Altsheler Joseph Alexander
The Rock of Chickamauga: A Story of the Western Crisis
He had gone through most of the rooms at their arrival and he still retained a clear idea of the interior of the house. He knew that there was another door on the far side of the chamber in which he stood, and he meant to follow the wall until he reached it. Some one had been in the room with him and Dick believed that he was leaving by the far door.
While he heard no further footsteps he felt a sudden light draught on his face and he knew that the door had been opened and shut. He might go to Colonel Winchester and tell him that a lurking spy or somebody of that character was in the house, but what good would it do? A spy at such a time and in such a place could not harm them, and the whole regiment would be disturbed for nothing. He would follow the chase alone.
He found the door and passed into the next room. Its windows opened upon the southern piazza and two or three shutters were thrown back. A faint light entered and Dick saw that no one was there but himself. He could discern the dim figures of the soldiers sleeping on the piazza and beyond a cluster of the small pines grown on lawns.
Dick felt that he had lost the trail for the time, but he did not intend to give it up. Doubtless the intruder was some one who knew the house and who was also aware of his presence inside. He also felt that he would not be fired upon, because the stranger himself would not wish to bring the soldiers down upon him. So, with a hand upon his pistol butt, he opened the side door and followed once more into the darkness.
The ghostly chase went on for a full half-hour, Dick having nothing to serve him save an occasional light footfall. There was one period of more than half an hour when he lost the fugitive entirely. He wandered up to the second floor and then back again. There, in a room that had been the library, he caught a glimpse of the man. But the figure was so shadowy that he could tell nothing about him.
“Halt!” cried Dick, snatching out his pistol. But when he leveled it there was nothing to aim at. The figure had melted away, or rather it had flitted through another door. Dick followed, chagrined. The stranger seemed to be playing with him. Obviously, it was some one thoroughly acquainted with the house, and that brought to Dick’s mind the thought that he himself, instead of the other man, was the stranger there.
He came at last to a passage which led to the kitchen, a great room, because many people were often guests at Bellevue, and here he stopped short, while his heart suddenly beat hard. A distinct odor coming from different points suddenly assailed his nostrils. He had smelled it too often in the last two years to be mistaken. It was smoke, and Bellevue had been set on fire in several places.
He inhaled it once or twice and then he saw again the shadowy figure flitting down to the passage and to a small door that, unnoticed by the soldiers, opened on the kitchen garden in the rear of the house.
Dick never acted more promptly. Instantly he fired his pistol into the ceiling, the report roaring in the confined spaces of the house, and then shouting with all his might: “Fire! Fire! Fire!” as he dashed down the passage he ran through the little door, which the intruder had left open, and pursued him in the darkness and rain into the garden. There was a flash ahead of him and a bullet whistled past his ear, but he merely increased his speed and raced in the direction of the flash. As he ran he heard behind him a tremendous uproar, the voices and tread of hundreds of soldiers, awakened suddenly, and he knew that they would rush through Bellevue in search of the fires.
But it was Dick’s impulse to capture the daring intruder who would destroy the house over their heads. Built of wood, it would burn so fast, once the torches were set, that the rain would have little effect upon the leaping flames, unless measures were taken at once, which he knew that the regiment would do, under such a capable man as Colonel Winchester. Meanwhile he was hot in pursuit.
The trail which was not that of footsteps, but of a shadowy figure, ran between tall and close rows of grapevines so high on wooden framework that they hid any one who passed. The suspicion that Dick had held at first was confirmed. This was no stranger, no intruder. He knew every inch of both house and grounds, and, after having set the house on fire, he had selected the only line of retreat, but a safe one, through the thick and lofty vegetation of the garden, which ran down to the edge of the ravine in the rear, where he could slip quietly under the fence, drop through the thick grass into the ravine unseen by the pickets, and escape at his leisure in the darkness.
Dick was so sure of his theory that he strained every effort to overtake the figure which was flitting before him like a ghost. In his eagerness he had forgotten to shout any alarm about the pickets, but it would have been of no avail, as most of them, under the impulse of alarm, had rushed forward to help extinguish the fires.
He saw the fugitive reach the end of the garden, drop almost flat, and then slip under a broken place in the palings. At an ordinary time he would have stopped there, but all the instincts of the hunter were aroused. It was still raining, and he was already soaked. Wet branches and leaves struck him in the face as he passed, but his energy and eagerness were undimmed.
He, too, dropped at the hole under the broken palings and slid forward face foremost. The wet grass was as slippery as ice, and after he passed through the hole Dick kept going. Moreover, his speed increased. He had not realized that the garden went to the very edge of the ravine, and he was shooting down a steep slope to the depth of thirty feet. He grasped instinctively at weeds and grass as he made his downward plunge and fetched up easily at the bottom.
He sprang to his feet and saw the shadowy fugitive running down the ravine. In an instant he followed headlong, tripped once or twice on the wet grass, but was up every time like lightning, and once more in swift pursuit. The fugitive turned once, raised his pistol and pulled the trigger again, evidently forgetful that it was empty. When the hammer snapped on the trigger he uttered a low cry of anger and hurled the useless weapon into the grass. Then he whirled around and faced Dick, who was coming on, eager and panting.
Dick’s own pistol was empty and he did not carry his small sword. He stopped abruptly when the other turned, and, in the dim light and rain, he saw that his opponent was a young man or rather youth of about his own size and age. When he saw the lad cast the pistol aside Dick, moved by some chivalrous impulse, dropped his own in the grass.
Then the two stared at each other. They were far beyond the line of the pickets, and as they stood in the deep ravine there was no chance that any one would either see or hear them. As Dick gazed intently, the face and figure of his antagonist shaped themselves more distinctly in the dim light. He beheld before him a tall youth, extremely well built, fair of face, his brown hair slightly long. He wore rain-soaked civilian’s garb.
He saw that the youth was panting like himself, but it was not wholly the result of flight. His face expressed savage anger and indignation.
“You dirty Yankee!” he said.
Dick started. No one had ever before addressed him with such venom.
“If by Yankee you mean loyalty to the Union then I’m one,” he said, “and I’m proud of it. What’s more I’m willing to tell who I am. My name is Richard Mason. I’m from Kentucky, and I’m a lieutenant in the regiment of Colonel Arthur Winchester, which occupies the building behind us.”
“From Kentucky and consorting with Yankees! A lot of you are doing it, and you ought to be on our side! We hate you for it more than we do the real Yankees!”
“It’s our right to choose, and we’ve chosen. And now, since you’re talking so much about right and wrong, who may you be, Mr. Firebug?”
Even in the dark Dick saw his opponent’s face flush, and his eyes flash with deadly hostility.
“My name is Victor Woodville,” he replied, “and my father is Colonel John Woodville, C.S.A. He is the owner of the house in which your infamous Yankee regiment is encamped.”
“And which you have tried to burn?”
“I’d rather see it burn than shelter Yankees. You’d burn it anyway later on. Grant’s troops have already begun to use the torch.”
“At any rate you’ll go before our colonel. He’ll want to ask you a lot of questions.”
“I’m not going before your colonel.”
“Oh, yes, you are.”
“Who’s going to take me?”
“I am.”
“Then come on and do it.”
Dick advanced warily. Both had regained their breath and strength now. Dick with two years of active service in the army had the size and muscles of a man. But so had his opponent. Each measured the other, and they were formidable antagonists, well matched.
Dick had learned boxing at the Pendleton Academy, and, as he approached slowly, looking straight into the eyes of his enemy, he suddenly shot his right straight for Woodville’s chin. The Mississippian, as light on his feet as a leopard, leaped away and countered with his left, a blow so quick and hard that Dick, although he threw his head to one side, caught a part of its force just above his ear. But, guarding himself, he sprang back, while Woodville faced him, laughing lightly.
Dick shook his head a little and the singing departed. Just above his ear he felt a great soreness, but he was cool now. Moreover, he was losing his anger.
“First blow for you,” he said. “I see that you know how to use your fists.”
“I hope to prove it.”
Woodville, stepping lightly on his toes and feinting with his left, caught Dick on his cheek bone with his right. Then he sought to spring away, but Dick, although staggered, swung heavily and struck Woodville on the forehead. The Mississippian went down full length on the slippery grass but jumped to his feet in an instant. Blood was flowing from his forehead, whence it ran down his nose and fell to the earth, drop by drop. Dick himself was bleeding from the cut on his cheek bone.
The two faced each other, cool, smiling, but resolute enemies.
“First knockdown for you,” said Woodville, “but I mean that the second shall be mine.”
“Go in and try.”
But Woodville drew back a little, and as Dick followed, looking for an opening he was caught again a heavy clip on the side of the head. He saw stars and was not able to return the blow, but he sprang back and protected himself once more with his full guard, while he regained his balance and strength.
“Am I a firebug?” asked Woodville tauntingly.
Dick considered. This youth interested him. There was no denying that Woodville had great cause for anger, when he found his father’s house occupied by a regiment of the enemy. He considered it defilement. The right or wrong of the war had nothing to do with it. It was to him a matter of emotion.
“I’ll take back the epithet ‘firebug,’” he said, “but I must stick to my purpose of carrying you to Colonel Winchester.”
“Always provided you can: Look out for yourself.”
The Mississippian, who was wonderfully agile, suddenly danced in—on his toes it seemed to Dick—and landed savagely on his opponent’s left ear. Then he was away so quickly and lightly that Dick’s return merely cut the air.
The Kentuckian felt the blood dripping from another point. His ear, moreover, was very sore and began to swell rapidly. One less enduring would have given up, but he had a splendid frame, toughened by incessant hardship. And, above all, enclosed within that frame was a lion heart. He shook his head slightly, because a buzzing was going on there, but in a moment or two it stopped.
“Are you satisfied?” asked young Woodville.
“You remember what Paul Jones said: ‘I’ve just begun to fight.’”
“Was it Paul Jones? Well, I suppose it was. Anyhow, if you feel that way about it, so do I. Then come on again, Mr. Richard Mason.”
Dick’s blood was up. The half-minute or so of talk had enabled him to regain his breath. Although he felt that incessant pain and swelling in his left ear, his resolution to win was unshaken. Pride was now added to his other motives.
He took a step forward, feinted, parried skillfully, and then stepped back. Woodville, always agile as a panther, followed him and swung for the chin, but Dick, swerving slightly to one side, landed with great force on Woodville’s jaw. The young Mississippian fell, but, while Dick stood looking at him, he sprang to his feet and faced his foe defiantly. The blood was running down his cheek and dyeing the whole side of his face. But Dick saw the spirit in his eye and knew that he was far from conquered.
Woodville smiled and threw back his long hair from his face.
“A good one for you. You shook me up,” he admitted, “but I don’t see any sign of your ability to carry me to that Yankee colonel, as you boasted you would do.”
“But I’m going to do it.”
The rain increased and washed the blood from both their faces. It was dark within the ravine, but they had been face to face so long that they could read the eyes of each other. Those of Woodville like those of Dick ceased to express great anger. In the mind of each was growing a respect for his antagonist. The will to conquer remained, but not the desire to hate.
“If you’re going to do it, then why don’t you?” said Woodville.
Dick moved slowly forward, still watching the eyes of the Mississippian. He believed now that Woodville, agile and alert though he might be, had not fully recovered his strength. There was terrific steam in that last punch and the head of the man who had received it might well be buzzing yet.
Dick then moved in with confidence, but a lightning blow crashed through his guard, caught him on the chin and sent him to earth. He rose, though still half-stunned, and saw that the confident, taunting look had returned to Woodville’s face. Fortunate now for Dick that the pure blood of great woods rangers flowed in his veins, and that he had inherited from them too an iron frame. His chin was cut and he had seen a thousand stars. But his eyes cleared and steadily he faced his foe.
“Do I go with you to your colonel?” asked Woodville, ironically.
“You do,” replied Dick firmly.
He looked his enemy steadily in the eye again, and he felt a great sense of triumph. After such severe punishment he was stronger than ever and he knew it.
Therefore he must win. He struck heavily, straight for the angle of Woodville’s chin. The Mississippian evaded the blow and flashed in with his left. But Dick, who was learning to be very wary, dodged it and came back so swiftly that Woodville was caught and beaten to his knees.
But the son of the house of Bellevue was still so agile that he was able to recover his feet and spring away. Dick saw, however, that he was panting heavily. The blow had taken a considerable part of his remaining strength. He also saw that his antagonist was regarding him with a curious eye.
“You fight well, Yank,” said Woodville, “although I ought not to call you Yank, but rather a traitor, as you’re a Kentuckian. Still, I’ve put my marks on you. You’re bleeding a lot and you’d be a sight if it weren’t for this cleansing rain.”
“I’ve been putting the map of Kentucky on your own face. You don’t look as much like Mississippi as you did. You’ll take notice too that you didn’t burn the house. If you’ll glance up the side of this ravine you’ll see just a little dying smoke. Eight hundred soldiers put it out in short order.”
Woodville’s face flushed, and his eyes for the first time since the beginning of the encounter shone with an angry gleam. But the wrathful fire quickly died.
“On the whole, I’m not sorry,” he said. “It was an impulse that made me do it. Our army will come and drive you away, and our house will be our own again.”
“That’s putting it fairly. What’s the use of burning such a fine place as Bellevue? Still, we want you. Our colonel has many questions to ask you.”
“You can’t take me.”
Dick judged that the crucial moment had now come. Woodville was breathing much more heavily than he was, and seemed to be near exhaustion. Dick darted boldly in, received a swinging right and left on either jaw that cut his cheeks and made the blood flow. But he sent his right to Woodville’s chin and the young Mississippian without a sound dropped to the ground, lying relaxed and flat upon his back, his white face, streaked with red, upturned to the rain.
He was so still that Dick was seized with fear lest he had killed him. He liked this boy who had fought him so well and, grasping him by both shoulders, he shook him hard. But when he loosed him Woodville fell back flat and inert.
Dick heard the waters of a brook trickling down the ravine, and, snatching off his cap, he ran to it. He filled the cap and returned just in time to see Woodville leap lightly to his feet and disappear with the speed of a deer among the bushes.
CHAPTER II. FORREST
Dick dashed after the fugitive, but he had disappeared utterly, and the dense bushes impeded the pursuer. He was hot and angry that he had been deluded so cleverly, but then came the consolation that, after all, he had won in the fistic encounter with an antagonist worthy of anybody. And after this came a second thought that caused him to halt abruptly.
He and Woodville had fought it out fairly. Their fists had printed upon the faces of each other the stamp of a mutual liking. Why should he strive to take young Woodville before Colonel Winchester? Nothing was to be gained by it, and, as the Mississippian was in civilian’s garb, he might incur the punishment of a spy. He realized in a flash that, since he had vindicated his own prowess, he was glad of Woodville’s escape.
He turned and walked thoughtfully back up the ravine. Very little noise came from the house and the thin spires of smoke had disappeared. He knew now that the fires had been put out with ease, thanks to his quick warning. Before starting he had recovered both his own pistol and Woodville’s, and he was particularly glad to find the latter because it would be proof of his story, if proof were needed. The rain had not ceased nor had the heavy darkness lifted, but the looming shadow of the big house was sufficient guide. He found the place where he had slipped down the bank and the torn bushes and grass showed that he had made a fine trail. He pulled himself back up by the bushes and reentered the garden, where he was halted at once by two watchful sentries.
“Lieutenant Richard Mason of Colonel Winchester’s staff,” he said, “returning from the pursuit of a fugitive.”
The men knew him and they said promptly:
“Pass Lieutenant Mason.”
But despite the dark they stared at him very curiously, and when he walked on toward the piazza one of them muttered to the other:
“I guess he must have overtook that fugitive he was chasin’.”
Dick walked up the steps upon the piazza, where some one had lighted a small lamp, near which stood Colonel Winchester and his staff.
“Here’s Dick!” exclaimed Warner in a tone of great relief.
“And we thought we had lost him,” said Colonel Winchester, gladness showing in his voice. Then he added: “My God, Dick, what have you been doing to yourself?”
“Yes, what kind of a transformation is this?” added a major. “You’ve certainly come back with a face very different from the one with which you left us!”
Dick turned fiery red. He suddenly became conscious that he had a left ear of enormous size, purple and swollen, that his left eye was closing fast, that the blood was dripping from cuts on either cheek, that the blood had flowed down the middle of his forehead and had formed a little stalactite on the end of his nose, that his chin had been gashed in five places by a strong fist, and that he had contributed his share to the bloodshed of the war.
“If I didn’t know these were modern times,” said Warner, “I’d say that he had just emerged from a sanguinary encounter bare-handed in the Roman arena with a leopard.”
Dick glared at him.
“It was you who gave the alarm of fire, was it not?” asked Colonel Winchester.
“Yes, sir. I saw the man who set the fires and I pursued him through the garden and into the ravine that runs behind it.”
“Your appearance indicates that you overtook him.”
Dick flushed again.
“I did, sir,” he replied. “I know I’m no beauty at present, but neither is he.”
“It looks as if it had been a matter of fists?”
“It was, sir. Both of us fired our pistols, but missed. Then we threw our weapons to one side and clashed. It was a hard and long fight, sir. He hit like a pile driver, and he was as active as a deer. But I was lucky enough to knock him out at last.”
“Then why does your face look like a huge piece of pickled beef?” asked the incorrigible Warner mischievously.
“You wait and I’ll make yours look the same!” retorted Dick.
“Shut up,” said Colonel Winchester. “If I catch you two fighting I may have you both shot as an example.”
Dick and Warner grinned good-naturedly at each other. They knew that Colonel Winchester did not dream of carrying out such a threat, and they knew also that they had no intention of fighting.
“And after you knocked him out what happened?” asked the colonel.
Dick looked sheepish.
“He lay so still I was afraid he was dead,” he replied. “I ran down to a brook, filled my cap with water, and returned with it in the hope of reviving him. I got there just in time to see him vanishing in the bushes. Pursuit was hopeless.”
“He was clever,” said the Colonel. “Have you any idea who he was?”
“He told me. He was Victor Woodville, the son of Colonel John Woodville, C.S.A., the owner of this house.”
“Ah!” said Colonel Winchester, and then after a moment’s thought he added: “It’s just as well he escaped. I should not have known what to do with him. But we have you, Dick, to thank for giving the alarm. Now, go inside and change to some dry clothes, if you have any in your baggage, and if not dry yourself before a fire they’re going to build in the kitchen.”
“Will you pardon me for speaking of something, sir?”
“Certainly. Go ahead.”
“I think the appearance of young Woodville here indicates the nearness of Forrest or some other strong cavalry force.”
“You’re right, Dick, my officers and I are agreed upon it. I have doubled the watch, but now get yourself to that fire and then to sleep.”
Dick obeyed gladly enough. The night had turned raw and chill, and the cold water dripped from his clothes as he walked. But first he produced Woodville’s pistol and handed it to Colonel Winchester.
“There’s my antagonist’s pistol, sir,” he said. “You’ll see his initials on it.”
“Yes, here they are,” said Colonel Winchester: “‘V.W., C.S.A.’ It’s a fine weapon, but it’s yours, Dick, as you captured it.”
Dick took it and went to the kitchen, where the big fire had just begun to blaze. He was lucky enough to be the possessor of an extra uniform, and before he changed into it—they slept with their clothes on—he roasted himself before those glorious coals. Then, as he was putting on the fresh uniform, Warner and Pennington appeared.
“What would you recommend as best for the patient, Doctor,” said Warner gravely to Pennington.
“I think such a distinguished surgeon as you will agree with me that his wounds should first be washed and bathed thoroughly in cold water.”
“And after that a plentiful application of soothing liniment.”
“Yes, Doctor. That is the best we can do with the simple medicines we have, but it especially behooves us to reduce the size of that left ear, or some of the boys will say that we have a case of elephantiasis on our hands.”
“While you’re reducing the size of it you might also reduce the pain in it,” said Dick.
“We will,” said Pennington; “we’ve got some fine horse liniment here. I brought it all the way from Nebraska with me, and if it’s good for horses it ought to be good for prize fighters, too. That was surely a hefty chap who fought you. If you didn’t have his pistol as proof I’d say that he gave you a durned good licking. Isn’t this a pretty cut down the right cheek bone, George?”
“Undoubtedly, but nothing can take away the glory of that left ear. Why, if Dick could only work his ears he could fan himself with it beautifully. When I meet that Woodville boy I’m going to congratulate him. He was certainly handy with his fists.”
“Go on, fellows,” said Dick, good-naturedly. “In a week I won’t have a wound or a sign of a scar. Then I’ll remember what you’ve said to me and I’ll lick you both, one after the other.”
“Patient is growing delirious, don’t you think so, Doctor?” said Warner to Pennington.
“Beyond a doubt. Violent talk is always proof of it. Better put him to bed. Spread his two blankets before the fire, and he can sleep there, while every particle of cold and stiffness is being roasted out of him.”
“You boys are very good to me,” said Dick gratefully.
“It’s done merely in the hope that your gratitude will keep you from giving us the licking you promised,” said Pennington.
Then they left him and Dick slept soundly until he was awakened the next day by Warner. The fire was out, the rain had ceased long since and the sun was shining brilliantly.
“Hop up, Dick,” said Warner briskly. “Breakfast’s ready. Owing to your wound we let you sleep until the last moment. Come now, take the foaming coffee and the luscious bacon, and we’ll be off, leaving Bellevue again to its masters, if they will come and claim it.”
“Has anything happened in the night?”
“Nothing since you ran your face against a pile driver, but Sergeant Daniel Whitley, who reads the signs of earth and air and wood and water, thinks that something is going to happen.”
“Is it Forrest?”
“Don’t know, but it’s somebody or something. As soon as we can eat our luxurious breakfasts we mean to mount and ride hard toward Grant. We’re scouts, but according to Whitley the scouts are scouted, and this is a bad country to be trapped in.”
Dick was so strong and his blood was so pure that he felt his wounds but little now. The cuts and bruises were healing fast and he ate with a keen appetite. He heard then of the signs that Whitley had seen. He had found two broad trails, one three miles from the house, and the other about four miles. Each indicated the passage of several hundred men, but he had no way of knowing whether they belonged to the same force. They were bound to be Confederate cavalry as Colonel Winchester’s regiment was known to be the only Union force in that section.
Dick knew their position to be dangerous. Colonel Winchester had done his duty in discovering that Forrest and Wheeler were raiding through Mississippi, and that a heavy force was gathering in the rear of Grant, who intended the siege of Vicksburg. It behooved him now to reach Grant as soon as he could with his news.
Refreshed and watchful, the regiment rode away from Bellevue. Dick looked back at the broad roof and the great piazzas, and then he thought of young Woodville with a certain sympathy. They had fought a good fight against each other, and he hoped they would meet after the war and be friends.
It was about an hour after sunrise, and the day was bright and warm. The beads of water that stood on every leaf and blade of grass were drying fast, and the air, despite its warmth, was pure and bracing. Dick, as he looked at the eight hundred men, tanned, experienced and thoroughly armed, under capable leaders, felt that they were a match for any roving Southern force.
“Just let Forrest come on,” he said. “I know that the Colonel is aching to get back at him for that surprise in Tennessee, and I believe we could whip him.”
“You’re showing great spirit for a man who was beaten up in the prize ring as you were last night. I thought you’d want to rest for a few days.”
“Drop it, George. I did get some pretty severe cuts and bruises, but I was lucky enough to have the services of two very skillful and devoted young physicians. Their treatment was so fine that I’m all right to-day.”
“Unless I miss my guess, we’ll need the services of doctors again before night comes. No mountains are here, but this is a great country for ambush. It’s mostly in forest, and even in the open the grass is already very tall. Besides, there are so many streams, bayous, and ponds. Notice how far out on the flanks the skirmishers and scouts are riding, and others ride just as far ahead.”
Two miles from Bellevue and they came to a small hill, covered with forest, from the protection of which the officers examined the country long and minutely, while their men remained hidden among the deep foliaged trees. Dick had glasses of his own which he put to his eyes, bringing nearer the wilderness, broken here and there by open spaces that indicated cotton fields. Yet the forest was so dense and there was so much of it that a great force might easily be hidden within its depths only a mile away.
“Have we any information at all about Forrest’s strength?” whispered Pennington to Dick.
“His full force isn’t down here. It is believed he has not more than a thousand or twelve hundred men. But he and his officers know the country thoroughly, and of course the inhabitants, being in full sympathy with them, will give them all the information they need. The news of every movement of ours has been carried straight to the rebel general.”
“And yet the country seems to have no people at all. We come to but few houses, and those few are deserted.”
“So they are. What was that? Did you see it, Frank?”
“What was what?”
“I forgot that you are not using glasses. I caught a momentary glitter in the woods. I think it was a sunbeam passing through the leaves and striking upon the polished barrel of a rifle. Ah! there it is again! And Colonel Winchester has seen it too.”
The colonel and his senior officers were now gazing intently at the point in the wood where Dick had twice seen the gleam, and, keener-eyed than they, he continued to search the leafy screen through his own glasses. Soon he saw bayonets, rifles, horses and men advancing swiftly, and then came two of their own scouts galloping.
