ad torn at him were
eased. He still had a dull ache through his middle, but there was warm
pressure over it, comforting and good. He sighed, fearful that a sudden
movement might cause the sharp pains to return.

Then he was moved, his head was raised, and something hard pressed
against his lower lip so that he opened his mouth in reflex. Hot liquid
lapped over his tongue. He swallowed and the warmth which had been on
the outside was now within him as well, traveling down his throat into
his stomach.

More warmth, this time on his forehead. Drew forced his eyes open.
Memory stirred, too dim to be more than a teasing uneasiness. Action was
necessary, important action. He focused his eyes on a brown face bearing
a scruff of beard on cheeks and chin.

"Webb...." It was very slow, that process of matching face to name. But
once he had done it, memory brightened.

"What happened--?"

They had ridden into the guerrilla camp site, he and Kirby, with the
Yankees on their heels. Painfully he could recall that. Then, later he
had been lying half in, half out of a creek, sicker than he had ever
been in his life. And Hannibal ... he had shot Hannibal!

Webb's hand came out of the half dark, holding the tin cup to his mouth
again.

"Drink up!" the other ordered sharply.

Drew obeyed. But he was not so far under, now. Objects around him took
on clarity. He was lying on the ground, not too far from a fire, and
there were walls. Was he in a cabin?

There had been a cabin before, but he had not been the sick one then.
The guerrillas!

"Bushwhackers?" He got that out more clearly. A shadow which had
substance, moved behind Webb. Croff's strongly marked features were
lined by the light.

"Dead ... or the Yankees have them."

Webb was making him drink again. With the other supporting his head and
shoulders, Drew was able to survey his body. A blanket was wrapped
tightly about his legs, and over his chest and middle a wet wad of
material steamed. When Webb laid him flat again, the two men, working
together, wrung out another square of torn blanket, and substituted its
damp heat for the one which had been cooling against him.

"What's the ... matter--? Shot?"

Croff reached to bring into the firelight a belt strap. Dangling it, he
held the buckle-end in Drew's line of vision. The plate was split, and
embedded in it was an object as big as Drew's thumb and somewhat
resembling it in shape.

"We took this off you," the Chero