position I had been compelled to assume. I had been accepted without question, and there was no excuse I could urge for escape. And how would I better my condition if I discovered one? If Taylor was a Confederate he would head directly for Covington, and, as soon as this was determined, this little squad of troopers would abandon pursuit. He had several hours start, and it would be foolhardy to attempt to overhaul the fellow. But if the man turned west—and surely there must be a crossroad below—Fox would keep on indefinitely. The Captain was of bulldog breed, if I was any judge of character, and his one thought now was the capture of Harwood's murderer. Such a course would bring us into the very heart of Green Briar, where my connection with this squad of troopers would serve me well.
It was an hour later when we came suddenly to the fork, the south branch leading over a long clay hill, the west along a rocky ridge. Fox sprang to the ground, and followed the faint prints of the horse we were pursuing for a hundred yards on foot. Some cattle had passed southward, but there was a defect in the shoe of the animal Taylor rode clearly revealed in the clay. The Captain came back, a grim smile on his lips.
"The cuss was no Johnny Reb," he said shortly.
