Rosebel's Paul Lies Buried Here.
The stick was stuck at the top of the grave, and silently they mounted their horses once more and proceeded on their way. It was fully ten minutes before either of them spoke again, and then the subject was something of an entirely different nature.
"Halt, Major!" It was Life who uttered the word, speaking in a whisper. The tall Kentuckian had discerned three forms moving before them in the darkness.
Deck also saw them, and brought Ceph to a stop. The three forms were on foot, but whether friends or foes they could not tell.
They had reached the edge of the creek, and above the spot was a patch of woods, while below was a long meadow, cut up into numerous brooks. On the opposite side of the creek was another patch of woods much denser than the first mentioned.
"This is the spot, Leftenant," they heard one of the party of three remark.
"Are you sure, Bolder?" came in a second voice. "Remember, you were mistaken before."
"Well, I'm not mistaken now," answered Bolder. "Here is the very tree I notched."
"Yes, this is the trail," came in a third voice. "And I don't believe there has been a single Yankee around."
"I trust not, Peters. But we are not out of the woods yet—in more ways than one. The raft may be gone, and fording this stream in such a flood as this is entirely out of the question."