The Red Mist. Randall Parrish

soon as I can be furnished with the necessary papers and equipment."

      "Colonel Swan will arrange the first, and the quartermaster can doubtless supply the other requirements. Orderly, have Major Kline step in here at once. Ah, Kline, have you among your trophies of war a Federal lieutenant's uniform which will probably fit this man?"

      "I believe so, sir," and the officer addressed ran his eyes appraisingly over my figure. "Any particular regiment?"

      "Third, United States Cavalry. Have it pressed and sent here at once, securely wrapped, together with saber and revolvers. Where is your horse, sergeant?"

      "Tied to the palings outside."

      "Do you desire a better mount?"

      "No sir, the animal is fresh, and a good traveler."

      "Then that will be all, Kline; except, of course, complete Federal cavalry equipment for the horse."

      The officer saluted, and disappeared, the door instantly closing behind him, cutting off the hum of voices without. There was a moment of silence.

      ​"You had better retain your present dress until after you leave the valley," counseled Jackson, slowly. "Swan will furnish you with a pass, which should be carefully destroyed after passing our pickets at Covington. It will be of no service to you beyond that point. My best wishes for your success, Sergeant Wyatt."

      He stood up, and I felt the firm grasp of his hand. Then Ashby gripped my shoulder.

      "Wyatt," he said kindly, "if you ever desire to change your arm of the service, you are the kind of man I want to ride with me."

      I smiled in appreciation, but before I could answer, the man who had been sitting silently in the corner arose, and stood erect in the light. The gleam of the lamp instantly revealed his face still shadowed by the wide hat brim, the firm, bearded chin, the gravely smiling eyes.

      "General Ashby," he said with quiet dignity, "Sergeant Wyatt, I am sure, performs this important duty without thought of reward. It is the South that has need of such men in every branch of her service." He came forward, and extended his hand cordially.

      "I am General Lee, and am very glad to greet, and wish God speed to the son of Judge Wyatt. If you return in safety, you will report to me in person ​at Richmond. General Jackson will so arrange with your battery commander."

      They were all upon their feet, standing in respectful attention. I murmured something, I scarcely knew what, bowing as I backed toward the door. And this was Lee—Robert E. Lee—this man with the kind, thoughtful face, the gentle voice, the gravely considerate manner. And he had greeted me in words of personal friendship, had spoken to me of my father. I know I straightened to soldierly erectness, every pulse thrilling with a new resolve. A moment I stood there, my eyes on the one face I saw before me, and then went out into the darkness. The orderly closed the door.

      ​

      CHAPTER II AN UNWELCOME COMPANION

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      IT WAS in the chill of a cold, gray morning that I rode into Strasburg, jogging along at the rear of a squadron of Fifth Virginia cavalrymen who chanced to be headed for the same place. These found quarters in the town, but I proceeded a mile or more south on the valley pike, until I reached a cabin hidden behind a low hill, and so surrounded by a dense growth of scrubby trees as to be nearly concealed from observation. Only a chance glance in that direction had revealed its presence, but its very look of desolation instantly attracted me. Here was a place to rest quietly for a few hours in safety. I turned my willing horse aside, following an ill-defined path through a tangled mass of shrubbery, until I attained the door. The building was a single-roomed cabin, exhibiting marks of age and neglect, yet still intact, heavy wooden shutters barring the windows, the door closed and securely fastened. The place to all appearances was deserted, and had been for a long while. Although situated scarcely a hundred ​feet back from the valley turnpike, which was never without its travelers, and along which armies marched and counter-marched, the surroundings were those of a remote wilderness. I bent down from my saddle, and rapped sharply on the wood. There was no response from within, not even when I struck more heavily with the butt of a revolver. There was a faint trail leading about the corner, and, grown curious and impatient, I dismounted, and leading my horse, pressed a difficult passage through the bushes. To my surprise the rear door stood slightly ajar, and my eyes perceived the movement of an ill-defined shadow within.

      "Hello, there!" I called out, yet instinctively drawing a step backward. "Is there any room here for a tired man?"

      The tall, angular figure of a mountaineer immediately appeared in the doorway, and a gray, wrinkled face, scraggly bearded, looked forth, the eyes glinting, and filled with suspicion.

      "Wus it you-all poundin' at the door?"

      "I knocked—yes."

      "Knocked! Ye made noise 'nough ter raise the dead."

      "It seems I didn't raise you."

      "I want lookin' fer no visitors. Wal, who be ye? an' whut do ye want yere?"

      ​"I am a soldier," I replied, rather shortly, not particularly pleased with either the man's appearance or manner. "Myself and horse are about worn out. I mistook this for a deserted cabin."

      "Wal, it ain't precisely. Are you Confed?"

      "Of course—no Yank would be along this pike."

      "I ain't so blamed sure o' thet. Whar be ye bound? an' whut may ye be up to a travelin' alone?"

      I smiled, endeavoring to retain my temper.

      "See, here, friend," I returned shortly. "I have as much reason to ask you such questions as you have me. However, I am willing enough to answer. I am on furlough, and am going home across the mountains to see my folks."

      "Whar to?"

      "Over Beckley way."

      "The hell ye are! Don't ye know the Yanks are all through the kintry now? They'll gobble ye up afore ever ye git to New River."

      "Oh, I reckon not—I know that section, and where to hide out. That is why I am going back there now. Do you know Raleigh County?"

      The man, who was now standing upright in the doorway, one hand gripping the barrel of a musket, the early morning light on his withered face, stared unwinkingly into my eyes.

      ​"I rather reckon I do, young man," he replied slowly. "Fur I was raised up on the Green Briar. What mout be yer name?"

      "Cowan," I answered promptly, my mind instantly alert, and aware I had made a mistake."

      "Ho! Ye don't say! One o' ol' Ned Cowan's boys?"

      "No. I am a son of Widow Cowan, over on Coal Creek."

      There was not the faintest glimmer in the cold, blue eyes, no evidence of any recollection in the wrinkled face. His jaws rose and fell on the tobacco which extended his cheek.

      "I don't reckon I've been over that a way fer nigh on fifteen year," he said at last reflectively. "An' somehow I don't just recall no Widow Cowan—but I know ol' Ned mighty well. He's took to the brush with his whole breed since this fracus started, an' som' cusses burned his house, an' sent the ol' woman after 'em. It's plumb hell in Green Briar. Maybe yer a Cowan, but I'm damned if ye look like eny o' thet outfit ever I see afore. What part o' the army wus ye with?"

      "Sixty-fifth Virginia—Covington Company, Captain Daniels."

      The older man chewed awhile in silence, evidently impressed with the seeming frankness of the reply.

      ​"Wal, ye mout be a Cowan, o' course. I ain't takin' no sides on thet fer I don't know all ther breed," he admitted reluctantly. "Enyhow