in their turn, cutting
savagely at the Union flanks, herding the dismounted Yankees back
through the lines of their horse holders as the Morgan men had been
driven at Cynthiana. Wild with fright, horses lunged, reared, tore free
from men, and raced in and out, many to be caught by the gray coats. It
was a rout and they pushed the Union troops back, snapping up
prisoners, horses, equipment--whipping out like a thrown net to sweep
back laden with spoil.

These attackers were the rear guard of a badly beaten army, but they did
not act that way. They rode, fought, and out-maneuvered their enemies as
if they were the fresh advance of a superior invading force. And the
swift, hard blows they aimed bought not only time for those they
defended, but also the respect, the irritated concern of the men they
turned time and time again to fight against.

Having pushed Wilson's troopers well back, the Confederates withdrew
once more to the creek, waiting for what might be a second assault. They
ate, if they were lucky enough to have rations, and rested their horses.
Corn was long gone, so mounts were fed on withered leaves pulled from
field shocks, from any possible forage a man could find.

Drew led the gaunt rack of bones that was Hannibal to the creek, letting
the mule lip the water. But it was plain the animal was failing. Drew
shifted his saddle from that bony back to one of the horses they had
gathered in during the morning. But the Yankee gelding was little
improvement. In the mud, constantly cut by ice, too wet most of the
time, a horse's hoofs rotted on its feet. And the dead animals, many of
them put out of their misery by their riders, marked with patches of
black, brown, gray, the path of the army. A man had to harden himself to
that suffering, just as he had to harden himself to all the other
miseries of war.

War was boredom, and it was also quick, exciting action such as they had
had that morning. It was fighting gunboats along the river; it was the
heat and horror of that slope at Harrisburg, the cold and horror of
Franklin. It was riding with men such as Anson Kirby, being a part of a
fluid weapon forged and used well by a commander such as Bedford
Forrest. It was a way of life....

The scout's hand paused in his currying of Hannibal as that idea struck
him for the first time. Now he thought he could understand why Red
Springs and all it stood for was so removed and meaningless, was lost in
the dim past. To Dre