"Thank you, doctor; is there anything left in yours?"
"Yes; some hard biscuit and dry beef. I will put them in for you." And the doctor transfers them from his haversack to mine.
"Now, Bischoff, roll up the buffalo; quick's the word; we must go back to within seven miles of Paris, and the sun is setting."
"Good-bye, captain," calls the doctor as I start. "I hope you won't be hurt to-night."
"I hope not, doctor; good-bye. And now, Bischoff, for the squadron and Holly Fork."
VI. THE HOLLY FORK.
We rode rapidly along the wooded ridges. The fading daylight told us that the sun had set behind his cloudy screen, and when we reached the main road, there was light enough to show dimly the trail turning toward Paris. In this cavalry service, one becomes so attached to his constant companions by day and by night, that you must forgive me for describing mine. Bischoff's horse is a beautiful sorrel blood, high spirited, yet quiet and gentle as a lamb. My own horse is a prisoner from Fort Donelson. On the eventful Sunday morning, I found him tied in a yard, near where General Floyd took to his boat, and have no doubt he was left by the runaway part of the garrison. At first I was rather disposed not to buy him from the government, and it was more the desire to retain a trophy of Fort Donelson, than his merits, that decided the question. He is a fine Kentucky blood, but had too many Southern traits—snorting when there was nothing to snort at, quiet when alone, but full of fuss when anybody was by, and, once, seceding from the smooth and travelled way, only to be brought back by a good thrashing, which, indeed, was the basis of our good understanding. But in this Paris journey, his Arabian blood atoned for his Southern education. It was refreshing to feel these high bred horses rousing themselves for their new march, as though it were the beginning of a new day, breaking into a gallop wherever the road allowed, and dashing along without word or spur as though just out of the stable.
On the summit of a long hill is a farm house, and as we thus approached it on a gallop, I saw a group of men, and rows of cavalry horses tied to the fences. For a moment I thought my pursuit was over, but a closer glance through the dim twilight told me these were too few for the squadron—it was the picket guard taking their last rest before going out on their posts for the night. "Your men are about two miles ahead of you, captain," said the officer of the picket, and we rode on. As we descended the next hill, the last glimmer of daylight left us, and the darkness of a gloomy, cloudy night shrouded the road. I had been riding rapidly while the daylight lasted, but so had the squadron. Ordinarily, there would have been a halt before this, to re-adjust saddles and examine pistols, but it was now evident that while I was making every exertion to overtake them, they were making every exertion to meet me. I knew their orders must have been to proceed till they should meet me, and I could imagine that they supposed I was alone at the bridge, and were urging their horses to my relief. "Confound that blockhead," I was inclined to mutter; but there was no help for his blunder, save to hurry on.