Cavalry Curt to his infinite satisfaction was one of the scouts.
Once outside the picket line the scouts moved cautiously, yet swiftly forward, the sense of each man strained to catch the least sound or to detect the slightest movement upon the night scene.
The sky was overcast with a thin lining of clouds, so that it was quite dark in the deeper forests. In a couple of hours the moon would rise to dispel somewhat the gloom.
As silently as so many shadows the little party threaded the dim aisle of the valley lying on the west of the town.
Not a word was spoken and nothing was heard to alarm them, until at last they stood at the edge of a clearing of several acres in extent.
Lieutenant Boggs motioning a halt, they paused under the shadows of the trees.
“I have an idea the Yanks are off to the right,” he said, speaking for the first time.
“More’n likely,” assented one of the others.
Cavalry Curt started at the sound of the last speaker’s voice. He was too well schooled in his self-possession, however, to betray any surprise, though he improved the first opportunity to get a good, square look at the man.
He had recognized the tone as that of one whom he had at one time known.