“Yes, if you can hit him.”
The sergeant slowly raises his pistol—the hand-car stops—bang! and the bullet strikes against the scaly side and glances off. The alligator slides from the log, and disappears in the inky water.
“I don’t care about making that gentleman’s acquaintance,” says the Pay-Master. “Mr. Clerk, please keep a sharp look-out behind for any stray locomotive that may be coming along, and the Colonel and I will look out ahead. Seven miles you say it is to the next station? Well, I shall feel a little easier when we get there.”
The hand-car resumes its former speed, and we fly along through the deep shades and deeper stillness of the swamp. The rumbling of the car that we hardly heard in the open fields now echoes distinctly, and our voices almost startle us, they sound so very clear and loud. There are no fields or openings on either side, no firm ground to stand upon, and the trees rise out of the green-coated water.
“Stop! what’s that? There’s something ahead,” calls the Pay-Master; “is it an engine?”
“No, sir,” replies the sergeant, “it is the picket at Moccason bayou.”
A mile or two ahead can be dimly seen something moving where the railroad track is lost among the over-hanging trees. Then, as the car lessens the distance, can be distinguished the figures of three or four men, the gleam of their muskets and the blue uniform of the United States. The picket has turned out and is watching us. Our engineer puts on a full head of steam, and our little special train rushes along faster than ever, until it is “braked-down” on the very bank of Moccason bayou.
“These are your men, are they?” asks the Pay-Master.
“Yes, they are here guarding the bridge.”
“Then I will take an order from them authorizing me to pay the money to their Captain.”