d to know. "Another
bearer-of-the-flag stunt?"

"Is Cadiz a Union town?" Drew asked Hart.

The other laughed. "Not much, it ain't. This is tobacco country; you
seen that for yourself today. An' there's guerrillas to give the Yankees
trouble. They hole up in the Brelsford Caves, six or seven miles outta
town. We can ride right in, and there ain't nobody gonna care."

"Nice to know these things ahead'a time," Kirby remarked. "So we ride
in--lookin' for what?"

Hart glanced at Drew but remained silent. The scout shrugged.
"Information about the rivers and any stray garrison news. You have kin
here, Hart?"

"Some." But the other did not elaborate on that.

Drew was thinking about those guerrillas; their presence did not match
Hart's story about the Yankee gold in the bank. Such irregulars would
have been after that long ago. He didn't know why Hart had pitched
Campbell such a tale, but he was dubious about the whole setup now.
Better make this a quick trip in--and out--of town.

7

_A Mule for a River_

For a Confederate patrol, they looked respectable enough as they rode
into Cadiz. Though they lacked the uniformity of a Yankee squad, their
dark shirts, "impressed" breeches, and good boots gave an impression of
a common dress, and Kirby had even acquired a hat.

They slung their captured rifles before entering town and progressed at
a quiet amble which suggested good will. But there was no mistaking the
fact that they attracted attention, immediately and to some purpose. A
small boy, balancing on a fence, put his fingers to his mouth and
released a piercing whistle.

King's response to that was vigorous. Rearing, until he stood almost
upright on his hind feet, the stallion pawed the air. Drew barely kept
his seat. He fought with all his knowledge of horsemanship to bring the
stud back to earth and under control. And he could hear Kirby's laugh
and Boyd calling out some inarticulate warning or advice.

"Better git that mule--or run down this one's mainspring some," the
Texan said when Drew had King again with four feet on the ground, though
weaving in a sideways dance.

"You men--what are you doing here?" A horseman looked over the heads of
the crowd to the four troopers.

"Passin' through, suh. Leastwise we was, until greeted--" Kirby answered
courteously.

Drew assessed the questioner's well-cut riding clothes, his good linen,
and fine gloves. The rider was middle-aged, his authority more evide