"Sho' as you lib, Mars, dat's Mars's gun; he tole me to take it an' come out heah an'—an'—look fer coon."
"Yes, and you found three of them, eh?"
The fellow grinned. At length he asked, "Is you Jordan's men?"
We had heard of Jordan, a Confederate guerrilla said to infest the country near this point.
"No," I answered. "Are you?"
"No, Mars Jordan don't want no niggas in his band."
"Who do you belong to, then? Come, you might as well tell the truth!"
"I tole you, I'se Mars Jackson's nigga."
It would be tedious to follow out a conversation that occupied the better portion of an hour. Suffice it, that after a time the man convinced us that he was in reality a slave. Then we told him truthfully who we were. At this he seemed filled with terror, and evidently did not believe us. Finally we sat down and talked with him until we convinced him of our character. We showed him the compass, but he could comprehend nothing of its uses; it excited his curiosity, but nothing more. Then we showed him our map, and explained to him how we used it: showed him our route from Branchville, and at last, when we came to the place where we had crossed the river (Etowah), he laughed outright.