“Bu-bu-bu-but wh-wh-what wo-wo-would th-th-the re-re-reb be-be-been do-do-doing; yo-yo-you in-in-infernal blockhead!” exclaimed Hazelet, and Taylor subsided.
There was one picket post half-way down Water Mountain, toward the Federal camp, that was dreaded by all the boys. It was within three hundred yards of the picket reserve or rendezvous. There was an old wagon road winding through a narrow ravine, and a stone wall crossed at right angles with the road opposite the reserve. On either side of the ravine was thick underbrush, and just back a little were woods. We were informed that four pickets had been shot off their horses near the old tree. The bushwhackers would ride to within a few hundred yards of the stone wall, dismount and while one would remain with the horses another would crawl like a snake in the grass up behind the wall and pick off the Union cavalrymen. It was cold-blooded murder, committed at night, without cause or provocation. Let it be said to the credit of the Confederate rank and file, that the boys in butternut—the regularly organized troops—discountenanced the cowardly acts of the guerrillas and bushwhackers.
A soldier was shot on picket at the old tree one night, and our company relieved the company to which he belonged the next morning. The murdered trooper was strapped across his saddle and taken to camp for burial. When our boys were counted off for picket Taylor “drew the fatal number,” as it was called.
“If I'm murdered on post, boys,” he said, “don't bother about taking my carcass to camp. Bury me where I fall.”
Taylor made a poor attempt to appear unconcerned. But he was a droll sort of a boy. He continued:
“I've no doubt I was cut out for an avenger; so if any of you fellows want me to avenge your death just swap posts with me to-night. If any infernal gorilla steals up on you and takes your life, I pledge you that I'll follow him to Texas, but what I'll spill his gore.”
“I'd rather go unavenged than to take chances on that post from eleven o'clock to one o'clock to-night,” chorused several of Taylor's friends.
I had the post next to Taylor toward the reserve. The rain was falling, and it was dark down in the ravine. I could hear Taylor's horse champing his bit, and once my horse broke out with a gentle whinny, the noise of which startled me tremendously at first. And I have no doubt it operated the same on Taylor. Soon after that the rain let up and the clouds broke away so that the moon could be seen now and then. All at once there was a flash and a loud report.
“That's the last of poor Giles,” I exclaimed, as the sound of the shot reverberated through the ravine.
Then I rode toward Taylor's post as cautiously as I could. I was pleasantly startled by the challenge in his well-known voice: