The old negro trotted into the house, and trotted out again, bringing a double-barrelled shot-gun, which Frank did not like the looks of at all.
"There's some Yankee trick here," said the secessionist, cocking the piece, and carefully putting a cap on each barrel; "but I reckon they'll find me enough for 'em. Toby, you stay here with the dog, and take care of things. Now, boy, march ahead there, and show me that gobbler."
The old negro grinned. So did his master, in a way Frank did not fancy. It was a morose, menacing, savage grin—a very appropriate prelude, Frank thought, to a shot from behind out of that two-barrelled fowling-piece. But it was too late now to retreat. So, putting on a bold and confident air, he started for the woods, followed by the grim man with the gun.
His sensations by the way were not greatly to be envied. He had never felt, as he afterwards expressed it, so streaked in his life. By that term I suppose he alluded to those peculiar thrills which sometimes creep over one, from the scalp to the ankles, when some great danger is apprehended. For it was evident that this man was in deadly earnest. Tramp, tramp, he came after Frank, with his left hand on the stock of his gun, the other on the lock, ready to pop him over the moment he should discover he had been trifled with. No doubt their departure had been watched by the boys from the thicket, and the unlucky drummer expected every moment to hear the alarm of a premature attack upon the turkey-pen, which would, unquestionably, prove the signal for his own immediate execution.
"He will shoot me first," thought Frank, "to be revenged; then he'll ran back to defend his property."
And now, although he had long since made up his mind that he was willing to die, if necessary, fighting for his country, his whole soul shrunk with fear and dread from the shameful death, in a shameful cause, with which he was menaced.
"Shot, by a secessionist, in the act of stealing turkeys." How would that sound, reported to his friends at home?
"Shot while gallantly charging the enemy's battery." How differently that would read! and the poor boy wished that he had let the miserable turkeys alone, and waited to try his fortunes on the battle-field.
However, being once in the scrape, although the cause was a bad one, he determined to show no craven spirit. With a heart like hot lead within him, he marched with every appearance of willingness and confidence into the woods, regarding the gun no more than if it had been designed for the obvious purpose of shooting the gobbler.
"When we come in sight of him," said Frank, "let me shoot him, won't you?"