They pulled rein in front of the inn and sat their horses facing the door through which the soldier had disappeared. His fellows edged around the trough and stood in a straggling line to front the Confederates.
"You!" Drew caught the eye of the nearest. "Tell your commanding officer General Morgan's flag is here!"
The Yankee was young, almost as young as Boyd, but he had less assurance than Boyd. Now the boy stammered a little as he answered:
"Yes ... yes, sir." Then he added in a rush, "General who, sir?"
"General John Hunt Morgan, Confederate Cavalry, Army of the Tennessee, detached duty!" Drew made that as impressive as he could, whether it was worded correctly according to military protocol or not. It was, he thought with satisfaction, a nicely rounded, important-sounding speech, although a bit short.
"Yes, sir!" The boy started for the door, but he was too late.
The man who erupted from that portal was short and stout, his face a dramatic scarlet above the dark blue of his unbuttoned coat. He stopped short a step or two into the open and stood staring at the three on horseback, that scarlet growing more dusky by the second.
"Who ... are ... you?" His demand was expelled in heavy puffs of breath.
"Flag from General Morgan," Drew repeated. Then to make it quite plain, he added kindly, "General John Hunt Morgan, Confederate Cavalry, Army of the Tennessee, detached duty."
"But, but Morgan was defeated ... at Cynthiana. He was broken—"