Simmy's tongue tripped again. He swallowed. Drew thought he was trying to produce a crumb of defiance. Kirby reached out, selecting Hatch's bowie knife from the cache of captured weapons. He weighed it across the palm of his hand as if trying its balance and then, with deceptive ease, flipped it. The point thudded into the wall scant inches away from Simmy's right ear, and the little man's head bobbed down so that his nose hit one of his hunched-up knees. "How many 'boys'?" Kirby repeated. "Depends...." "On what?" "On how good th' raidin' is. After a fight thar's always some pickin's." Drew was suddenly sick. What Simmy hinted at was the vulture work among the dead and the wounded too enfeebled to protect themselves from being plundered. He saw Kirby's lips set into a thin line. "Kinda throw a wide rope, don't you, little man? How many 'boys'?" "Maybe five ... six...." "An' this heah cap'n?" "He tells us wheah thar's good pickin's." For a moment the man produced a spark of spite. "He's a Reb, like you----" "Have you used this place before?" Drew broke in. If this were either a regular or temporary rendezvous for this jackal pack, the quicker they were away, the better. "No, the cap'n said to meet here tonight." "I don't suppose he said _when_?" Kirby's question was answered by a shake of Simmy's unkempt head. Boyd suddenly moved in his cocoon of blankets, struggling to sit up, and Drew went to him. He was coughing again with a strangling fight for breath which was frightening to watch. Drew steadied him until the attack was over and he lay in the other's arms, gasping. The liquid in the pot on the fire was cooked by now. Perhaps if Boyd had some of that in him.... But dared they stay here? Kirby squatted back on his heels as Drew settled Boyd on his blankets and went to unhook the pot. Then the Texan supported the younger boy as Drew ladled spoonfuls of the improvised broth into his mouth. "Th' doc'll come," Kirby murmured. "Croff promised to guide him heah. But this gang business--" "I don't see how we can move him now...." Drew was feeding the broth between Boyd's lips, trying to ease the cough, his wits too dulled to tackle any problem beyond that. "Which means we gotta keep company from movin' in. If we could raise us a few of the boys now...." Kirby was speculative. "If you went back to camp, gave the alarm. Traggart doesn't want a gang like this runnin' loose around here. They say they're Union; maybe they do have some connection with the Yankees." "With a Reb cap'n throwin' in with 'em? Most of these polecats play both sides of the border when it'll git them anythin' they want. An' they could try an' pay their way with the Yankees by tellin' 'bout our movements heah." "Could you make it to camp, fast?" Kirby grunted. "Sure, easy as driftin' downriver on one of them theah steamers. But leavin' you heah with that mess of skunks is somethin' else."