“You say he’s fond of fishing?”
“Crazy about it. He was often detailed to keep us in food when rations ran low. Then the catfish made us sick, so I stopped his fishing. Then he took French leave.”
“I want two troopers this evening, Colonel. May I have them?” she asked thoughtfully. “I’m going to keep house at Red Ferry for a while.”
“All right, ma’am. Look out for him; he’s a bad one.”
But the Messenger shook her head, smiling.
At ten o’clock that night the Special Messenger, mounted astride and followed by two cavalrymen with carbines, rode down through the river mist to Bushy Ford.
Daintily her handsome horse set foot in the water, hesitated, bent his long, velvety neck, sniffed, and finally drank; then, satisfied, stepped quietly forward, hock-deep, in the swirling, yellow flood.
“Foller them stakes, Miss,” cautioned the older trooper; “I sot ’em m’self, I did.”
“Thank you. Keep close to me, Connor. I’ve crossed here before it was staked.”
“Sho!” exclaimed Connor under his breath; “she do beat ’em all!”