long depended upon Union commissaries for equipment,
clothing, and food. And a horse trade was something forced upon him by
expediency. But he still shrank from this kind of foraging.

"A shirt?" he asked wearily.

The man glanced from that crumpled bill to Drew's tired face and then
back again. The sneer faded. He reached out, closed the scout's fingers
tight over the money.

"That's just wastepaper here, son. Come on!" Catching hold of Drew's
sleeve so tightly that the worn calico gave in a rip, he guided the
other into the store, drawing him along behind a counter until he
reached down into the shadows and came up with a pile of shirts, some
flannel, some calico, and one Drew thought was linen.

"These look about your size. Take 'em! You might as well have them. Some
of these fellows will just tear them up for the fun of it."

Drew fumbled with the pile, a flannel, the linen, and two calico. He
could cram that many into his saddlebags. But the store owner thrust the
whole bundle into his arms.

"Go ahead, take 'em all! They ain't goin' to leave 'em, anyway."

"Thanks!" Drew clutched the collection to his chest and edged back along
the wall, avoiding a spirited fight now in progress in the center of
the store. Mud-spattered men came bursting back, wanting to change their
now ruined clothing for fresh. Drew stiff-armed one reeling, singing
trooper out of his path and was gone before the drunken man could resent
such handling. With the shirts still balled between forearm and chest,
he led King away from the store.

"Ovah heah!"

That hail in a familiar voice brought Drew's head around. Kirby waved to
him vigorously from a doorway, and the scout obediently rehitched King
to another rack, joining the Texan in what proved to be the village
barber-shop.

Kirby was stripped to the waist, using a towel freely sopped in a large
basin to make his toilet. His face was already scraped clean of beard,
and his hair plastered down into better order than Drew had ever seen
it, while violent scents of bay rum and fancy tonics fought it out in
the small room.

"What you got there?" Boyd looked up from a second basin, a froth of
soap hiding most of his face.

"Shirts--" Drew dropped his bundle on a chair. He was staring, appalled,
into the stretch of mirror confronting him, unable to believe that the
face reflected there was his own. Skinning his hat onto a shelf, he
moved purposefully toward the row of basins, ripping o