We recognized the voice in a moment; it was the scout's.
"Why didn't you answer when I challenged?" demanded the Major.
"I reck'ned I'd just wait and see who you was, fust," was the cool reply.
"You ran a mighty narrow chance of being fired into."
"Yes, I calc'lated on that; but I thought I'd take the risk. It's mighty onsartain 'bout hitt'n' a feller in the brush, dark as it is now; and I'd ruther be shot at than fool along into Jordan's hands."
"I say," said Spencer to me, sotto voce, "that fellow is a cool one!"
And so he was. Think of a man's calmly calculating, rather than make a mistake and thereby raising a false alarm, the chances of a dozen shots being fired at him at a distance not exceeding ten rods—from a point he all the while intended to advance toward, until near enough to recognize voices. He was a specimen of the kind of men that made up the Home Guards.
The scout's report was favorable. He thought there had been no enemy around the old rendezvous for several days. This intelligence corresponded with that already obtained by the Major. Coupled with the state of the weather, it seemed nearly certain that we should have only the elements to contend with that night. Again we were off.
"We must push ahead, now, at double quick. We have no time to lose," said the Major.