half-way down the tree
he went, and waited their coming. They moved at an irregular pace,
carrying lanterns, and pausing every now and then to inspect the road,
as if they had missed their way or lost something. Soon they came near,
and were dimly outlined in the gray mist, so the scout could make out
their number. There were thirty of them,--the original band, and a
reinforcement. Again they halted when abreast of the tree, and searched
the road narrowly.

"He must have come this way," said one,--he of the chivalry. "The other
road is six miles longer, and he would take the shortest route. It's an
awful pity we didn't head him on both roads."

"We kin come up with him yit, ef we turn plumb round, and foller on
t'other road,--whar we lost the trail,--back thar, three miles ter the
deadnin'."

Now another spoke, and his voice the scout remembered. He belonged to
his own company in the Fourteenth Kentucky. "It 'so," he said; "he has
tuck t' other road. I tell ye, I'd know thet mar's shoe 'mong a million.
Nary one loike it wus uver seed in all Kaintuck,--only a d----d Yankee
could ha' invented it."

"And yere it ar'," shouted a man with one of the lanterns, "plain as
sun-up."

The Fourteenth Kentuckian clutched the light, and, while a dozen
dismounted and gathered round, closely examined the shoe-track. The
ground was bare on the spot, and the print of the horse's hoof was
clearly cut in the half-frozen mud. Narrowly the man looked, and life
and death hung on his eyesight. The scout took out the bullet, and
placed it in a crotch of the tree. If they took him, the Devil should
not take the dispatch. Then he drew a revolver. The mist was breaking
away, and he would surely be discovered, if the men lingered much
longer; but he would have the value of his life to the uttermost
farthing.

Meanwhile, the horsemen crowded around the foot-print, and one of them
inadvertently trod upon it. The Kentuckian looked long and earnestly,
but at last he said,--

"'Ta'n't the track. Thet 'ar' mar' has a sand-crack on her right
fore-foot. She didn't take kindly to a round shoe; so the Yank, he guv
her one with the cork right in the middle o' the quarter. 'Twas a durned
smart contrivance; fur ye see, it eased the strain, and let the nag go
nimble as a squirrel. The cork ha'n't yere,--'ta'n't her track,--and
we're wastin,' time in luckin'."

The cork was not there, because the trooper's tread had obliterated it.
Reader, let us than