Morgan left Knoxville July 4th. His route lay directly west over the Cumberland Mountains to Sparta, a distance of one hundred and four miles. This, in spite of the rough roads, he made in three days. Many of the mountaineers of East Tennessee clung to the Union, and much of the way he had to ride through almost as hostile a country as if raiding through the North. The utmost vigilance had to be used, and Calhoun, with his scouts, was kept well in front to see that the road was clear. On the second day’s march there was the crack of a rifle from a mountainside, and one of the scouts tumbled from his horse dead. A little cloud of smoke up the mountain showed from where the shot was fired. With a cry of rage the scouts sent a volley where the little cloud was seen, then springing from their horses, clambered up the mountain to hunt down the murderer; but their search was fruitless. About a mile beyond where the shooting took place they came to a rough log cabin, surrounded by a few acres of comparatively smooth ground. A small patch of corn and potatoes was growing near the cabin, and an old man with tangled gray hair and beard was hoeing in the field. An old woman sat in the door calmly smoking a corn-cob pipe. Neither seemed to notice the soldiers as they came riding up. “You, man, come here!” sternly called Calhoun. The mountaineer deliberately laid down his hoe, and slowly came to where Calhoun was. He seemed to be in no hurry, nor did he appear to be disturbed. “What is your name?” demanded Calhoun. “Nichols—Jim Nichols,” drawled the man. “Are you well acquainted around here?” demanded Calhoun. “Hev lived heah goin’ on twenty years,” was the answer. “We have just had a man shot, by one of you skulking mountaineers. Do you know of any one likely to do such a deed? Tell the truth, or it will be the worse for you.” The old man shook his head. “The men be all gone in one army or de other,” he answered. “Are you Union or Confederate?” asked Calhoun. “The wah is nuthin’ to we-uns,” he drawled; “we-uns own no niggers.” “That’s no answer,” fiercely replied Calhoun, “I have a mind to hang you up like a dog. A little stretching of the neck might loosen your tongue.” At the word “hang” a strange look came into the old man’s eyes, a look as of mortal hatred, but it was gone in a moment, and the drawling answer came, “We-uns knows nuthin’; thar may be strange men hidin’ in the mountin. We-uns don’t know.” “Have you a family?” “A gal.” “Where is she?” “Done gone over the mountin to see the Jimson gals.” “You have no son?” At the word “son,” again that deadly glint came in the old man’s eye. Again it was gone in a moment, and the answer came, “No.”