I rode along into town among the soldiers, as familiarly as if I belonged in the place, and stopped near the drug store. Standing within a few feet of the drug store, was a large, corpulent, red-faced old man, with hair almost white, leaning upon a walking-staff; near by was a Colonel, dismounted, and leaning with his left hand upon his saddle; all about were cavalry soldiers, dismounted. As I reined up, the old man pointed to me, and said, "Colonel, there is a d--d Yankee spy; he ought to be shot. I know him, Colonel, and know that he is a Yankee spy." "If he is a Yankee spy he shall be shot." "I have seen him before. I _know_ that he is a Yankee spy." [Illustration: IF HE IS A YANKEE SPY I'LL HAVE HIM SHOT.] "A Yankee spy!" "A Yankee spy!" "Shoot him!" "Hang the d--d son of a b--h!" cried out the soldiers, rushing up to get a sight of me. "Where do you belong?" inquired the Colonel. "My home is in Osceola, Mississippi County, Arkansas; but I am from Memphis now." "What are you doing here?" "I have been out to Somerville, and beyond toward Bolivar, to see some friends." "Yes, _Bolivar_," cried the old man; "the d--d rascal has just come from Bolivar, and _there_ is where he belongs. I tell you, Colonel, I _know_ him; I _know_ that he is a Yankee spy." "Well, if you know him to be a Yankee spy, I'll shoot him." (Addressing me, and drawing his revolver and cocking it:) "Get off from your mule." I dismounted, and one of the soldiers led my mule to one side, and the crowd opened behind me. The excitement was intense, and the crowd dense, and, in its excitement, it swayed to and fro like an angry mob, and cries went up from every direction, "Hang him!" "Shoot him!" "Shoot the d--d rascal!" I can not picture the horror that filled me. In all that vast multitude, there was not a friendly eye to witness my doom. To escape was utterly impossible! Die I must by the hands of traitors, and my fate be wrapped in oblivion to my comrades and relatives! The color left my face and a cold tremor crept over me, and such indescribable sensations filled me as makes me shudder at this when I think of it. Just then Doctor Biggs, surgeon of the 4th Tennessee Infantry, stepped out of the drug store to learn the cause of the excitement. As he came out, he saw me and recognized me as the Confederate spy that had been captured by the Federal pickets near his house, and who had eaten breakfast with him. "Colonel, you are gwine to shoot the wrong man thar," said the doctor. "I know that ar man, and I know who he is and whar he belongs. He is _no_ Yankee spy." "I know that he _is_ a Yankee spy," said the old man.