“And didn’t you have to give him up to his rightful owner?”
“Course not. I said if he wasn’t my horse, how came that letter D branded on him, and that settled it. Won’t you go in and rest a few minutes?”
As Rodney said this he waved his hand toward the house, whose front door stood invitingly open, but Mr. Biglin replied that he did not care to sit down until he was out of sight of the swamp, and beyond the reach of the terrible Home Guards who made their hiding-place there. So he and his companions walked on, and Rodney and Ned turned into the yard.
“Our government!” Rodney said over and over again while they were at the well watering their horses. “He’d give everything he’s got if he could see it broken up this minute.”
“Of course he would, but he and his kind stand higher with the Federals than you do,” replied Ned. “Now, all we can do is to possess our souls in patience and wait for the next act on the programme. Let’s see if Mr. Biglin’s government will send soldiers to protect him in his cotton-stealing.”
It was very easy for Ned to talk of waiting patiently, but it was a hard thing to do. He and Rodney looked anxiously for the appearance of the cavalry that Mr. Biglin and one of his friends had threatened to send against the men who had driven them from the swamp, but they never came. They saw and talked with a good many troopers, who drank all the milk they could find and asked about the Johnnies that were supposed to be “snooping around” in that part of the country, but to the boys’ great relief they did not say a word about cotton or Home Guards, and Rodney hoped he had seen the last of Mr. Biglin. He was ready to make terms with a genuine Yankee who would offer him sixty cents a pound for his father’s cotton, but he wanted nothing to do with converted rebels. He and Ned made several trips to the city, bringing out each time some things that were not contraband of war, and some others that would have caused the prompt confiscation of his whole wagon load if they had been discovered, but his friend Mr. Martin, on whom he relied for information of every sort, could not give him any advice on the subject that was nearest to his heart.
“The city is full of men who are working their level best to get permits,” said he, “but I am told it takes lots of influence and a clean record to get them.”
“Then Biglin will never have the handling of my father’s cotton,” said Rodney with a sigh of satisfaction. “His record is as bad as mine.”
“Much worse,” answered Mr. Martin, “for you never went back on your friends and became a spy and informer. That is just what that man Biglin has done, but I have reason to think he isn’t making much at it. Someone has been telling true stories about him, and the provost marshal knows his history like a book. O Rodney, why didn’t you keep out of the rebel army and proclaim yourself a Union man at the start, no matter whether you were or not. You would have plain sailing now.”
Rodney laughed and said it was too late to think of that; and besides, why didn’t Mr. Martin proclaim himself a Union man at the start? Perhaps he wouldn’t have been so closely watched.