The squadron halts here; but I select eight men, and keep on. We think that an hour's ride will take us to the spot where my horse fell, and another will bring us back. But retracing a road ridden over in such a manner by moonlight, and at another season of the year, is no easy task. Yet here eight heads prove better than one; for, it often happens that out of the eight, there will be only one who noticed a little something, and only another who noticed a little something else. Before long, however, there is another burst of exclamations, for another noticeable place appears--a long, straight stretch of road between two wooded knolls, and covered with the stumps of young trees as thickly as though they had been driven down by hand. Well do I remember how, when I caught sight of it, I ordered the men to pull up and cross slowly, and how I turned and watched for the enemy to reach the knoll and open their rifle fire before we should be over. Yet, after passing this, the noticeable places are few, and then cease. We turn down this road and that one, and come back, finding nothing that we can remember. If it were not for the sabre, I would give up the search and go back. At last, only one of the party believes the spot we are seeking is still before us, and even his faith in his memory is shaken. We have been two hours instead of one, and have found nothing yet. We have ridden since three this morning, and the day has summer heat. Shall we keep on? Yes, a little farther. I _must_ find my sabre. But we come to a house hidden beneath a clump of apple trees, a wide field, a high fence and a large tree. It is my turn to remember now--how inch by inch I toiled up that hill, and how beneath that tree I tried, and failed, and failed and tried to climb that towering fence. A little farther on a road turns off, and the men are sure that it was this road we took. At the turn (wherever it may be), there was on that evening a man with a yoke of oxen, who came near being run down. As we stand discussing the question, a contraband comes up. "Sam," says one of the men, "do you remember the fight on the Obion last spring?" "Yes, sah," says Sam; "I like to been killed thar." "You did! how so?" "Why, just as the soldiers were a comen along, I was a standen right here on this here very corner with our ox-team, and for all the world I thought they'd a run over me." "What! are you the man with the oxen?" I exclaim. "Yes, sah," says Sam; "I'm the very man." "Then, Sam," I say, "you are the very man we want, and must go along and show us where the soldiers went that night."