artillery in a steady stream of night-and-day oar labor. The stout General, mounted on a big mule, a large animal to carry a large man, gave the scouts new orders.
    “Try downriver, boys. We’re in a pinchers here, and they may be goin’ to nip us—hard!” He rolled a big cheroot from a Yankee commissary