“Beyond a doubt they have been fired upon, but I don’t believe they saw anything,” answered Rodney. “They heard the whistle of bullets and buckshot, most likely, and it scared them half to death. Come on. Let’s hurry.”
“Where are you going?” demanded Ned, as Rodney turned about and ran toward the house.
“After my horse. There are five men missing, and it may be that some of them were shot. And even if they were unhorsed and not hurt at all, they need help if they are as badly frightened as the two that just went by.”
Not being a soldier, Ned Griffin was in no haste to ride into a dark swamp to brave an invisible bushwhacker, who might be as ready to shoot him as anybody else, but when Rodney broke into a run and started for the stable-yard, he kept close at his heels. The two saddled their horses with all haste, and with the eager and excited hounds for a body-guard, rode through the bars just in time to meet the two survivors of Mr. Biglin’s party, who had at last found courage enough to stop their frantic steeds and come back.
“O Rodney; this is an awful day for us!” cried one of the frightened men. “I wish we had never heard of that cotton.”
“The cotton is all right if you will keep your thievish hands off from it,” replied Rodney. “What’s the matter with you, and where are Mr. Biglin and the rest?”
“Dead or prisoners, the last one of them. There’s a whole regiment in there, and they opened on us before we had left the road half a mile behind.”
“A whole regiment of what?”
“Indians, judging by the way they yelled, though I suppose they were Yankee soldiers out on a scout.”
“Not much!” exclaimed Rodney.