The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

beef and water, out over the fire—to hang on its chain to boil.
    “Shelly?” Boyd asked again. His eyes were open, too bright, and he stared about him, plainly puzzled. Then he looked up at his nurse, and his forehead wrinkled with effort. “Drew?”
    But Drew was listening to those oncoming hoofs. The strangers would see two horses. If they came in, they would find two men—it was as simple as that. And if they wore the wrong color uniforms, Weatherby above, and Kirby in the lean-to, would be ready and waiting for trouble. Drew laid fresh wood on the fire. Since he could not hide, he felt he’d better get as much light as possible in case of future trouble. The last they had heard the Yankees were concentrating at Murfreesboro and Nashville. But scouts would be out, dogging the flanks of the Confederate forces, just as he had done the opposite during the past few days.
    There was silence now in the lane, a suspicious quiet. Drew deduced that the riders had dismounted and might be closing in about the cabin. A prickle of chill climbed his spine. He touched the lump under the blanket which was his own insurance.
    The door burst open, sent banging inward by a booted foot. And at the same time a small pane in an opposite window shattered, the barrel of a rifle thrust in four inches, covering him. Drew remained where he was, his left arm thrown protectingly across Boyd.
    “Now ain’t this somethin’?” The man who had booted in the door was grinning down at the two on the hearth. He wore a blue coat right enough, but it was slick with old grease across the chest, stained on one shoulder, and his breeches were linsey-woolsey, his boots old and scuffed. And his bush of unkempt hair was covered with a battered hat topping a woolen scarf wound about ears and neck.
    The chill on Drew’s spine was a band of ice. This was no Union trooper. The scout could identify a far worse threat now—bushwhacker…guerrilla, one of the jackals who hung on the fringe of both armies, looting, killing, and changing sides when it suited their purposes. Such a man was a murderer who would kill another for a pair of boots, a whole shirt, or the mere whim of the moment.
    “Come in, Simmy, we’s got us a pair o’ Rebs,” the man bawled over his shoulder, and then turned to Drew. “Don’t you go gittin’ no ideas, sonny. Jas’ thar, he’s got a bead right on yuh, an’ Jas’ he’s mighty good with that rifle gun. Now, you jus’ pull out that Colt o’ yourn an’ toss it here. Make it fast, too, boy. I’m a mighty unpatient man—”
    Drew pulled free the Colt still in its holster, tossing it across the floor so that it spun against the fellow’s boot. The big hairy hand scooped it up easily and tucked the weapon barrel down in his belt.
    A second man, smaller, with a thin face which had an odd lopsided look, squeezed through the door and sidled along the wall of the room, his rifle pointed straight at Drew’s head. He spat a blotch of tobacco juice on the hearth, spattering the edge of the top blanket which covered Boyd.
    “What’s th’ matter wi’ him?” he demanded.
    “He’s sick,” Drew returned. “You Union?”
    The big man grinned. “Shore, sonny, shore. We is Union…scouts…Union scouts.” He repeated that as if pleased by the sound. “An’ you is Rebs, which makes you our prisoners. So he’s sick, eh? What’s the matter?”
    “I don’t know.” Drew’s fingers were only inches away from the Colt under the blanket. But he could dare no such move with that rifle covering him from the window.
    “Jas’, any sign out thar?” the big man called.
    “Petey ain’t seen any, jus’ two horses.” The words came from behind the still ready rifle.
    “Wai, tell him to look round some more. An’ you kin come in, Jas’. These here Rebs ain’t gonna be no trouble—is you, sonny?”
    Drew shook his head. Luck appeared to be on his side. Once Jas’ was in here, they could hope to turn tables on the three of them, with Weatherby and Kirby taking them by surprise.
    Jas’ appeared in the doorway a moment or so later. He was younger than his two companions, younger and more tidy. His coat was also blue, and he wore a forage cap pulled down over hair very fair in the firelight. There was a fluff of young beard on his chin, and he carried himself with the stance of a drilled man. Deserter, thought Drew.
    The newcomer surveyed Drew and Boyd expressionlessly, his eyes oddly shallow, and tramped past them to