“How many are ye?” asked one of the newcomers, striding forward between us and the sentry.
“A right smart heap o' a bunch; bin a pickin' o' 'em up ever since we left Charlotte,” I returned evasively.
“They be dandies ter fight, an' I reckon as how ye kin use 'em, can't ye?”
“Maybe; who did ye want ter see?”
“Wal, they sed as how a feller named Lowrie wus a runnin' this yere gang, an' if thet 's ther way o' it, I reckon as how it's Lowrie we 're after. Be you Lowrie?”
“Naw.”
The answer was so gruff and short, and the fellow hesitated so long in adding anything to it, I began to think it was all off.
“Wal,” he consented to say at last, ungraciously, “thar 's a blame pile o' ye kim in lately, an' I calcalate we got 'bout 'nough fer our business, but I reckon as how Red will use ye somewhar. Anyhow you uns kin come 'long with me an' find out, but ye'll diskiver him 'bout ther ornerest man jist now ever ye run up agin. He 's plum mad, Red is, fer sartain.”
He turned and strode off, without so much as giving us a backward glance, and, with a hearty congratulatory kick to the mule, I and my company followed him. A hundred yards further in we passed through the fringe of trees and emerged into an open space from whence we could see plainly the great white house still illumined by the flames which continued to consume the stables. Shots were flashing like fireflies out of the darkness on every side of us, the smell of burning powder scented the air, and I could distinguish the black forms of men lying prone on the grass in something resembling a skirmish line.
“Makin' a fight o' it, ain't they?” I asked of our taciturn guide, as we picked our way carefully among the recumbent forms.