Tom, Shadrack, and Wilson held their arms up, while the men dumped the contents of their pockets on a table. Three revolvers, handkerchiefs, Confederate money…. They found nothing of importance.
"Now let's sit down here and talk this thing over," said the Judge. "Where do you men say you come from!"
"From Fleming County, Kentucky," replied Wilson. "We were getting tired of the way the Yanks were running things and so we decided that we'd go and fight for the South. We started out last week and made our way through the lines. It was easy. We didn't see a single Union sentry."
"Where did you come across the river?" demanded the Judge.
"A few miles this side of Decatur," said Tom.
One of the men beside the Judge interrupted: "There aren't any ferries running up there."
"I know there aren't," answered Tom. "We were afraid to tell anyone what we were going to do until we got across the river, and so we had to build a raft."
"A raft!" exclaimed the Judge.
"Yes, out of logs. I got washed overboard and I grabbed on to one of the logs and held there. Look at my hands." He spread his hands out upon the table, palms up. They had been torn and bruised by the logs he had yanked from the tender.
"Hm-m-m!" grunted the Judge, "must have whipped you around some in that current!"