Three men sat in a gully that had once been a hillside ditch. Their
uniforms were various, the result of accident and capture. One of them
wore a very fine blue overcoat which was in queer contrast to his
ragged pantaloons. This was Lieutenant Clopton, who had charge of the
picket line. Another had on the uniform of an artilleryman, and his
left arm was in a sling. He had come out of the hospital to do duty as
a guide. This was Private John Fambrough. The third had on no uniform
at all, but was dressed in plain citizen's clothes, much the worse for
wear. This was Jack Kilpatrick, scout and sharp-shooter. Happy Jack,
as he was called.
How long since the gully had been a ditch it would be impossible to
say, but it must have been a good many years, for the pines had grown
into stout trees, and here and there a black-jack loomed up
vigorously.
"Don't git too permiscus around here," said Happy Jack, as the others
were moving about. "This ain't no fancy spot." He eased himself upward
on his elbow, and made a swift but careful survey of the woodland
vista that led to the Federal lines. Then he shook down the breech of
his rifle, and slipped a long cartridge into its place. "You see that
big poplar over yonder? Well, under that tree there's a man, leastways
he ought to be there, because he's always hangin' around in front of
me."
"Why don't you nail him?" asked Fambrough.
"Bosh! Why don't he nail me? It's because he can't do it. Well, that's
the reason I don't nail him. You know what happened yesterday, don't
you? You saw that elegant lookin' chap that came out to take my place,
didn't you? Did you see him when he went back?"
Lieutenant Clopton replied with a little grimace, but Fambrough said
never a word. He only looked at Kilpatrick with inquiring eyes.
"Why, he was the nicest lookin' man in the army--hair combed, clothes
brushed, and rings on his fingers. He was all the way from New 'leans,
with a silver-mounted rifle and a globe sight."
"A which?" asked Fambrough.
"A globe sight. Set down on yourself a little further, sonny," said
Happy Jack; "your head's too high. I says to him, says I, 'Friend, you
are goin' where you'll have to strip that doll's step-ladder off'n
your gun, an' come down to business,' says I. I says, says I, 'You may
have to face a red-headed, flannel-mouthed Irishman, and you don't
want to look at him through all that machinery,' says I."
"What did he say?" Fambrough asked.
"He said, 'I'll git him.' Now, how did he git him? Why, he come down
here, lammed aloose a time or two, and then hung his head over the
edge of the gully there, with a ball right spang betwixt his eyes. I
went behind the picket line to get a wink of sleep, but I hadn't
more'n curled up in the broom-sage before I heard that chap a-bangin'
away. Then come the reply, like this--" Happy Jack snapped his
fingers; "and then I went to sleep waitin' for the rej'inder."
Kilpatrick paused, and looked steadily in the direction of the
poplar.
"Well, dog my cats! Yonder's a chap standin' right out in front of
me. It ain't the Mickey, neither. I'll see what he's up to." He
raised his rifle with a light swinging movement, chirruped to it as
though it were a horse or a little child, and in another moment the
deadly business of war would have been resumed, but Fambrough laid his
hand on the sharp-shooter's arm.
"Wait," he said. "That may be my old man wandering around out there.
Don't be too quick on trigger. I ain't got but one old man."
"Shucks!" exclaimed Kilpatrick, pettishly; "you reckon I don't know
your old man? He's big in the body, an' wobbly in his legs. You've
spiled a mighty purty shot. I believe in my soul that chap was a
colonel, an' he might 'a' been a general. Now that's funny."
"What's funny?" asked Fambrough.
"Why, that chap. He'll never know you saved him, an' if he know'd it
he wouldn't thank you. I'd 'a' put a hole right through his gizzard.
Now he's behind the poplar."
"It's luck," Lieutenant Clopton suggested.
"Maybe," said Kilpatrick. "Yonder he is ag'in. Luck won't save him
this time." He raised his rifle, glanced down the barrel, and pulled
the trigger. Simultaneously with the report an expression of disgust
passed over his face, and with an oath he struck the ground with his
fist.
"Don't tell me you missed him," said Clopton.
"Miss what?" exclaimed Kilpatrick scornfully. "If he ain't drunk,
somebody pulled him out of the way."
"I told you it was luck," commented Clopton.
"Shucks! don't tell me. Luck's like lightnin'. She never hits twice in
the same place."
Kilpatrick sank back in the gully and gave himself up to ruminating.
He leaned on his elbows and pulled up little tufts of grass and weeds
growing here and there. Lieutenant Clopton, looking across towards the
poplar, suddenly reached for the sharp-shooter's rifle, but Kilpatrick
placed his hand on it jealously.
"Give me the gun. Yonder's a Yank in full view."
Kilpatrick, still holding his rifle, raised himself and looked.
"Why, he's hanging out a flag of truce," said Clopton. "What does the
fellow mean?"
"It's a message," said Kilpatrick, "an' here's the answer." With that
he raised his rifle, dropped it gently in the palm, of his left hand,
and fired.
"You saw the hankcher jump, didn't you?" he exclaimed. "Well, that
lets us out. That's my Mickey. He wants tobacco, and I want coffee an'
tea. Come, watch me swap him out of his eye teeth."
Then Kilpatrick went to a clump of broom sedge and drew forth a wallet
containing several pounds of prepared smoking tobacco and a bundle of
plug tobacco, and in a few moments the trio were picking their way
through the underwood towards the open.