“What is it, Sergeant?”
“A picket, sir, at the end of the road,” he said quietly.
“I kinder reckoned they'd hev some sort o' guard thar, so I crept up on the quiet ter be sure. The feller helped me out a bit by strikin' a match ter see what time 't was, or I reckon I'd a walked over him in ther dark.”
“Had we better ride him down?” I asked, thinking only how rapidly the night hours were speeding and of the importance of the duty pressing upon us.
“Not with ther woman, sir,” he answered in a low, reproachful voice. “Besides, we never could git through without a shot, an' if by any dern luck it should turn out ter be a cavalry outpost,—an' I sorter reckon that's what it is,—why, our horses are in no shape fer a hard run. You uns better wait here, sir, an' let me tend ter that soger man quiet like, an' then p'raps we uns kin all slip by without a stirrin' up ther patrol.”
“Well,” I said, reluctantly yielding to what I felt was doubtless the wiser course, and mechanically grasping the rein he held out to me, “go ahead. But be careful, and don't waste any time. If we hear the sound of a shot we shall ride forward under spur.”
“All right, sir, but there 'll be no fuss, fer I know just whar ther fellar is.”
Time seems criminally long when one is compelled to wait in helpless uncertainty, every nerve on strain.
“Hold yourself ready for a sudden start,” I said warningly to my companion. “If there is any noise of a struggle yonder I shall drive in the spurs.”
As I spoke I swung the Sergeant's horse around to my side, where I could control him more readily.