“March!” I said to the man, still covering him with my pistol.
“Where?” he asked.
“To the little clump of woods yonder,” I said. “I have something to say to you.”
The fellow had hard, strong features, and his countenance did not fall.
He wheeled about and marched toward the wood. I followed close behind, the pistol in my hand. I had chosen my course with my eyes open. Our people were not near, and we reached the trees without interruption or notice. In their shelter the man turned about.
“Well, what do you want?” he asked in sullen, obstinate tones.
“Your papers,” I said; “the message you were trying to carry into the British camp.”
“I have no papers; I was not trying to carry anything into the British camp,” he replied, edging a little closer.
“Keep off!” I said, foreseeing his intent. “If you come an inch nearer I will put a pistol ball through you. Stand farther away!”