red. The
sentinel was wounded in the leg by a small squirrel bullet. The other
man was evidently wounded, for after it became light enough he was
traced half a mile by blood on the ground, weeds, and leaves. The
surgeon is of the opinion that the ball struck his left arm. From
information obtained this morning, it is believed this man is secreted
not many miles away. A party of ten has been sent to look for him.

This is by far the pleasantest camp we have ever had. The river runs its
whole length. The hospital and surgeons' tents are located on a very
pretty little island, a quiet, retired spot, festooned with vines, in
the shadow of great trees, and carpeted with moss soft and velvety as
the best of Brussels.

18. The name of our camp is properly Elk Water, not Elk Fork. The little
stream which comes down to the river, from which the camp derives its
name, is called Elk Water, because tradition affirms that in early days
the elk frequented the little valley through which it runs.

The fog has been going up from the mountains, and the rain coming down
in the valley. The river roars a little louder than usual, and its water
is a little less clear.

The party sent in pursuit of the bushwhacker has returned. Found no
one.

Two men were seen this evening, armed with rifles, prowling among the
bushes near the place where the affair of last night occurred. They were
fired upon, but escaped.

An accident, which particularly interests my old company, occurred a few
minutes ago. John Heskett, Jeff Long, and four or five other men, were
detailed from Company I for picket duty. Heskett and Long are intimate
friends, and were playing together, the one with a knife and the other
with a pocket pistol. The pistol was discharged accidentally, and the
ball struck Heskett in the neck, inflicting a serious wound, but whether
fatal or not the surgeon can not yet tell. The affair has cast a shadow
over the company. Young Heskett bears himself bravely. Long is
inconsolable, and begs the boys to shoot him.

20. These mountain streams are unreliable. We had come to regard the one
on which we are encamped as a quiet, orderly little river, that would be
good enough to notify us when it proposed to swell out and overflow the
adjacent country. In fact we had bragged about it, made all sorts of
complimentary mention of it, put our tents on its margin, and allowed it
to encircle our sick and wounded; but we have now lost all confidence in