“What are you going to do with those conscripts?” inquired Rodney.
“I haven’t orders to do anything with them,” answered the lieutenant. “But of course I am expected to take them to Baton Rouge and turn them over to the provost marshal.”
“Why can’t you leave them here with me? I will look out for them.”
“And you a discharged rebel? You’re a cool one, Johnny.”
“But that boy in the house is my cousin, and as strong for the Union as you or any man in your squad. Besides, he is ill and can’t go any farther, and he wants his partner to stay with him. If the provost marshal doesn’t tell you that I am all right with the authorities in Baton Rouge, you can come back here and get him.”
“You are very kind; but we are not making any excursions into the country just for the fun of the thing. We have ridden far enough already. What’s the matter out there, Allen?”
“Big dust up the road, sir,” replied the soldier who had been left at the bars. “Coming fast too, sir.”
“Boots and saddles!” exclaimed the lieutenant, throwing himself on the back of Rodney’s plough-mule. “Sergeant, form skirmish-line among the trees to the right of the house.”
“You’re taking trouble for nothing,” said Rodney. “There are no rebs about here. That’s a Yankee scouting party from Baton Rouge.”
The lieutenant didn’t know whether it was or not, and so, like a good soldier, he made ready to fight, and to send word to his superior in the rear if he found himself confronted by a force of the enemy too strong for him to withstand. He kept his eye on the sentry, who had faced his horse toward the bars in readiness to dash through them and join his comrades if the rapidly approaching squad proved to be rebels, but he did not retreat, nor did he discharge his carbine, which he held at “arms port.” He stuck to his post until the foremost of the squad rode into view around a turn in the road and then called out: