I esteemed it great good luck when I saw a man standing in the edge of a cornfield staring at us. He was a common-looking fellow with a dirty face. Stupid, I thought, but perhaps he has seen what happened here and can tell me. I hailed him, and he answered in a thick voice, though not unfriendly. I asked him about the horse, and if he knew who had abandoned him there. He answered with that degree of excitement a plowboy would most likely show on such occasions that he was just going to tell us about it. I bade him haste with his narration. He said, with thick, excited tongue, that a man had come along the road urging his horse into a gallop. When they reached the field the horse broke down and would go no farther. The rider, after belaboring him in vain, leaped down, and, leaving the horse to care for himself, turned from the road. This news excited Whitestone, Adams, and me. It was confirmation of our suspicions, and proof also that we were pressing Chudleigh hard. “How long ago was that?” I asked. “Not five minutes,” replied the plowman. “Which way did he go?” I asked, my excitement increasing. “He took the side road yonder,” replied the plowman. “What road?” exclaimed Whitestone, breaking in. “The road that leads off to the right--yonder, at the end of the field.” I was about to set off in a gallop, but it occurred to me as a happy thought that this fellow, knowing the country so well, would be useful as a guide. I ordered him to get on the loose horse, now somewhat rested, and lead the way. He demurred. But it was no time to be squeamish or overpolite, so I drew my pistol and warned him. Thereupon he showed himself a man of judgment and mounted, and taking the lead of us, obedient to my command, also showed himself to be a very fair horseman. In a few seconds we entered the diverging road, which was narrow, scarce more than a path. It led between two fields, and then through some thin woods. “You are military folks,” said our guide, turning a look upon me. “Is the man you are after a deserter?” “No,” said I, “a spy.” “If you overtake him and he fights, I don’t have any part in it,” he said. “You needn’t risk your skin,” I said. “It is enough for you to guide us.” I laughed a bit at his cowardice; but after all I had no right to laugh. It was no business of his to do our fighting for us. “Perhaps he has turned into these woods,” said Whitestone. “No, he has gone on,” said our guide, “I can see his footsteps in the dust.” Traces like those of human footsteps were in truth visible in the dust, but we had no time to stop for examination. We rode on, watching the country on either side of the road. The heat and animation of the chase seemed to affect our guide, heavy plowman though he was. “There go his tracks still!” he cried. “See, by the edge of the road, by the grass there?” “We’ll catch him in five minutes!” cried Adams, full of enthusiasm.