nsuming
Harrisburg, Drew saw other such lights in the night, threading along the
slope. This was the heartbreaking search, among the dead, for the
living, who might yet be brought back to the agony of the field
hospitals. He was not the only one hunting through the human wreckage
tonight.

"I've talked to Johnson," Kirby said. "It'll be like huntin' for a steer
in the big brush, but we can only try."

They could only try ... Drew thought he was hardened to sights, sounds.
He had helped bring wounded away from other fields, but somehow this was
different. Yet, oddly enough, the thought that Boyd could be--_must_
be--lying somewhere on that slope stiffened Drew, quickened his muscles
back into obedience, kept him going at a steady pace as he led Hannibal
carefully through the tangle of the dead. Twice they found and freed the
still living, saw them carried away by search parties. And they were
working their way closer to the breastworks.

"Ho--there--Johnny!"

The call came out of the dark, out of the wall hiding the Yankee forces.

Drew straightened from a sickening closer look at three who had fallen
together.

"Johnny!" The call was louder, rising over the din from the burning
town. "One, one of yours--he's been callin' out some ... to your left
now."

Kirby held up the lantern. The circle of light spread, catching on a
spurred boot. That tiny glint of metal moved, or was it the booted foot
which had twitched?

Drew strode forward as Kirby swung the lantern in a wider arc. The man
on the ground lay on his back, his hands moving feebly to tear at the
already rent shirt across his chest. There was a congealed mass of blood
on one leg just above the boot top. Drew knew that flushed and swollen
face in spite of its distortion; they had found what they had been
searching for.

Kirby pulled those frantic hands away from the strips of calico, the
scratched flesh beneath, but there was no wound there. The leg injury
Drew learned by quick examination was not too bad a one. And they could
discover no other hurt; only the delirium, the flushed face, and the
fast breathing suggested worse trouble.

"Sun, maybe." Kirby transferred his hold to the rolling head, vising it
still between his hands while Drew dripped a scanty stream of the
unpalatable water from the Texan's canteen onto Boyd's crusted, gaping
lips.

"I'll mount Hannibal. You hold him!" Drew said. "He can't stay in the
saddle by himself."

Somehow they