rson to
bring it up. We'll take him to the Letterworth house for now--"

Reeling a little when he tried to walk, Drew found himself sharing the
accommodation of the wagon with Boyd, a canvas slung across them to keep
off the gusts of rain. He fell asleep as they bumped along, unable to
fight off exhaustion any longer.

Twenty-four hours later he was back on duty with the advance. Boyd was
housed in such comfort as any could hope to find, and the cavalry was on
the move. Buford's men were to picket along the Cumberland River. There
was a new feel to the army. Drew sensed it as he rode with the small
headquarters detachment. Empty saddles, too many of them, and the
growing belief--evidenced in mutters passed from man to man--that they
were engaged in a nearly hopeless bid.

Franklin, which for Drew had been a wild gallop across some fields, a
strip of cloth seized from the enemy to set beneath a guidon of their
own, had been a major disaster for the Army of the Tennessee. Forrest's
energy and drive kept the cavalry a sharp-edged weapon, still to be used
with telling effect. But they all sensed the clouds gathering over their
heads, not those laden with the eternal chill rain, but ones which
carried with them a coming night.

It was so cold that men had to use both hands to cock their revolvers.
And Drew saw Croff swing from the saddle, draw his belt knife to cut the
hoof from a dead horse. The Cherokee glanced up as he looped his grisly
trophy to his saddle horn.

"Need the shoe," he explained briefly. "Runner has one worn pretty
thin." He patted the drooping neck of his mount.

Hannibal walked around the dead horse carefully. The mule was only a
skeleton copy of the sturdy, well-cared-for animal Drew had ridden out
of Cadiz. But he would keep going until he dropped, and his rider knew
it.

"Any trace of Weatherby?" Drew asked. The disappearance of the other
Cherokee scout at the cabin battle had continued as a mystery for their
own small company. None of those who had known him could credit the
Indian being taken unawares by the guerrilla force. He had vanished
somewhere in the dark of the night, and none of their searching a day
later, interrupted by orders to move, had turned up a clue.

"Not yet," Croff answered. "He may have made too wide a circle and run
into a Yankee picket. Someday, perhaps, we shall know. Look there!"

From their screen of cover they watched a blue cavalry patrol trot along
a lane.