They had worked their way around the edge of the cornfield, and now they could look out on a hard-surfaced road which must be the pike. Riding along that in good order were a company of men—thirty, Drew counted. And four of those had extra horses on leading reins. He also saw ten carbines ... and the owners of those were alert.
"Stand where you are!" The slight man leading that skeleton troop posted ahead. His shell jacket had the three yellow bars of a captain on its standing collar, and Drew saluted. This was the first group of fugitives he had seen who were more than frightened men running their horses and themselves into exhaustion.
"Rennie, Private, Quirk's Scouts," Drew reported himself.
Kirby's salute was delivered with less snap but as promptly. "Kirby, Private, Gano's."
"Captain William Campbell," the officer identified himself crisply. "Any more of you?" He looked to Boyd and then at the cornfield beyond.
"Barrett's a volunteer," Drew explained. This was no time to clarify Boyd's exact status. "There're just the three of us."
"You headin' somewheah special, Cap'n?" the Texan asked. "Or jus' travelin' for your continued health?"
Campbell laughed. "You might call it that, Kirby. But if we stick together, I think all of us may stay healthy."
Kirby turned his horse into the pike. "Sounds like a good argument to me, suh. You have any idea wheah at we are, or wheah we could be headin'?"
"Northwest is the best I can say. If we strike far enough to the west, we may be able to flank the troops spread out to keep us away from the river. Best plan for now, anyway. And the more men we can pick up, the better."