uers might have needed.
Confident they were now going to gather in at least two bushwhackers,
the shouting behind took on a premature shrilling of triumph. There was
a blast of shooting, and Drew marveled that neither man nor horse was
hit again.

He was into the mouth of the gorge, still leading Kirby's horse, but a
glance told him that the Texan would not be able to hold on much longer.
He was gray-white under his tan, and his head bobbed from side to side
with the rocking of the horse's running stride.

Their pursuers pulled pace a little, maybe fearing a trap. Drew gained a
few precious seconds by the headlong pace he had set from the time Kirby
had been wounded. But they dared not try to get up the steep sides of
the cut now.

He dared not erupt into the bushwhacker campsite, or could he? If Croff
and Webb were now making their way to the heights above, ready to fire
into the camp as they had planned, wouldn't that keep the men there busy
and cover his own break into the valley?

He heard firing again; this time the sound was ahead of him. Croff and
Webb were starting action, which meant that the Yankees would be drawn
on to see what was up. Kirby's horse was running beside Hannibal. The
Texan's eyes were closed, his left shoulder and upper sleeve bloody.

Riding neck and neck, they burst out of the gorge as rifle bullets
propelled from a barrel. The impetus of that charge carried them across
an open strip. There were yells ... shots.... But Drew's attention was
on keeping Kirby in the saddle.

Hannibal hit a brush wall and tore through it. Branches whipped back at
them with force enough to throw riders.

Kirby was swept off, gone before Drew could catch him. Then Hannibal
gave a wild bray of pain and terror. He reared and Drew lost grasp of
the bay's reins. The riderless horse drove ahead while Drew tried to
control the mule and turn him.

Tossing his head high, Hannibal brayed again. A man scuttled out of the
brush, and Drew only half saw the figure snap a shot at him.

He was aware of the sickening impact of a blow in his middle, of the
fact that suddenly he could pull no air into his straining lungs. The
reins were out of his hands, but somehow he continued to cling to the
saddle as the mule leaped ahead. Then under Hannibal's hoofs the ground
gave way, both of them tumbling into the icy stream. And for Drew there
was instant blackness, shutting out the need for breath, the terrible
agony which shook