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Our camp was in the heart of Copiah County, Mississippi, a mile or so west of Gallatin and about six miles east of that once robber-haunted road, the Natchez Trace. Austin's brigade, we were, a detached body of mixed Louisiana and Mississippi cavalry, getting our breath again after two weeks' hard fighting of Grant. Grierson's raid had lately gone the entire length of the State, and we had had a hard, vain chase after him, also.

"Then Ned Ferry doesn't drink?"

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I took the hint and grew less ferocious. "While you," I said, "are Captain Jewett."

"The enemy are in Fayette to-night," he continued. "So when you get half-way to Fayette, just across Morgan's Creek, you'll take a dim fork on the right running north along the creek. Ever travel by the stars?"

I thought I did until I glanced at the superscription: Miss Coralie Rothvelt.

"Too warm?"

"Well, I reckon I'll stop all night." I began to move on. His eyes followed greedily.

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