"'I don't know his name. Bob done it. He seed him leave the Yankee camp, an' follered him, an' while they were ridin' along together, he tuk out his pistol an' told the Yank to give up his we'pons; but the feller wouldn't do it, an' Bob had to shoot him. But he didn't kill him; he only shot him through the shoulder. He's sartin to be hung.'
"You can easily imagine my feelings as I sat there and listened to this. It required a strong effort to subdue my feelings.
"'How does Bob Cole disguise himself?' I asked, in as firm a voice as I could command. 'What does he do in the Yankee camp?'
"'That's what nobody, 'sides Bob an' the general, knows,' answered the woman. 'Didn't you never see him? He's a little man, has black hair and eyes, wears no whiskers, and allers rides a little gray horse. He's smart, I tell yer.'
"After talking awhile longer with the woman without learning any thing further, I mounted my horse and returned to camp. While I was eating my supper, I called to mind all the scouts with whom I was acquainted, but not one of them answered to the description of Bob Cole. There was one man in camp, however, who did answer the description, and that was the general's hostler. Could it be possible that he was the spy?
"At this moment an orderly entered to tell me that I was wanted at head-quarters. I followed him to the general's tent, received my orders, and began to get ready for the journey. As I came out of the tent I met the hostler, who inquired:
"'Are you off again to-night, Bill?'
"I replied in the affirmative, and he continued:
"'Well, good luck to you. Don't let the rebs get hold of you.'
"I mounted my horse and rode out of the camp, fully satisfied that if he was the spy I would soon know it.