uregard an' sing of General Lee,
But the gallant Hood of Texas played Hell in Tennessee."

Some sardonic Texan, anonymous in the defeated forces, had first chanted
those words to the swinging march of his western command--"The Yellow
Rose of Texas"--and they had been passed from company to company, squad
to squad, by men who had always been a little distrustful of Hood, men
who had looked back to the leadership of General Johnston as a good time
when they actually seemed to be getting somewhere with this
endless-seeming war.

There was a soft echo from somewhere--"...played Hell in
Tennessee-ee-ee."

"Sure did," Webb commented. "But this country comin' up now ain't gonna
favor the blue bellies none."

He was right. Both sides of the turnpike over which the broken army
dragged its way south were heavily wooded, and the road threaded through
a bewildering maze of narrow valleys, gorges, and ravines--just the type
of territory made for defensive ambushes to rock reckless Yankees out of
their saddles. The turnpike was to be left for the use of the rear guard
of fighting men, while the wagon trains and straggling mass of the
disorganized Army of the Tennessee split up to follow the dirt roads
toward Bainbridge and the Tennessee River.

"Know somethin'?" Webb demanded suddenly, hours later, as they were on
their way back with their hard-found quota of oxen and protesting owners
and drivers. "This heah's Christmas Eve--tomorrow's Christmas! Ain't had
a chance to count up the days till now."

"Sounds like we is gonna have us a present--from the Yankees. Hear that,
amigos?" Kirby rose in his stirrups, facing into the wind.

They could hear it right enough, the sharp spatter of rifle and musket
fire, the deeper sound of field guns. It was a clamor they had listened
to only too often lately, but now it was forceful enough to suggest that
this was more than just a skirmish.

Having seen their oxen into the hands of the teamsters, they settled
down to the best pace they could get from their mounts. But before they
reached the scene of action they caught the worst of the news from the
wounded men drifting back.

"... saw him carried off myself," a thin man, with a bandaged arm thrust
into the front of his jacket, told them. "Th' Yankees got 'cross
Richland Creek and flanked us. General Buford got it then."

Drew leaned from his saddle to demand the most important answer. "How
bad?" Abram Buford might not have had the