“Who ever thought it possible that I should ever be loved by Sally—such a darn skunk—a sweet gal, I mean!”
Nettleton did not pause until he had overtaken the colonel, of whom he requested permission to remain and make a more thorough search for his captain.
“No, William,” was the reply. “We will not be a mile distant before the enemy’s scouts will be here, and you will be taken prisoner.”
“No fear, they don’t notice such as me!”
“But your uniform will be sufficient.”
“Oh! I always go prepared. I have another suit under this, one as I got from the bushwhack I laid out the other night, as he came noseing around Captain Hayward’s tramping ground, and I shall put that on top.”
“Well, do as you like, but be careful!”
Nettleton waited for no other words, but turning, proceeded at once to the spot where Hayward received the fatal stab. He sat down for a time, silent and mournful, gazing into the water. He then commenced a scrutinizing search. He became satisfied that the body could not have floated down the river, on account of the shallowness of the water. He crossed the stream, searched upon the opposite bank, and there found the footprints of a number of men. He followed the tracks, and found that two persons had descended into the river, and out again, near the same spot. He took the measurement of each impression in the mud, and then exclaimed:
“I’ll be darned if Lieutenant Wells’ boot made any of them marks! I know how it is. Captain must have come here last night to think, and some of them darn rebel skunks come up behind him suddenly, and killed him, and then two of them crossed over and got his body, and brought it back, and that accounts for the tracks in and out of the water. But what did they want with him if he was dead? Perhaps he wasn’t quite killed, and they took him prisoner. I’ll follow these tracks, anyway.”
Nettleton followed up the footmarks until they merged into the turnpike, which was so cut up with travel as to prevent him tracing them further. He now returned to the fatal spot. Bending down he examined the earth, still red with blood. Something appeared to interest him, and creeping on his knees, he followed a footprint to the edge of the stream. Here was an impression of two boots, side by side, in the mud. Nettleton gazed upon them for a few moments. His breast heaved violently—he clenched his hands, and at last said: