Twice, having no light but the foggy stars, they missed the stakes and her horse had to swim, but they managed to flounder safely back to the ford each time; and after a little while her mount rose, straining through the red mud of the shore, struggled, scrambled madly, and drew out, dripping.
Up a slippery, crooked ascent they rode, out into a field of uncut corn above, then, spurring, swung at a canter eastward along the river.
There was a dim light in the ferry house; a lubberly, fat man ran to the open door as they drew bridle before it. When the fat man saw the blue troopers he backed hastily away from the sill and the Messenger dismounted and followed him into the house, heavy revolver swinging in her gloved hand.
“What’n hell y’goin’ to do to me?” he began to whimper; “I ain’t done nothin’”; but an excess of fright strangled him, and he continued to back away from her until he landed flat against the opposite wall. She followed and halted before him, cocking her weapon, with a terrible frown. She said solemnly:
“I want you to answer me one or two questions, and if you lie to me it will be the last time. Do you understand?”
He nodded and moistened his thick lips, gulping.
“Then you are the ferryman, Snuyder, are you not?”
He nodded, utterly incapable of speech. She went on, gloomily:
“You used to fish sometimes with a Yankee recruit named Allen—Roy Allen?”
“Ye-s’m,” he sniveled. “There’s my fish-pole an’ his’n layin’ onto the roof——”