The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

hold his hands to the blaze on the hearth, keeping his rifle between his knees. Then he reached up with his weapon, hooked the barrel in the chain supporting the pot, and pulled that to him, sniffing at the now bubbling contents.
    “You, Reb”—the big man towered over Drew—“git this friend o’ yourn an’ drag him over thar. Us wants to git warm.”
    “Drew?” Boyd looked up questioningly, his feverish gaze passing on to the guerrilla. “Where’s Shelly?”
    The big man’s grin faded. His big boot came out, caught Drew’s leg in a vicious prod.
    “Who’s this here Shelly? Whar at is he?”
    “Shelly was his brother,” Drew said, nodding at Boyd. “He’s dead.”
    “Dead, eh? How come sonny boy here’s askin’ for him then?” He leaned over them, and his fingers grabbed and twisted at the front of Drew’s threadbare shell jacket. “I ask yuh, Reb, whar at is this heah Shelly?” He seemed only to flick his wrist, but the strength behind that move whirled Drew away from Boyd, brought him part way to his feet, and slammed him against the wall—where the big man held him pinned with small expenditure of effort.
    “Shelly’s dead.” Somehow Drew kept his voice even. Kirby…Weatherby…They were there. “Boyd’s out of his head with fever.”
    Jas’ let the pot swing back over the fire, moving toward Boyd to lean over and stare at the boy’s flushed face.
    “Might be so,” Jas’ remarked. “Two horses, two men. Neither one much to bother about.”
    “Better be so!” The big man held Drew tight to the wall and cuffed him with his other hand. Dazedly, his head ringing, Drew slipped to the floor as the other released him. “Now”—that boot prodded Drew again—“git your friend over thar, Reb.”
    Drew stumbled back and went on his knees beside Boyd. His fingers groped under the edge of the blanket, closing on the Colt. Jas’ was inspecting the pot again, and Simmy had moved forward to share the warmth of the hearth. With the revolver still in his hand, though concealed by the blanket, Drew pulled Boyd away from the fire as best he could, aware the big man was watching closely.
    Jas’ reached up to the crude mantel shelf, brought down a wooden spoon, and wiped it on a handkerchief he pulled from an inner pocket.
    “This ain’t fancy grub,” he observed to the room at large, “but it’s better than nothin’. You want Simmy to bring in Petey, Hatch?”
    “Th’ cap’n’s comin’.” Simmy’s remark was made in a tone of objection.
    Hatch swung his head around to eye the smaller man.
    “You bring Petey in!” he ordered. “Now!” he added.
    For a second or two it appeared that Simmy might rebel, but Hatch stared him down. Jas’ scooped out a spoonful of the pot’s contents and blew over it.
    “You fixin’ on havin’ a showdown with the captain, Hatch?” he asked.
    The big man laughed. “I has me a showdown with anyone what gits too big for his breeches, Jas’. You, Reb—” he indicated Drew, with a thumb poking through a ragged glove—“supposin’ you jus’ show us what you got in them pockets o’ yourn.”
    Jas’ laughed. “Don’t figure to find anything worth takin’ on a Reb do you, Hatch? Most of ’em are poorer’n dirt.”
    “Now that’s whar you figger wrong, Jas’.” Hatch shook his head as might one deploring the stupidity of the young. “Lotsa them little Reb boys has got somethin’ salted ’way, a nice watch maybe, or a ring or such. Them what comes from th’ big houses kinda hold on to things from home. What you got, Reb?”
    “A gun—in your back!”
    Jas’ spun in a half crouch, his rifle coming up. There was the explosion of a shot, making a deafening clap of thunder in the room. The younger bushwhacker cried out. His rifle lay on the floor, and he was holding a bloody hand. Kirby stood in the doorway, a Colt in each hand. And now Drew produced his own hidden weapon, centering it on Hatch.
    The door burst open for the second time as Simmy was propelled through it, his hands shoulder high, palm out, and empty. Weatherby came behind him, a gun belt slung over one shoulder, two extra revolvers thrust into his own belt.
    “They got Petey,” Simmy gabbled. “Got him wi’ a knife!” His forward rush brought him against the wall, and he made no move to turn around to face them. He could only plaster his body tight to that surface as if he longed to be able to ooze out into safety through one of its many cracks.
    “Shuck