The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

treasure; we sure enough has!” He was immediately the core of a group eager to share in his find. The driver half raised his whip. Kirby brought his horse closer to the wagon, caught at the lash, pulling the stock out of the other’s hands with a quick jerk.
    “Reckon the boys must have lighted on your own private cache, eh, fella? Don’t hump your tail none ’bout it. They ain’t in no mood to listen to any palaver on the subject. Better ride it out peaceablelike.”
    “Much obliged, Sarge.” The original finder of the treasure trove broke from the circle and handed Drew some crackers. “The boys want you should have a taste, too.”
    Drew laughed and began sharing the windfall with the scouts.
    “Better break it up, soldiers. The General wants us on the move.”
    They were already busy throwing the last articles out of the wagon, settling in. Barefoot, cold, hungry, until the last few minutes, they were Forrest’s indomitable rear guard, riding between brisk spats with the enemy.
    Kirby tested the edge of a cracker between his teeth as they trotted on in search for another wagon to turn over to the infantry.
    “This heah army is bound to git mounted, one way or the other,” he commented. “Hope we have some more luck like that in the next wagon, too.”
    CHAPTER 14
    Hell in Tennessee
    “At least we have that river between us now,” Drew said. Behind them was Columbia, where Forrest had bought them precious hours of traveling time with his truce to discuss a prisoner exchange. Along the banks of the now turbulent Duck River not a bridge or boat remained to aid their pursuers. Buford’s Scouts had had a hand in that precaution.
    “Yeah, an’ Forrest’s waitin’ for the Yankees to try an’ smoke him out. It’s ’bout like puttin’ your hand in a rattler’s den to git him by the tail, I’d say. But I’d feel a mite safer was theah an ocean between us. Funny, a man is all randy with his tail up when he’s doin’ the chasin’, but you git mighty dry-mouthed an’ spooky when the cards is slidin’ the other way ’crost the table. Seems like we has been chased back an’ forth over these heah rivers so much, they ought to know us by now. An’ be a little more obligin’ an’ do some partin’, like in that old Bible story—let us through on dry land. Man, how I could do with some dry land!” Kirby spoke with unusual fervor.
    Croff laughed. “No use hopin’ for that. Anyways, we have business ahead.”
    Just as they had rounded up wagons to transport the infantry between skirmishes, so now they were on the hunt for oxen to move the guns. The bogs—miscalled “roads” on their maps—demanded more animal power than the worn-out horses and mules of the army could supply. Oxen had to be impressed from the surrounding farms for use in moving the wagons and fieldpieces relay fashion, with those teams sometimes struggling belly deep. Having pulled one section to a point ahead, they were driven back to bring up the rear of the train.
    “Not enough ice on the ground; it’s rainin’ it now!” Kirby’s shoulders were hunched, his head forward between them as if, tortoisewise, he wanted to withdraw into a nonexistent protecting shell.
    “Just be glad,” Drew answered, “you ain’t walkin’. I saw an ox fall back there a ways. Before it was hardly dead the men were at it, rippin’ off the hide to cover their feet—bleedin’ feet!”
    “Oh, I’m not complainin’,” the Texan said. “M’boots still cover me, anyway. Me, I’m thankful for what I got—can even sing ’bout it.”
    His soft, clear baritone caroled out:
    “And now I’m headin’ southward, my heart is full of woe,I’m goin’ back to Georgia to find my Uncle Joe,You may talk about your Beauregard an’ sing of General Lee,But the gallant Hood of Texas played Hell in Tennessee.”
    Some sardonic Texan, anonymous in the defeated forces, had first chanted those words to the swinging march of his western command—“The Yellow Rose of Texas”—and they had been passed from company to company, squad to squad, by men who had always been a little distrustful of Hood, men who had looked back to the leadership of General Johnston as a good time when they actually seemed to be getting somewhere with this endless-seeming war.
    There was a soft echo from somewhere—”…played Hell in Tennessee-ee-ee.”
    “Sure did,” Webb commented. “But this country comin’ up now ain’t gonna favor the blue bellies