"Towards the Twin Mountains."
"There is no question as to where they was goin'," said the blacksmith. "They was takin' a bee line for the camp on Wolf Creek, and they're going to gobble up our boys along there; but although they outnumber them twenty to one, they'll find the boys game."
"Where did these troops come from?" asked Mr. Tompkins.
"From the Junction."
Mr. Tompkins very well knew that the entire force at the Junction did not number over four hundred men.
While the loungers and others were attempting to estimate the number of the troops, and discussing the probable result of their visit to Wolf Creek, a volley of musketry saluted their astonished ears.
"There, they are at it!" said the blacksmith, smoking his pipe more vigorously.
The volley was quickly followed by another, another, and another. After this, for a quarter of an hour, an occasional shot was heard, but no more regular firing. Various were the conjectures as to the result of the battle. A frightened farmer, who had been near the camp at the time of the attack, came galloping in, declaring that the ground was strewn with dead bodies; that the Confederates were killed to a man, and other reports almost as wild, increasing the excitement and alarm of the villagers.
To say that Mr. Tompkins did not share the general anxiety would be to say he was not human. He knew that his youngest son might be lying in the woods either dead or dying. And Abner—had he accompanied the troops sent to the Junction? A thousand conflicting emotions stirred the heart of the planter, and a double care weighed on his mind. His first impulse was to go at once to the scene of the conflict; but a moment's reflection showed him that such a course would be not only dangerous, but foolish. He resolved to return home and await the development of facts in regard to the attack at Wolf Creek.