"Where's
Boyd?"

When Kirby did not answer, Drew's head lifted. He put down his cup and
caught the Texan's arm.

"He made it out of town; I know that. But where _is_ he?"

"Ovah theah." Kirby nodded at the blanket-wrapped figure in the shadows.
"Seems like he ain't feelin' too well...."

Drew wasted no time in getting to his feet. On his hands and knees, he
scrambled across the space separating him from the roll of blankets. His
questing hand smoothed across a ragged bullet tear in the top one,
recognizing it to be Kirby's by that mark. The pale oval of Boyd's face
turned toward him.

"What's the matter, boy?"

Drew could hear the other's harsh, fast breathing just as he had when
they had found the injured boy at Harrisburg. Drew's fingers touched a
burning-hot cheek.

"Got ... me ... sniffles." Boyd's mumble ended in another bout of those
sharp coughs. "'Member--sniffles? Hot soup an' bricks in bed, an' onion
cloth for the throat...." He repeated all the Oak Hill remedies for a
severe cold.

Bricks to warm the bed, hot soup of Mam Gusta's expert concocting, a
thick onion poultice to ease the pain in throat and chest and draw out
inflammation: every one of those were as far beyond reach now as Oak
Hill itself! For a moment Drew was gripped with a panic born of utter
frustration.

"Shelly? You there, Shelly?" Boyd's hoarse voice came from the dark.
"I'm sure thirsty, Shelly!"

Drew turned his head. Kirby had been behind him, but now the Texan was
back to the fire, ladling more hot water out of the pot. When he
returned, Weatherby was with him. Drew slipped his arm under that
restlessly turning head to support the boy while the Texan held the tin
cup to Boyd's lips. They got a few mouthfuls into him before he turned
his head away with a ghost of some of his old petulance.

"I'm hungry, Shelly. Tell Mam Gusta...."

Weatherby squatted down on the other side of Boyd's limp body and put
his hand to the boy's forehead.

"Fever."

"Yes." Drew knew that much.

"There's a farmhouse two miles that way." Weatherby nodded to the south.
"Maybe nobody there, but it will be cover--"

"You can find it?" Drew demanded.

The Cherokee scout answered quickly. "Yes. You tell the lieutenant, and
we'll go there."

Kirby's hand rested on Drew's shoulder for a moment. "I'll track down
Traggart. You and Weatherby here get the kid into that cover as quick as
you can. This ain't no weather for an hombre with a cough to be