uld be new to the district, even green in the army.

The Yankee sergeant was past Kirby's post now, and after him the first
two of his squad. He paid no attention to the bushes.

Webb's carbine and Kirby's Colts cracked in what seemed like a single
spat of sound. One of the troopers in the rear shouted, grabbing at a
point high on his shoulder, the other one was thrown as his horse
reared, its upraised forefeet striking another man from the saddle as he
endeavored to turn his mount.

Drew fired, and saw the sergeant's carbine fall as he caught at the
saddle horn, his arm hanging limp.

"Surrender!" As Drew shouted that order into the tangle below, he leaped
to the right. A single shot clipped through the bushes where he had
been, answered by a blast from Webb.

Then hands were up, men stared white-faced and sullen at the fence
behind which might be a whole company of the enemy. Drew came into the
open, the Spencer he had taken from Jas' covering the sergeant. For the
expression on the noncom's face suggested that, wounded as he was, he
would like nothing better than to carry on the struggle--with Drew as
his principal target.

"Go ahead, get it over with!" He spat at Drew.

For a second Drew was bewildered, and then he suddenly guessed that the
Union soldier expected to be shot out of hand.

His anger was hot. "We don't shoot prisoners!"

"No? The evidence is not in favor of that statement," the Yankee spoke
dryly, his accent and choice of words that of an educated man.

"What brand you think we're wearin', fella?" Kirby had come out of
concealment, his Colt steady on the captives.

"Guerrillas, I'd say," the sergeant returned hardily. Drew realized then
that their mixture of clothing must have stamped them as the very
outlaws they wanted to hunt down, as far as the Union troopers were
concerned.

"Now that's wheah you're sure jumpin' your fences," Kirby's half grin
vanished. "We're General Forrest's men, not guerrillas. Or ain't you
never heard tell of Forrest's Cavalry? Seems like anyone wearin' blue
an' forkin' a hoss ought to know who's been chasin' him to Hell an' gone
over most of Tennessee. Lucky I ain't in a sod-pawin' mood, hombre, or I
might jus' want to see how a blue-belly sarge looks without an ear on
his thick skull, or maybe try a few Comanche tricks of hair trimmin'!
Guerrillas--!"

The Union sergeant glanced from Kirby and Drew to his own men. One was
sitting on the edge of the road, nur