horse led along the bank of a rocky creek, and disappeared utterly within a deep ravine. The print of a bare foot seemed to tell the tale of a boy at the bridle rein.
We rode steadily, keeping well together, conscious that in all probability we were watched by hostile eyes, peering out from behind rock and thicket. The road became rougher, more difficult to travel. There were paths, dim, shadowed by brush, leading off occasionally on either side—possibly to some cabin, and little clearing, hidden and obscure. We foraged through deserted shacks, finding poor reward, yet managed to subsist, although with hunger unsatisfied. The men grumbled, and Fox swore, as all alike realized the uselessness of attempting to overhaul the fleeing man. The impotent pursuit was a joke to him, already safe in the foothills, and guarded from surprise. Long before night came the captain comprehended the fact that we were on a fool's errand; that his little squad was being lured deeper and deeper into a hostile country, but no opportunity to turn aside presented itself. To return would only bring us closer to the Confederate lines at Covington, and we found no road leading northward. Fox's field map pictured one, however, close at hand, and in the hope of attaining this before darkness finally set in, we pressed the wearied horses desperately. The
