They decided, on reflection, to join company with
the mail-rider, who was going to Burnsville by the shorter route, and
could pilot them over the dangerous ford of the Toe.
The mail-rider was a lean, sallow, sinewy man, mounted on a sorry
sorrel nag, who proved, however, to have blood in her, and to be a
fast walker and full of endurance. The mail-rider was taciturn, a
natural habit for a man who rides alone the year round, over a lonely
road, and has nothing whatever to think of. He had been in the war
sixteen months, in Hugh White's regiment, - reckon you've heerd of
him?
"Confederate?"
"Which?"
"Was he on the Union or Confederate side?"
"Oh, Union."
"Were you in any engagements?"
"Which?"
"Did you have any fighting?"
"Not reg'lar."
"What did you do?"
"Which?"
"What did you do in Hugh White's regiment?"
"Oh, just cavorted round the mountains."
"You lived on the country?"
"Which?"
"Picked up what you could find, corn, bacon, horses?"
"That's about so. Did n't make much difference which side was round,
the country got cleaned out."
"Plunder seems to have been the object?"
"Which?"
"You got a living out of the farmers?"
"You bet."
Our friend and guide seemed to have been a jayhawker and mountain
marauder - on the right side.
