"How far have you come on this military road?" I inquired of him.
"I have come from Florence."
"Did you see any of Bill Johnson's cavalry on the road?"
"No, sir; there is no cavalry on the road. Roddy's cavalry is at Florence; there is none this side of there."
"Look here, you are lying to me," I said, eying him closely. "A'n't there any cavalry camped at Shoal Creek?"
"No, sir; if there is I did not see them."
"You are lying to me sure. Johnson's cavalry is at Shoal Creek, not more than a mile and a half from here, and you could not pass without seeing it. You belong to the cavalry, and have been sent out to see if the Yankees are coming with the cattle."
"No, indeed, I don't belong to them," he persisted; "I am no soldier, and did not see any soldiers along the road. I am a weaver by trade, and do not belong to the army."
"Well, go with us; we'll find out whether you are a soldier or not." His fright now turned into terror. We went about a mile, when we met Johnson's cavalry coming up, and were obliged to turn back. As we turned, one of the cavalry, with a single stroke of his saber, severed the weaver's head from his body, and left him for his comrades to take care of. I have no doubt whatever but that he was a scout for Johnson, and that he calculated his being a dwarf would clear all suspicion of his belonging to the army.
I reported the approach of Johnson to General Leggett, who threw out a brigade of infantry in line of battle, and prevented an attack upon the cattle.