erstand we are about to be favored by a visit from General Morgan?"

Drew dismounted. Now he made a business of squinting up at the sun as if
to tell time. "Not for a while, suh." He remained cautious; though he
guessed that his questioner's sympathies were at least not openly Union.

There was a stir in the gathering crowd. Hart was leaning from his
saddle, talking earnestly to two men flanking him on either side.

"May I offer you some refreshment, gentlemen. I am James Pryor, at your
service--"

Automatically Drew responded to the manners of Red Springs. "Drew
Rennie, suh. Anson Kirby, Boyd Barrett...." He looked around for Hart,
only to see the other disappearing into an alley with his two companions
from the crowd.

"Suh, that's a right heartenin' offer," Kirby said, smiling. "Trail dust
sure does make a man's throat dryer'n an alkali flat!"

"Mark Hale over here has just the answer for that difficulty, gentlemen.
If you will accompany me--"

They left the glare of the sunlit street, following their host into a
small shop where a quantity of strange smells fought for supremacy.
Kirby stared about him puzzled, but his look changed to an expression of
pure bafflement and outrage as Pryor gave his order to the smaller man
who came from a back room.

"Mark, these gentlemen need some of that good lemonade you make--if you
have some cold and ready."

Drew heard Kirby's muffled snort of protest and wanted so badly to laugh
that the struggle to choke off that sound was a pain in his chest. Mr.
Pryor smiled at them blandly.

"M' boys, nothing better on a really hot day than some of Mark's
lemonade. Nothing like it in this part of Kentucky. Ah, that looks like
a draft fit for the gods, Mark, it certainly does!"

Hale had bobbed out of his inner room again, shepherding before him a
Negro boy who walked with exaggerated caution, balancing a tray on which
stood four tall glasses, beaded with visible moisture. There was a
sprig of green mint standing sentry in each.

"Drink up, gentlemen." Under Mr. Pryor's commanding eye they each took a
glass and a first sip.

But it was good--cool as it went slipping down the throat bearing that
blessed chill with it, tart on the tongue, and fresh. Drew had sipped,
but now he gulped, and he noted over the rim of his own glass, that
Kirby was following his example. Mr. Pryor consumed his portion at a
more genteel rate of intake.

"This allays that trail dust of yours, Mr. Kirb