Brereton, who had stayed through the sale, with a contemptous shrug of the shoulders, walked over to the ordinary. Here he ate a silent supper, and then mounting his horse set off on his evening ride back to his regiment.
Half-way between Brunswick and Greenwood, while his thoughts were dwelling on the day’s doings, and on what effect it would have on those far away in the mountains of Virginia, he was brought back to the present by hearing his name called in a low voice from behind a wall.
“Who ’s that?” he demanded, halting his horse.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes,” replied the officer, as he drew out a pistol from the holster.
“No occasion for that, colonel,” said Joe Bagby's unmistakable accents, as the man climbed over the stones and came forward. “It’s me,” he announced. “Just walk your horse slow, so I can keep beside you, for I’ve something to tell you, and I don’t want to stand still here in the road.”
“Well, what is it?” questioned Brereton, as he started his horse walking.
“I rather guess you came to town on business, did n’t you?”
“Perhaps.”
“Might be something to do with the sale of Greenwood.”