In the twilight of evening we return to Buena Vista. Very anxious have I been for the last two hours, and very anxious seem the men, as they stand round their saddled horses, at our prolonged absence. I have heard of a party of guerrillas in front and of another on our right, and the men have heard of a third in the rear. Our horses are too tired to march far, and we have already been here too long. The left seems clear, and to the left is Lockridge Mill, and our road back--but too many have already guessed that we are going there, and the men have asked too many questions to keep our destination a secret, as hitherto it always has been. It is such situations as this that make the cavalry service so interesting; and in its miniature strategy is a constant charm. The question, What shall be done? must be answered quickly, and one needs move skilfully when he is surrounded by difficulties. Here the roads cross somewhat like a letter X. Up the first we marched in the morning, and up the second I have just come; the third leads to Lockridge Mill, and in the fourth we have no real interest. The men mount, wheel into column; I order "_trot_," "_trot out_," and we move rapidly up the fourth road. No sooner out of sight of the houses at our starting place, than we come down to the slowest of walks. Whenever a house appears, we are seen on a trot; and whenever the house is passed, we find ourselves on a walk. Thus we appear to be going rapidly up this road, when we are in fact moving slowly. Some three miles up is a watering place, the only one, and there our thirsty horses must drink. As we pass the last house, its pack of dogs bark, and its inmates come out and look at us go by. Then we go down, down, down into a damp, cold, wooded ravine. In its depths we find a muddy stream, and the horses plunge their nostrils deep, and quaff it thirstily. We come out on the other side, and halting, dismount.