out
sackin' in the bush."

Kirby was back again before they had rigged a blanket stretcher between
two horses.

"The lieutenant says to stay with th' kid till mornin'. He'll send the
doc along as soon as he can find him. Trouble is, we may have to ride on
tomorrow...."

But Drew put that worry out of his mind. No use thinking about tomorrow;
the present moment was the most important. With Weatherby as their
guide, they started off at a walk, heading into the night across
ice-rimmed fields while the rising wind brought frost to bite in the air
they pulled into their lungs.

There was no light showing in the black bulk of the house to which
Weatherby steered them. It was small, hardly better than a cabin, but
the door swung open as Kirby knocked on it; and they could smell the
cold, stale odor of a deserted and none-too-clean dwelling. But it was
shelter, and exploring in the dark, Kirby announced that there was
firewood piled beside the hearth.

By the light of the blaze Weatherby brought alive they found an old
bedstead backed against the wall, a tangle of filthy quilts cascading
from it. One look at them assured Drew that Boyd would be far better
left in his blankets on the floor itself.

The Cherokee scout prowled the room, looking into the rickety wall
cupboards, venturing through another door into a second smaller room,
really a lean-to, and then going up the ladder into a loft.

"They left in a hurry, whoever lived here," he reported. "They left
this--" He held out a dried, shrunken piece of shriveled salt beef.

"We can boil it," Kirby suggested. "Make a kinda broth; it might help
the kid. Any sign of a pot--?"

There was a pot, encrusted with corn-meal remains. Weatherby took it
outside and returned, having scrubbed its interior as clean as possible,
and filling it with a cup or so of water. "There's a well out there."

Boyd was asleep, or at least Drew hoped it was sleep. The boy's face was
flushed, his breathing fast and uneven. But he hadn't coughed for some
time, and Drew began to hope. If he could have a quiet day or two here,
he might be all right. Or else the surgeon could send him along on one
of the wagons for the sick and wounded--the wagons already on the move
south. If the doctor would certify that Boyd was ill....

Weatherby was busily shredding the wood-hard beef into the pot of water.
His busy fingers stopped; his dark eyes were now on the outer door. Drew
stiffened. Kirby's fingers