“Never a fear of that,” said Sergeant Whitley.  “It’s more likely to be some guerrilla band, roaming around as it pleases.  The condition of the country and these mountains give such fellows a chance.  I’m going to lie down and creep forward as we used to do on the plains.  I want to get a sight of those fellows, that is, if you say so, sir.”

“Of course,” said Dick, “but don’t take too big risks, sergeant.  We can’t afford to let you be shot.”

“Never fear,” said the sergeant, dropping almost flat upon his face, and creeping slowly forward.

The dusky figure worming itself through the bushes heightened the illusion of an old Indian combat.  The sergeant was a scout and trailer feeling for the enemy and he reminded Dick of his famous ancestor, Paul Cotter.  Several more shots were fired by the foe, but they did not hurt anybody, all of them flying overhead.  Dick’s men were anxious to send random bullets in reply into the thickets, but he restrained them.  It would be only a waste, and while it was annoying to be held there, it could not be helped.  Some of the horses reared and plunged with fright at the shots, but silence soon came.

Dick still watched the sergeant as he edged forward, inch by inch.  Had not his eyes been following the dusky figure he could not have picked it out from the general darkness.  But he still saw it faintly, a darker blur against the dark earth.  Yielding a little to his own anxiety, he handed the bridle of his horse to his orderly, and moved toward the edge of the woodland strip, bending low, and using the tree trunks for shelter.

At the last tree he knelt and looked for those on the other side.  The sergeant was already beyond cover, but he lay so low in the grass that Dick himself could scarcely discern him.

The wind was still driving the thin sheets of rain before it, and was keeping up a howling and whistling in the pass, a most sinister sound to one not used to the forest and darkness, although Dick paid no attention to it.

Twice the clouds parted slightly and showed a bit of moonlight, but the gleam was so brief that it was gone in a second or two.  Nevertheless at the second ray Dick saw crouched beside a tree at the far side of the road a small hunched figure holding a rifle, the head crowned by an enormous flap-brimmed hat.  His imagination also made him see small, close-set, menacing red eyes, and he knew at once that it was Slade, the same guerrilla leader who had once pursued him with such deadly vindictiveness through the Mississippi forest and swamps.  He had heard that he had come farther north and had united his band with that of Skelly, who pretended to be on the other side.  But one could never tell about these outlaws.  When they were distant from the regular armies nobody was safe from them.

“Did you see?” whispered Dick to the sergeant who had crept to his side.

“Yes, I caught a glimpse of him.  It was Slade, who tried so hard to kill you down there in the Vicksburg campaign.  If we get another ray of the moonlight I’ll pick him off, that is if you say so, sir.”