"I know, but wull ye swar it,—swar ter tuck this ter Cunnel Cranor 'fore th' Lord thet yeres us?"
"Yes, yes, I will," she said, taking the bullet. But horses' hoofs were already sounding in the door-yard. "It's too late," cried the woman. "Oh, why did you stop to parley?"
"Never mind, Rachel," answered the scout. "Don't tuck on. Tuck ye keer o' th' dispatch. Valu' it loike yer life,—loike Kaintuck. The Lord's callin' fur me, and I'm a'ready."
But the scout was mistaken. It was not the Lord, but a dozen devils at the door-way.
"What does ye want?" asked the woman, going to the door.
"The man as come from Garfield's camp at sun-up,—John Jordan, from the head o' Baine," answered a voice from the outside.
"Ye karn't hev him fur th' axin'," said the scout. "Go away, or I'll send some o' ye whar the weather is warm, I reckon."
"Pshaw!" said another voice,—from his speech one of the chivalry. "There are twenty of us. We'll spare your life, if you give up the dispatch; if you don't, we'll hang you higher than Haman."
The reader will bear in mind that this was in the beginning of the war, when swarms of spies infested every Union camp, and treason was only a gentlemanly pastime, not the serious business it has grown to be since traitors are no longer dangerous.
"I've nothin' but my life thet I'll guv up," answered the scout; "and ef ye tuck thet, ye'll hev ter pay the price,—six o' yourn."