The big man grinned. "Shore, sonny, shore. We is Union ... scouts ... Union scouts." He repeated that as if pleased by the sound. "An' you is Rebs, which makes you our prisoners. So he's sick, eh? What's the matter?" "I don't know." Drew's fingers were only inches away from the Colt under the blanket. But he could dare no such move with that rifle covering him from the window. "Jas', any sign out thar?" the big man called. "Petey ain't seen any, jus' two horses." The words came from behind the still ready rifle. "Wai, tell him to look round some more. An' you kin come in, Jas'. These here Rebs ain't gonna be no trouble--is you, sonny?" Drew shook his head. Luck appeared to be on his side. Once Jas' was in here, they could hope to turn tables on the three of them, with Weatherby and Kirby taking them by surprise. Jas' appeared in the doorway a moment or so later. He was younger than his two companions, younger and more tidy. His coat was also blue, and he wore a forage cap pulled down over hair very fair in the firelight. There was a fluff of young beard on his chin, and he carried himself with the stance of a drilled man. Deserter, thought Drew. The newcomer surveyed Drew and Boyd expressionlessly, his eyes oddly shallow, and tramped past them to hold his hands to the blaze on the hearth, keeping his rifle between his knees. Then he reached up with his weapon, hooked the barrel in the chain supporting the pot, and pulled that to him, sniffing at the now bubbling contents. "You, Reb"--the big man towered over Drew--"git this friend o' yourn an' drag him over thar. Us wants to git warm." "Drew?" Boyd looked up questioningly, his feverish gaze passing on to the guerrilla. "Where's Shelly?" The big man's grin faded. His big boot came out, caught Drew's leg in a vicious prod. "Who's this here Shelly? Whar at is he?" "Shelly was his brother," Drew said, nodding at Boyd. "He's dead." "Dead, eh? How come sonny boy here's askin' for him then?" He leaned over them, and his fingers grabbed and twisted at the front of Drew's threadbare shell jacket. "I ask yuh, Reb, whar at is this heah Shelly?" He seemed only to flick his wrist, but the strength behind that move whirled Drew away from Boyd, brought him part way to his feet, and slammed him against the wall--where the big man held him pinned with small expenditure of effort. "Shelly's dead." Somehow Drew kept his voice even. Kirby ... Weatherby ... They were there. "Boyd's out of his head with fever." Jas' let the pot swing back over the fire, moving toward Boyd to lean over and stare at the boy's flushed face. "Might be so," Jas' remarked. "Two horses, two men. Neither one much to bother about." "Better be so!" The big man held Drew tight to the wall and cuffed him with his other hand. Dazedly, his head ringing, Drew slipped to the floor as the other released him. "Now"--that boot prodded Drew again--"git your friend over thar, Reb."