interrupted journey.
During the ride Liz could not help noticing the cautious manner in which the bushwhackers rode. Scouts went out ahead, behind and upon both flanks and the rest of the party kept to low ground as much as possible. She wondered what made the party so nervous when traversing Confederate-held territory. After they had covered about two miles from the scene of the ambush, something else happened to give Liz more food for thought.
The flank scout on the left suddenly whirled his horse and came racing down to the main body. Riding to meet the man, Jill listened to his low-spoken message. To Liz it became clear that the other girl did not like what she heard. Turning, Jill galloped back to the halted party.
‘Hold it here,’ she ordered. ‘And keep those horses quiet.’
Then an idea came to Liz. The scout must have seen a search party from the convoy; one of considerable force from Jill’s concern. If she could get up the ridge, or even create enough noise, help would be rushing towards her. For a moment she sat trying to think of the best way to achieve her ends. Perhaps a sudden thrust of heels into her horse’s flanks might carry her through. Before Liz could make the move, a signal from Jill brought two men to her side and the bushwhacker girl moved her horse in front of the trio, bottling any way out.
‘They’re too far away,’ Jill commented. ‘And if you try screaming, the boys will quieten you.’
One glance at the leering faces of the men told Liz that the quietening would prove mighty unpleasant. Any attempt at escape would bring a bullet into her at best. The party from which they hid could not arrive in time to save her. So, having no desire to throw her life away, she sat quietly until the scout, who returned to his position, gave the signal for them to move on again.
Once on the move, Guthrie kept his horse alongside Jill mount and Liz listened uncomprehendingly to their conversation.
‘Reckon it was him still after us?’ asked the man.
‘Could be,’ Jill agreed.
‘What about when he finds them Yankees back there?’
‘They’re soldiers and we only took horses and guns.’
‘And her!’ Guthrie spat out, jerking a thumb towards Liz.
‘We couldn’t just leave her behind.’ Jill answered. ‘She might not’ve been found. He’ll understand that.’
‘Reckon he’ll give us a chance to explain?’ asked the scared-looking man.
‘Look!’ Jill hissed. ‘You know my idea was to keep moving west, cross the Red and lay up in Texas for a spell. You had to hit those Yankees while I was out on scout. Now dry off and keep those horses moving. He’ll not come too far after us and we’ll be safe over the Red.’
Sullenly Guthrie dropped back and Jill rode ahead without speaking to her prisoner. Liz began to wonder which Union Army officer caused such concern among the bushwhackers. During the War, only General George Armstrong Custer’s name went out as a Union cavalry leader—and his fame rested on rash, but fortunate, chance-taking that, with plenty of luck, seemed to come off—certainly no Federal officer in Arkansas possessed a reputation likely to scare such a hardened bunch of roughnecks. She decided against asking any questions and the journey continued.
Towards sundown the party crossed the Red River and entered the State of Texas. However, once over the small ford, Jill insisted that they push on for a time. Not until four miles lay behind them and the moon rose palely in the sky did she give the order to halt and make camp. They had followed a small stream which joined the Red below the ford and their stopping place lay in open ground with the stream at the foot of a slope, forming a wide, deep pool. Having halted, Jill set her men to work. She had some caring for the leg-weary horses, others making a fire and starting to cook a meal, one more set about erecting a shelter tent.
‘We’ll be using that,’ she told Liz. ‘Look, I can either have you
During the ride Liz could not help noticing the cautious manner in which the bushwhackers rode. Scouts went out ahead, behind and upon both flanks and the rest of the party kept to low ground as much as possible. She wondered what made the party so nervous when traversing Confederate-held territory. After they had covered about two miles from the scene of the ambush, something else happened to give Liz more food for thought.
The flank scout on the left suddenly whirled his horse and came racing down to the main body. Riding to meet the man, Jill listened to his low-spoken message. To Liz it became clear that the other girl did not like what she heard. Turning, Jill galloped back to the halted party.
‘Hold it here,’ she ordered. ‘And keep those horses quiet.’
Then an idea came to Liz. The scout must have seen a search party from the convoy; one of considerable force from Jill’s concern. If she could get up the ridge, or even create enough noise, help would be rushing towards her. For a moment she sat trying to think of the best way to achieve her ends. Perhaps a sudden thrust of heels into her horse’s flanks might carry her through. Before Liz could make the move, a signal from Jill brought two men to her side and the bushwhacker girl moved her horse in front of the trio, bottling any way out.
‘They’re too far away,’ Jill commented. ‘And if you try screaming, the boys will quieten you.’
One glance at the leering faces of the men told Liz that the quietening would prove mighty unpleasant. Any attempt at escape would bring a bullet into her at best. The party from which they hid could not arrive in time to save her. So, having no desire to throw her life away, she sat quietly until the scout, who returned to his position, gave the signal for them to move on again.
Once on the move, Guthrie kept his horse alongside Jill mount and Liz listened uncomprehendingly to their conversation.
‘Reckon it was him still after us?’ asked the man.
‘Could be,’ Jill agreed.
‘What about when he finds them Yankees back there?’
‘They’re soldiers and we only took horses and guns.’
‘And her!’ Guthrie spat out, jerking a thumb towards Liz.
‘We couldn’t just leave her behind.’ Jill answered. ‘She might not’ve been found. He’ll understand that.’
‘Reckon he’ll give us a chance to explain?’ asked the scared-looking man.
‘Look!’ Jill hissed. ‘You know my idea was to keep moving west, cross the Red and lay up in Texas for a spell. You had to hit those Yankees while I was out on scout. Now dry off and keep those horses moving. He’ll not come too far after us and we’ll be safe over the Red.’
Sullenly Guthrie dropped back and Jill rode ahead without speaking to her prisoner. Liz began to wonder which Union Army officer caused such concern among the bushwhackers. During the War, only General George Armstrong Custer’s name went out as a Union cavalry leader—and his fame rested on rash, but fortunate, chance-taking that, with plenty of luck, seemed to come off—certainly no Federal officer in Arkansas possessed a reputation likely to scare such a hardened bunch of roughnecks. She decided against asking any questions and the journey continued.
Towards sundown the party crossed the Red River and entered the State of Texas. However, once over the small ford, Jill insisted that they push on for a time. Not until four miles lay behind them and the moon rose palely in the sky did she give the order to halt and make camp. They had followed a small stream which joined the Red below the ford and their stopping place lay in open ground with the stream at the foot of a slope, forming a wide, deep pool. Having halted, Jill set her men to work. She had some caring for the leg-weary horses, others making a fire and starting to cook a meal, one more set about erecting a shelter tent.
‘We’ll be using that,’ she told Liz. ‘Look, I can either have you
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