“Mein Gott!” muttered the German, disconsolately. “I hope it vos not long off, Captain; I am no good on foot in der dark, by Chiminy.” “You had better manage to keep up to-night, unless you are seeking to commit suicide. Now, men, mark me carefully! Load your carbines. Are you all ready? Sergeant, see that each man has his gun properly charged and capped. You are to carry your arms as thoroughly concealed as possible; keep close to me always; obey my orders instantly, and to the letter. We are but twenty men pitted against over two hundred, remember, and when we strike, it must be both quick and hard.” I mounted the mule, counted the dim figures in the darkness, and then gave the order to march. As we moved slowly down the hill I was aware that Caton walked upon one side of me, while Bungay plodded along upon the other; but my mind was so filled with the excitement of our adventure and all that depended upon its successful culmination, as scarcely to realize anything other than the part I must personally play. Good fortune and audacity alone could combine to win the game we were now engaged upon. A tall, heavily bearded mountaineer stood squarely in the middle of the road to the north of the picket-fire. I could make but little of him as the light shone, excepting that he wore a high coonskin cap and bore a long rifle. “Stop right thar!” he called out hoarsely, upon hearing us. “Who are you uns?” As he challenged, a dozen others sprang up from about the flame and, guns in hand, came toward us on a run. “We uns are doggoned tired o' soldierin', an' a gittin' nuthin' fer it,” I said in the slow Southern drawl, “an' wanter jine yer gang, pervidin' thar's any show fer it.” “How many are ye?” asked one of the newcomers, striding forward between us and the sentry. “A right smart heap o' a bunch; bin a pickin' o' 'em up ever since we left Charlotte,” I returned evasively. “They be dandies ter fight, an' I reckon as how ye kin use 'em, can't ye?” “Maybe; who did ye want ter see?” “Wal, they sed as how a feller named Lowrie wus a runnin' this yere gang, an' if thet 's ther way o' it, I reckon as how it's Lowrie we 're after. Be you Lowrie?” “Naw.” The answer was so gruff and short, and the fellow hesitated so long in adding anything to it, I began to think it was all off. “Wal,” he consented to say at last, ungraciously, “thar 's a blame pile o' ye kim in lately, an' I calcalate we got 'bout 'nough fer our business, but I reckon as how Red will use ye somewhar. Anyhow you uns kin come 'long with me an' find out, but ye'll diskiver him 'bout ther ornerest man jist now ever ye run up agin. He 's plum mad, Red is, fer sartain.”