Part 2 (1/2)
”... worth a try ...” that was Quirk.
But when the three had cantered on into the mouth of the street the scout captain turned his head to the waiting shadows. ”Rennie, Bruce, Croxton ... give them cover!”
Drew sent Shawnee on, his carbine resting ready across his saddle. The streets were quiet enough, too quiet. These dark houses showed no signs of life, but surely the Yankees were not so confident that they would not have any pickets posted. And Fort Clay had its garrison....
Then that ominous silence was broken by Castleman's call: ”Bearer of flag of truce!”
”... Morgan's men?” A woman called from a window up ahead, her voice so low pitched Drew heard only a word or two. Castleman answered her before he gave the warning:
”Battery down the street, boys. Take to the sidewalks!”
A lantern bobbed along in their direction. Drew had a glimpse of a blue-uniformed arm above it. A moment later Castleman rode back. One of his companions swerved close-by, and Drew recognized Key Morgan, the General's brother.
”They say, 'No surrender.'”
Perhaps that was what they said. But the skirmishers were now drifting into town. Orders snapped from man to man through the dark. The crackle of small-arms fire came sporadically, to be followed by the heavier _boom-boom_ as cannon b.a.l.l.s from Fort Clay ricocheted through the streets, the Yankees being forced back into the protection of that stronghold. Riders threaded through alleys and cross streets; lamps flared up in house windows. There was a pounding on doors, and shouted greetings. Fire made a splash of angry color at the depot, to be answered with similar blazes at the warehouses.
”Spur up those crowbaits of yours, boys!” Quirk rounded up the scouts.
”We're out for horses--only the best, remember that!”
Out of the now aroused Lexington just as daylight was gray overhead, they were on the road to Ashland. If Red Springs might have proved poor picking, John Clay's stables did not. One sleek thoroughbred after another was led from the stalls while Quirk fairly purred.
”Skedaddle! Would you believe it? Here's Skedaddle, himself, just aching to show heels to the blue bellies, ain't you?” He greeted the great racer. ”Now that's the sort of stuff we need! Give us another chase across the Ohio clean up to Canada with a few like him under us. Sweep 'em clean and get going! The General wants to see the catch before noon.”
Drew watched the mounts being led down the lane. Beautiful, yes, but to his mind not one of them was the equal of the gray colt he had seen at Red Springs. Now that was a horse! And he was not tempted now to strip his saddle off Shawnee and transfer to any one of the princes of equine blood pa.s.sing him by. He knew the roan, and Shawnee knew his job. Knows more about the work than I do sometimes, Drew thought.
”You, Rennie!”
Drew swung Shawnee to the left as Quirk hailed him.
”Take point out on the road. Just like some stubborn Yankee to try and cut away a nice little catch like this.”
”Yes, sir.” Drew merely sketched a salute; discipline was always free and easy in the Scouts.
The day was warm. He was glad he had managed to find a lightweight s.h.i.+rt back at the warehouse in town. If they didn't win Lexington to keep, at least all of the raiders were going to ride out well-mounted, with boots on their feet and whole clothing on their backs. The Union quartermasters did just fine by Morgan's boys, as always.
Shawnee's ears went forward alertly, but Drew did not need that signal of someone's approaching. He backed into the shadow-shade of a tree and sat tense, with Colt in hand.
A horse nickered. There was the whirr of wheels. Drew edged Shawnee out of cover and then quickly holstered his weapon, riding out to bring to a halt the carriage horse between the shafts of an English dogcart.
He pulled off his dust-grayed hat. ”Good mornin', Aunt Marianna.”
Such a polite greeting--the same words he would have used three years ago had they met in the hall of Red Springs on their way to breakfast.
He wanted to laugh, or was it really laughter which lumped in his throat?
Her momentary expression of outrage faded as she leaned forward to study his face, and she relaxed her first half-threatening grip on her whip.
Though Aunt Marianna had never been a beauty, her present air of a.s.surance and authority became her, just as the smart riding habit was better suited to her somewhat angular frame than the ruffles and bows of the drawing room.
”Drew!” Her recognition of his ident.i.ty had come more slowly than Boyd's, and it sounded almost wary.