en the flames looked
cold--stunted somehow--not because there had not been enough wood to
feed them, but because the fire itself was old and tired. Blinking at
the flames, he stood still, unaware of the fact that he was swaying on
feet planted a little apart. He could not move, not of his own volition.

Someone coughed in the shadow fringe beyond the light of those tired
flames. It was a short hard cough, the kind which hurt Drew's ears as
much as its tearing must have hurt the throat which harbored it. He
turned his head a fraction to see the bundle of blankets housing the
cougher. Then the reins of mule and horse were twisted from his stiff
fingers, and Kirby's drawl broke through the coughing.

"You, Larange, take 'em back to the picket line, will you?"

The Texan's hands closed about Drew's upper arms just below the arch of
his shoulders, steered him on, and then pressed him down into the
limited range of the fire's heat. From somewhere a tin plate
materialized, and was in Drew's hold. He regarded its contents with eyes
which had trouble focusing.

A thick liquid curled stickily back and forth across the surface of the
plate as he strove to hold it level with trembling hands. Into the
middle of that lake Kirby dropped white squares of Yankee crackers, and
the pungent smell of molasses reached Drew's nostrils, making his mouth
water.

Snatching at the crackers, he crammed his mouth with a dripping square
coated with molasses. As he began to chew he knew that nothing before
that moment had ever tasted so good, been so much an answer to all the
disasters of the day. The world shrank; it was now the size of a
battered tin plate smeared with molasses and the crumbs of stale
crackers.

Drew downed the mass avidly. Kirby was beside him again, a steaming tin
cup ready.

"This ain't nothin' but hotted water. But maybe it can make you think
you're drinkin' somethin' more interestin'."

With the tin cup in his hands, Drew discovered he could pay better
attention to his surroundings. He glanced around the small circle of men
who messed together. There was Larange, coming back from the horse
lines, Webb, the Tennesseean from the mountains, Croff and Weatherby,
Cherokees of the Indian Nations, and Kirby, of course. But--Drew was
searching beyond the Texan for the other who should be there.

Absently he sipped the hot water, almost afraid to ask a question. Then,
just because of his inner fears, he forced out the words: