Raiding With Morgan Read Online Free
hoofbeats.
A while later, he was beginning to feel drowsy after a solid night in the saddle and started casting about for a daytime hideaway, if one could be found. He kept shaking his head to ward off his sleepiness. To keep his mind and hands occupied, he ate more chicken and bread.
The road dropped into a small valley before climbing a sizable hill. The rat-a-tat of hoofbeats on the far rise of the hill snapped Tyâs head up. One horse did not present a substantial threat; a large number was to be avoided until heâd identified who rode them, and maybe even then.
By sheer chance, unfenced woodland, which had escaped the axes of many generations, dominated Tyâs right flank. With open fields to his left, he spurred Reb amongst trees with butts bigger round than flour barrels. An open glade filled with tall saplings loomed. Ty halted Reb in the towering trunks just beyond the glade.
He couldnât see the Garnettsville Road from the saddle. Satisfied the gelding was hidden well, he dismounted, drew his Remington, and angled back toward the dusty thoroughfare afoot.
The hoofbeats grew louder as the riders crested the hill to the north. Ty scrambled forward in a crouch, counting on the intervening trees to shield him until proper cover presented itself. Spying an open section of the Garnettsville Road, he plucked his hat from his head and went to ground behind the leafy brush that plugged the gaps between the tree butts. He carefully parted branches with his hand and, sure enough, the oncoming horsemen would pass in plain sight without being aware of his presence.
That was, unless Ty moved and exposed himself. He mouthed a silent prayer of thanks that his grandfather had insisted he master the art of staying absolutely still in a game blind during long stretches of their deer-and-turkey hunts. Just a scratch of the nose was forbidden there.
The armed horsemen were nothing like the organized cavalry Ty had read about in history books. He couldnât imagine a more motley bunch of combatants. Not a single piece of their apparel, hat, or weapon matched. Ragged beards and untrimmed hair proliferated. Other than a creek bath by accident, none appeared to have washed clothes or body in a coonâs age. Ty couldnât tell bare skin from filth.
The bunch of them were riding nonchalantly, slugging liquor from clay-fired jugs and laughing and ribbing each other. Ty assumed that the two fine-limbed bay horses without riders at their rear, with better bloodlines than their current mounts, had been freshly stolen.
These ragamuffins were classic examples of the irregularsâmisfits and miscreants who bore no allegiance to either the Yankee or Confederate flag and preyed on the weak and defenseless. They had no purpose other than feathering their own nests at the expense of the innocent. Grandfather Mattson swore such men pursued nothing except their own drunken, lecherous pleasures. They were the riffraff whom loyal soldiers detested.
Ty counted eleven riders. A clipped order halted the irregulars smack in front of him. Two of the ragamuffins stood in their stirrups and stared into the woods.
Had they spotted him?
The same chilling fear that heâd felt the night the panther had screamed within an armâs reach of him birthed an ice-cold trickle of sweat in the small of his back; the urge to flee tightened his leg muscles.
Gripping the butt of his Remington with all his might, Ty clamped his jaw so tight that his teeth hurt. He hadnât run that night, despite the threat of a clawed mauling. Heâd wet his drawers, but he hadnât panicked. He hadnât run, for fear the panther would hear him and determine his precise location and attack. Ty willed himself to follow that same strategy now. If he fled, the irregulars would spot him and make quick work of him. To them, taking a life was as easy as spitting downwind.
Relief nearly keeled him over when another clipped order drew the staring
A while later, he was beginning to feel drowsy after a solid night in the saddle and started casting about for a daytime hideaway, if one could be found. He kept shaking his head to ward off his sleepiness. To keep his mind and hands occupied, he ate more chicken and bread.
The road dropped into a small valley before climbing a sizable hill. The rat-a-tat of hoofbeats on the far rise of the hill snapped Tyâs head up. One horse did not present a substantial threat; a large number was to be avoided until heâd identified who rode them, and maybe even then.
By sheer chance, unfenced woodland, which had escaped the axes of many generations, dominated Tyâs right flank. With open fields to his left, he spurred Reb amongst trees with butts bigger round than flour barrels. An open glade filled with tall saplings loomed. Ty halted Reb in the towering trunks just beyond the glade.
He couldnât see the Garnettsville Road from the saddle. Satisfied the gelding was hidden well, he dismounted, drew his Remington, and angled back toward the dusty thoroughfare afoot.
The hoofbeats grew louder as the riders crested the hill to the north. Ty scrambled forward in a crouch, counting on the intervening trees to shield him until proper cover presented itself. Spying an open section of the Garnettsville Road, he plucked his hat from his head and went to ground behind the leafy brush that plugged the gaps between the tree butts. He carefully parted branches with his hand and, sure enough, the oncoming horsemen would pass in plain sight without being aware of his presence.
That was, unless Ty moved and exposed himself. He mouthed a silent prayer of thanks that his grandfather had insisted he master the art of staying absolutely still in a game blind during long stretches of their deer-and-turkey hunts. Just a scratch of the nose was forbidden there.
The armed horsemen were nothing like the organized cavalry Ty had read about in history books. He couldnât imagine a more motley bunch of combatants. Not a single piece of their apparel, hat, or weapon matched. Ragged beards and untrimmed hair proliferated. Other than a creek bath by accident, none appeared to have washed clothes or body in a coonâs age. Ty couldnât tell bare skin from filth.
The bunch of them were riding nonchalantly, slugging liquor from clay-fired jugs and laughing and ribbing each other. Ty assumed that the two fine-limbed bay horses without riders at their rear, with better bloodlines than their current mounts, had been freshly stolen.
These ragamuffins were classic examples of the irregularsâmisfits and miscreants who bore no allegiance to either the Yankee or Confederate flag and preyed on the weak and defenseless. They had no purpose other than feathering their own nests at the expense of the innocent. Grandfather Mattson swore such men pursued nothing except their own drunken, lecherous pleasures. They were the riffraff whom loyal soldiers detested.
Ty counted eleven riders. A clipped order halted the irregulars smack in front of him. Two of the ragamuffins stood in their stirrups and stared into the woods.
Had they spotted him?
The same chilling fear that heâd felt the night the panther had screamed within an armâs reach of him birthed an ice-cold trickle of sweat in the small of his back; the urge to flee tightened his leg muscles.
Gripping the butt of his Remington with all his might, Ty clamped his jaw so tight that his teeth hurt. He hadnât run that night, despite the threat of a clawed mauling. Heâd wet his drawers, but he hadnât panicked. He hadnât run, for fear the panther would hear him and determine his precise location and attack. Ty willed himself to follow that same strategy now. If he fled, the irregulars would spot him and make quick work of him. To them, taking a life was as easy as spitting downwind.
Relief nearly keeled him over when another clipped order drew the staring
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