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Then his attention shifted to the man standing beside his horse. "Down with you, fella." Gray jacket, torn and threadbare—yet gray. Drew frowned. "Sergeant Rennie, Buford’s Scouts...." He tried to identify himself to this strange Confederate, but the words that got out were a thick mumble.
In one pocket of the money belt were his papers, among them the parole written out in Gainesville which could prove he had ridden with General Forrest’s command, far removed from any Arizona guerrilla force. But to produce that would change Drew Kirby to Drew Rennie, and that he did not want to do. "I rode with General Forrest, attached to General Buford’s Scouts," he said absently.
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