The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

the ground told him they were to expect company. There was the regular thud of horses’ hoofs, the sound of mounts ridden in company and at an even pace. The only remaining question was whether it was a Union patrol and small enough for the four of them to handle.
    One, two…two more…five of them, topping a small rise. A cavalry patrol…and the odds were not too impossible.
    Drew sighted sergeant’s stripes on the leader’s jacket. It would depend upon how alert that noncom was. Wilson was drawing in new levies, so these men could be new to the district, even green in the army.
    The Yankee sergeant was past Kirby’s post now, and after him the first two of his squad. He paid no attention to the bushes.
    Webb’s carbine and Kirby’s Colts cracked in what seemed like a single spat of sound. One of the troopers in the rear shouted, grabbing at a point high on his shoulder, the other one was thrown as his horse reared, its upraised forefeet striking another man from the saddle as he endeavored to turn his mount.
    Drew fired, and saw the sergeant’s carbine fall as he caught at the saddle horn, his arm hanging limp.
    “Surrender!” As Drew shouted that order into the tangle below, he leaped to the right. A single shot clipped through the bushes where he had been, answered by a blast from Webb.
    Then hands were up, men stared white-faced and sullen at the fence behind which might be a whole company of the enemy. Drew came into the open, the Spencer he had taken from Jas’ covering the sergeant. For the expression on the noncom’s face suggested that, wounded as he was, he would like nothing better than to carry on the struggle—with Drew as his principal target.
    “Go ahead, get it over with!” He spat at Drew.
    For a second Drew was bewildered, and then he suddenly guessed that the Union soldier expected to be shot out of hand.
    His anger was hot. “We don’t shoot prisoners!”
    “No? The evidence is not in favor of that statement,” the Yankee spoke dryly, his accent and choice of words that of an educated man.
    “What brand you think we’re wearin’, fella?” Kirby had come out of concealment, his Colt steady on the captives.
    “Guerrillas, I’d say,” the sergeant returned hardily. Drew realized then that their mixture of clothing must have stamped them as the very outlaws they wanted to hunt down, as far as the Union troopers were concerned.
    “Now that’s wheah you’re sure jumpin’ your fences,” Kirby’s half grin vanished. “We’re General Forrest’s men, not guerrillas. Or ain’t you never heard tell of Forrest’s Cavalry? Seems like anyone wearin’ blue an’ forkin’ a hoss ought to know who’s been chasin’ him to Hell an’ gone over most of Tennessee. Lucky I ain’t in a sod-pawin’ mood, hombre, or I might jus’ want to see how a blue-belly sarge looks without an ear on his thick skull, or maybe try a few Comanche tricks of hair trimmin’! Guerrillas—!”
    The Union sergeant glanced from Kirby and Drew to his own men. One was sitting on the edge of the road, nursing his head between his hands. Another had his hand to his shoulder, and the sticky red of fresh blood showed between his fingers. The two others, very young, stood nervously, their hands high. If the Yankee noncom was thinking of trying something, his material was not promising. Drew broke the moment of silence with a warning.
    “You’re surrounded, subject to fire from both sides, Sergeant! I suggest surrender. You will be treated as prisoners of war and given parole. We are from General Forrest’s command. We’re scouts. Believe me, if we had wished to, we could have shot every one of you out of the saddle before you knew we were here. Guerrillas would have done just that.”
    The logic of that argument reached the Union sergeant. He still eyed Drew straightly, but there was a ruefulness rather than hostile defiance in his voice as he asked:
    “What do you plan to do with us?”
    “Nothing.” Drew was crisp. “Give us your parole, leave your arms, your horses, your rations—if you are carrying any. Then you are free to go.”
    “We’ve been ordered not to take parole,” the sergeant objected.
    “General Forrest hasn’t given any orders not to grant it,” Drew countered. “As far as I am concerned, you can take it, we’ll accept your word.”
    “All right.” The other dismounted awkwardly, and with one hand unbuckled his saber, dropping his belt and gun.
    Kirby went among the