He pushed on over the sloshy road, his mare every step going slower and
slower. The poor beast was jaded out; for she had travelled sixty miles,
eaten nothing, and been stabled in the timber. She would have given out
long before, had her blood not been the best in Kentucky. As it was, she
staggered along as if she had taken a barrel of whiskey. Five miles
farther on was the house of a Union man. She must reach it, or die by
the wayside; for the merciful man regardeth not the life of his beast,
when he carries dispatches.
The loyalist did not know the scout, but his honest face secured him a
cordial welcome. He explained that he was from the Union camp on the Big
Sandy, and offered any price for a horse to go on with.
"Yer nag is wuth ary two o' my critters," said the man. "Ye kin take the
best beast I've got; and when ye 'r' ag'in this way, we'll swop back
even."
The scout thanked him, mounted the horse, and rode off into the mist
again, without the warm breakfast which the good woman had, half-cooked,
in the kitchen. It was eleven o'clock; and at twelve that night he
entered Colonel Cranor's quarters at Paris,--having ridden a hundred
miles with a rope round his neck, for thirteen dollars a month,
hard-tack, and a shoddy uniform.
Pages:
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199