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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.

"Guess I'm the first Yankee y' ever caught, ain't I?" His smile was superior, but congratulatory.

Rills of perspiration tickled my back like flies. "Can't one man do the work?"

"Lieutenant Ferry is not sending me to any house."

I stepped back, heaving. "Who and what are you? Who and what are you?"

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