"You might see it that way. You know, Anse, I'd like to see Texas—"
"After we finish up this heah war, compadre, we can jus' mosey down theah an' look it over good. Happen you don't take to Texas, why, theah's New Mexico, the Arizona territory ... clean out to California, wheah they dip up that theah gold dust so free. Ain't nothin' sayin' a man has to stay on one range all his born days—"
"Looks like the war ain't doin' too well." Drew was watching the activity in the stockade.
"Well, we lost us Atlanta, sure enough. An' every time we close up ranks, theah's empty saddles showin'. But General Forrest, he's still toughenin' it out. Me, I'll trail along with him any day in the week."
"Hey!" Kirby was drawing a bead on a shaking bush. But the man edging through was Hew Wilkins, General Buford's Sergeant of Scouts. He crawled up beside them to peer at the blockhouse.
"They're pullin' out!" The men in blue coats were lining up about a small wagon train.
Wilkins used binoculars for a closer look. "Your report was right; those are Negro troops!"
"No wonder they're clearin' out—fast."
"Cheatin' us outta a fight," Kirby observed with mock seriousness.
"All the better. Kirby, you cut back and tell the General they're givin' us free passage. We can get the work done here, quick."