mall pane in an opposite window shattered, the barrel of a
rifle thrust in four inches, covering him. Drew remained where he was,
his left arm thrown protectingly across Boyd.

"Now ain't this somethin'?" The man who had booted in the door was
grinning down at the two on the hearth. He wore a blue coat right
enough, but it was slick with old grease across the chest, stained on
one shoulder, and his breeches were linsey-woolsey, his boots old and
scuffed. And his bush of unkempt hair was covered with a battered hat
topping a woolen scarf wound about ears and neck.

The chill on Drew's spine was a band of ice. This was no
Union trooper. The scout could identify a far worse threat
now--bushwhacker ... guerrilla, one of the jackals who hung on the
fringe of both armies, looting, killing, and changing sides when it
suited their purposes. Such a man was a murderer who would kill another
for a pair of boots, a whole shirt, or the mere whim of the moment.

"Come in, Simmy, we's got us a pair o' Rebs," the man bawled over his
shoulder, and then turned to Drew. "Don't you go gittin' no ideas,
sonny. Jas' thar, he's got a bead right on yuh, an' Jas' he's mighty
good with that rifle gun. Now, you jus' pull out that Colt o' yourn an'
toss it here. Make it fast, too, boy. I'm a mighty unpatient man--"

Drew pulled free the Colt still in its holster, tossing it across the
floor so that it spun against the fellow's boot. The big hairy hand
scooped it up easily and tucked the weapon barrel down in his belt.

A second man, smaller, with a thin face which had an odd lopsided look,
squeezed through the door and sidled along the wall of the room, his
rifle pointed straight at Drew's head. He spat a blotch of tobacco juice
on the hearth, spattering the edge of the top blanket which covered
Boyd.

"What's th' matter wi' him?" he demanded.

"He's sick," Drew returned. "You Union?"

The big man grinned. "Shore, sonny, shore. We is Union ... scouts ...
Union scouts." He repeated that as if pleased by the sound. "An' you is
Rebs, which makes you our prisoners. So he's sick, eh? What's the
matter?"

"I don't know." Drew's fingers were only inches away from the Colt under
the blanket. But he could dare no such move with that rifle covering him
from the window.

"Jas', any sign out thar?" the big man called.

"Petey ain't seen any, jus' two horses." The words came from behind the
still ready rifle.

"Wai, tell him to look round some m