difficulties but was eyeing Drew in a
manner which suggested he had not accepted the change in their roles as
final. Drew hesitated. He could tie back that wounded hand, too, but he
was sure the other could not use it to any advantage, and Drew could not
bring himself to cause the extra pain such a move would mean. Not that
he had any illusions concerning the bushwhacker's care for him, had
their situation been reversed.

Simmy, once Kirby had gone, moved against the wall, holding up his head
with a sigh of relief. He, too, watched Drew move the furniture. And
when the scout did not pay any attention to him he spoke. "Wotcha gonna
do wi' us, Reb?"

Hatch's eyes, over the gag, were glaring evil; Jas' was watching the two
Confederates with an intent measuring stare; but Simmy wilted a little
when Drew looked at him directly.

"You're prisoners of war. As Union scouts...."

Simmy wriggled uncomfortably, and Drew continued the grilling.

"You _are_ Union scouts?"

"Shore! Shore! We's Union, ain't we, Jas'?" he appealed eagerly to his
fellow.

Jas' neither answered nor allowed his gaze to wander from Drew.

"Then you'll get the usual treatment of a prisoner." Drew was short,
trying to listen for any movement beyond the squalid room. Weatherby was
out there, and Drew put a great deal of trust in the Cherokee's ability.
But what if the "captain" and the remaining members of this outlaw gang
arrived before Kirby returned with help? Seeing that Boyd appeared to be
asleep, Drew once again inspected his weapons, checking the loading of
revolvers and rifle.

Jas's rifle was one of the new Spencers. The Yankees loaded those on
Sunday and fired all week, or so the boys said. It was a fine piece, new
and well cared for. He examined it carefully and then looked up to meet
Jas's flat stare, knowing that the guerrilla's hate was the more bitter
for seeing his prized weapon in the enemy's hands.

The Spencer, Simmy's Enfield, old and not very well kept, five Colts
beside his own, Hatch's bowie knife and another, almost as deadly
looking, which had been found on Jas', equipped Drew with a regular
arsenal. But it was not until he settled down that Drew knew he faced a
far more deadly enemy--sleep. The fatigue he had been able to battle as
long as he was on the move, hit him now with the force of a clubbed
rifle. He knew he dared not even lean back against the wall or relax any
of his vigilance, not so much over the prisoners an