"It could work, Cap'n," the trooper urged. "Ain't a lot of the boys wearin' Yankee truck they took outta the warehouses? Them what ain't can act like prisoners. Jus' say we're the Eleventh Ohio--they's stationed near Bardstown and it would seem right, them ridin' down to take them some prisoners. The old man, he's got a rich farm and sets a powerful good table. Might even give us a right smart load of provisions into the bargain. It's worth a try, suh...." "Rennie!" So summoned, Drew reported to their new commander. "Know anything about a Thomas McKeever livin' in this section?" Drew's memory produced a picture of a round-faced, cheerful man who liked to play chess and admired Lucilla's pickled watermelon rind to the point of begging a crock of it every time he visited Red Springs. "Yes, suh. He's Union--got two sons with Colonel Wolford. Owns a big farm and raises prime mules--" "You know him personally?" "Yes, suh. He's a friend of my grandfather; they used to visit back and forth a lot." "Then he'd know you." Campbell's fingernails rasped through the stubble on his chin. "So Rennie heah could be one of our prisoners, suh. That theah might convince Mistuh McKeever we's what we say--" the trooper pressed his point. "Could be. It's gospel truth we ain't goin' to get far with our bellies flat on our backbones. And it might work. Now, all of you men, listen...." Campbell explained, gave orders, and put them through a small drill. A dozen men without any Union uniform loot to distinguish them were told to play the role of prisoners; the others exchanged and drew out of saddlebags pieces of blue clothing to make their appearance as the Eleventh Ohio. "They ain't gonna expect too much." The trooper who had first urged the plan was optimistic. "We can pass as close to militia----" "You hope!" Kirby was in the prisoner's section, and it was plain he did not relish a role which meant that he had to strip himself of weapons. "You--" he fixed his attention on the man to whom he must hand his Colts when the time came--"keep right 'longside, soldier. If I want to get those six-guns, I want 'em fast an' I want 'em sure--not 'bout ten yards away wheah I can't git my hands on 'em!" Their gnawing hunger drove them all into agreeing to the masquerade. Drew could not recall his last really full meal. Just thinking about food made a warm, sickish taste rise in his mouth. He brought out the hardtack which Boyd had so indignantly rejected the night before, and holding the chunk balanced on his saddle horn, rapped it smartly with the butt of a revolver. It broke raggedly across, and then he was able to crack it again between his fingers. "Here--" He held out a two-inch piece to Boyd, and this time there was no refusal. The younger boy's cheek showed a swollen puff as he sucked away at the fragment. Drew offered a bite to the Texan.