“Who in thunderation have you in the wagon?”
“Some fellow from St. Francois county, wounded and driven off by the Federals.”
“The devil! why that is my native county. I‘ll take a look at that fellow. It‘s Sam Hildebrand as I live! How do you do, old rapscallion?”
“Well, well, if I haven‘t run across Tom Haile, the dare-devil of the swamps!”
“Old ‘drugs and medicines‘ what are you doing here? trying to pass yourself off for a great medicinal root I suppose. Do you feel tolerable better? I‘m afraid you are poison. Say, Sam, did you bring some good horses down with you?”
“Hush Tom! if they find out that I‘m not a horse thief, they will drum me out of camp!”
The party soon prepared to start; the first man who attempted to mount came near being dashed to the ground in consequence of the rattling of a tin cup some one had tied to his spur. Tom said it was a perfect shame to treat any man in that way; the man seemed to think so, too, judging from the glance he cast at Tom. But they mounted, dashed through a sheet of muddy water, then over a rocky point, and soon were far away amid the dim blue hills.
We started on, and after traveling until about midnight, we reached the State line between Missouri and Arkansas, there we remained until morning; on starting again we were in Green county, Arkansas, and sometime during the day we arrived safely at the Headquarters of Captain Bolin, and I was welcomely received into the little community of families, who were here assembled for mutual protection—most of them were the families of Captain Bolin‘s men. I received every attention from them that my necessities required, and as my wound seemed to be doing well, I felt for a time quite at home.