ridersâ attention to the point of their column. The irregulars lifted their assorted weapons in unison, yelled, âOn to Buck Grove,â and trotted south, stirring a thin veil of dust behind them.
Ty wormed his backside against a rough-barked tree and relaxed before he started choking, for lack of air. Since he had left Elizabethtown, his luck defied belief, especially for a soul who frequently dozed off in church and earned a stiff elbow to the ribs from a certain grandfather. The careless Yankees had let him slip by without a challenge; Buck Grove had been asleep; heâd heard approaching horses, not yet in sight, soon enough to take cover in a most convenient stand of timber, with sufficient cover, in the midst of plowed fields. Could that kind of good fortune continue until he rendezvoused with General Morgan and his raiders?
Despite the slight breeze that rustled tree leaves, he heard what heâd missed before in all the excitement: water purling, deeper in the forest. Pleased his pants were dry, despite his fright, he hitched his feet under him, hiked to where heâd hidden Reb, and sought the source of that mouthwatering sound.
The three-foot-wide stream, spring fed to be running full in the middle of the summer, passed over a solid limestone bottom, making for clear drinking water year-round, except for winter freezes. Such streams wet the whistles of serious game hunters throughout Kentucky.
Reb needed no invitation. A sharp tug of the head freed his reins and the big gray dropped his muzzle to drink. With a quick, cursory look upstream and down, a dry-tongued Ty laid his hat on the bank and flopped on his belly to follow suit. The coldness of the water numbed his lips and throat with the first swallow.
A crunching of leaves preceded startling words from a high-pitched voice. âYou son of a bitch, youâre one of the bastards who stole Pawâs mares.â
Ty lifted his head and looked straight into the barrel of a cocked flintlock rifle that was held firm and steady by a buckskin-clad female. She had brown bangs and purple eyes brimming with anger and hate. Jesus Jump, taken by surprise by a sprig of a girl with pimpled cheeks, not more than thirteen or fourteen years old at most! The barrel of the flintlock trained on him seemed longer than she was tall. He fought back a disgusted snort and waited for his accuser to speak again.
âGet up. Weâll march back to our farm and ask Paw what he wants done with you. Donât matter whether he chooses a noose or a bullet. Horse thieves are no more account than hog shit on a boot heel. You scrape it off, however you please.â
Ty rose slowly to his feet, raising his hands to prevent his captor from thinking he had any intention of bringing his holstered Remington into play. Much to his chagrin, her short arms showed no sign of tiring from holding the heavy flintlock on him. He needed to talk his way out of this predicament, or else.
âGirl, I didnât steal those mares. A bunch of free-ranging marauders took them. They went past on the road out there not fifteen minutes ago. They let out a wild yell, âOn to Buck Grove,â and hightailed it south. Iâm traveling north, not south. They outnumbered me and I hid in the woods until they were out of sight.â
âThatâs a mighty lame tale, if you ask me. How do I know you didnât stop to water your horse and mean to catch up with them later?â Her purple eyes narrowed. âOn second thought, you being so big and all, I believe Iâll shoot you in the leg, take that horse, and let you lie right here while I fetch Paw.â
Ty suspected what he said next would be the most important thing he ever uttered and might be his sole chance to prod this steely, outraged, purple-eyed female into freeing him. He had no way of determining if she and her pa favored the cause of the Confederacy. His Texas clothes clearly indicated which side he rode