“As nearly as I can calculate, sir. It's through swampy country, but I think we ought to be there in three or four hours.”
“Then lead the way,” said Grierson. “Like your colonel, I'll be glad to have a try at Forrest.”
Sergeant Whitley rode in advance. A lumberman first and then a soldier of the plains, he had noted even in the darkness every landmark and he could lead the way back infallibly. But he warned Grierson that such a man as Forrest would be likely to have out scouts, even if they had to swim the river. It was likely that they could not get nearer by three or four miles to Colonel Winchester without being seen.
“Then,” said Grierson, who had the spirit of a Stuart or a Forrest, “we'll ride straight on, brushing these watchers out of our way, and if by any chance their whole force should cross, we'll just meet and fight it.”
“The little river is falling fast,” said the sergeant. “It's likely that it'll be fordable almost anywhere by noon.”
“Then,” said Grierson, “it'll be all the easier for us to get at the enemy.”
Dick, just behind Grierson, heard these words and he liked them. Here was a spirit like Colonel Winchester's own, or like that of the great Southern cavalry leaders. The Southerners were born on horseback, but the Northern men were acquiring the same trick of hard riding. Dick glanced back at the long column. Armed with carbine and saber the men were riding their trained horses like Comanches. Eager and resolute it was a formidable force, and his heart swelled with pride and anticipation. He believed that they were going to give Forrest all he wanted and maybe a little more.
Up rose the sun. Hot beams poured over forest and field, but the cavalrymen still rode fast, the scent of battle in their nostrils. Dick knew that these Southern streams, flooded by torrents of rain, rose fast and also fell fast.
“How much further now, sergeant?” asked Grierson, as they turned from a path into the deep woods.
“Not more than three miles, sir.”