himself such a woodsman and scout, and he was so valuable in these
capacities that Colonel Winchester had practically made him an aide,
and always kept him near for orders.

Dick noticed now that the sergeant leaned a little forward in his saddle
and was using his eyes and ears with all the concentration of the great
plainsman that he was. In that attitude he was a formidable figure, and,
though he lacked the spy's subtlety and education, he seemed to have much
in common with Shepard.

As for Dick himself his nerves had not been so much on edge since he went
into his first battle, nor had his heart beat so hard, and he knew it
was because Harry Kenton and those comrades of his would be at the
convergence of the roads, and they would meet, not in the confused
conflict of a great battle, when a face might appear and disappear the
next second, but man to man with relatively small numbers. The moon
was dimmed a little by fleecy clouds, but the silvery color, instead of
vanishing was merely softened, and when Dick looked back at the Union
column it, like the troop of the South, had the quality of a ghostly
train. But the clouds floated away and then the light gleamed on the
barrels of the short carbines that the horsemen carried. From a point on
the other side of the forest came the softened notes of a trumpet and the
great pulse in Dick's throat leaped. Only a few minutes more and they
would be at the meeting of the ways.

Colonel Hertford sent a half dozen mounted skirmishers into the road,
but the column moved forward at its even pace, still silvered in the
moonlight, but ready for battle, wounds and death. Sergeant Whitley
whispered to Dick: