On coming closer, I observed a great deal of bustle around the wagons, but, as that was nothing unusual among a lot of teamsters and mules, I paid but little attention to it, and jogged along on my horse, singing to myself the popular song of those days, "Gay and Happy."
But when I came in full view, and so close that I could see a wagon on fire, I began to get suddenly interested. Men were flying around at a lively rate, as I supposed putting out the fire. I didn't exactly like the looks of the thing, and determined, in my own mind, to reconnoiter and advance slowly. Discovering a little, old house in the edge of a clearing to the side of the road, a short distance from the scene I have described, I rode into the little yard, and called to a woman who was holding a baby in her arms: "Who are those men up the road?"
"Soldiers, I reckon, sir."
"Yes, I know; but what soldiers?"
"Colonel Mosby's soldiers, I reckon, sir."
That was enough. I had a package of reports and papers and some private letters in my pocket, to deliver to Pleasonton and other officers about headquarters. Feeling sure of my belt, pulling my cap down tight over my face, I took a short grip on the reins.
"What are they doing up there?"
"They done captured that wagon-train, sir; and I reckon they will burn the wagons when they get the horses away."
I turned my horse back to the main road, feeling a little nervous, but determined to run for my life.
The moment I got into the road, and without looking up at the burning wagons, I turned my horse's head back and put spurs deeply into his flanks. I had not made five jumps before I heard the cracks of at least a dozen rifles. This only nerved me to more desperate lashings with spurs, leaning forward to the horse's mane as I thrust the spurs into him at every jump. They came after me, yelling like a band of Comanche Indians; but I had a good start, and their guns were empty.