ch punishing riding in Illinois,
Ohio, and Kentucky. The signs could be read, and as Drew spurred along
that faltering line of march late that night, carrying a message, he
felt a creeping chill which was not born of the night wind nor a warning
of swamp fever.

Before daylight there was another halt. He had to let Shawnee pick his
own careful path around and through groups of dismounted men sleeping
with their weapons still belted on, their mounts, heads drooping,
standing sentinel.

Saturday's dawn, and the advance had plowed ahead to the forks of the
road some three miles out of Cynthiana. One brigade moved directly
toward the town; the second--with a detachment of scouts--headed down
the right-hand road to cross the Licking River and move in upon the
enemies' rear. From the hill they could sight a stone-fence barricade
glistening with the metal of waiting musket barrels. Then, suddenly, the
old miracle came. Men who had clung through the hours to their saddles
by sheer will power alone, tightened their lines and were alertly alive.

The ear-stinging, throat-scratching Yell screeched high over the pound
of the artillery, the vicious spat of Minie balls. A whip length of
dusty gray-brown lashed forward, flanking the stone barrier. Blue-coated
men wavered, broke, ran for the bridge, heading into the streets of the
town. The gray lash curled around a handful of laggards and swept them
into captivity.

Then the brigade thundered on, driving the enemy back before they could
reform, until the Yankees holed up in the courthouse, the depot, a
handful of houses. Before eight o'clock it was all over, and the
confidence of the weary raiders was back. They had showed 'em!

Drew had the usual mixture of sharp scenes to remember as his small
portion of the engagement while he spurred Shawnee on past the blaze
which was spreading through the center of the town, licking out for more
buildings no one seemed to have the organization nor the will to save.
He was riding with the advance of Giltner's brigade, double-quicking it
downriver to Keller's Bridge. In town the Yankees were prisoners, but
here a long line, with heavy reserves in wedges of blue behind, strung
out across open fields.

Once more the Yell arose in sharp ululating wails, and the ragged line
swept from the road, tightening into a semblance of the saber blades
Morgan's men disdained to use ... clashed.... Then, after what seemed
like only a moment's jarring pause