University of Virginia Library

40. CHAPTER XL.
THE SCOUT — THE FUGITIVES — THE TRAIL.

Jim Ballou swept the swamp forest tract lying between
Holly-Dale and Four-Mile creek, with the close and eager eye
of a hawk. Nothing escaped his scrutiny. He could find very
decided signs, where you and I would see nothing but smooth
surface. We can not detail his process, or follow all his steps,
or note the thousand minutiæ which drew his attention, or diverted
it, as he sped. It will suffice if we mention that in reviewing
the route over which the scouting party had gone the
night before, he at length found the bay where Inglehardt had
established his rendezvous, and on the edge of which, where
the Trailer had held Travis in durance vile. He saw that some
uses had been made of the place. He noted where the steeds
of the fugitives had been fastened. He followed the course
which they had been conducted when finally carried off, until
he reached the creek, and under the fringy willows along its
margin, discovered where the dugout had been run up, with her
nose stuck lightly into the pliant ooze of the swamp. He identified
the impression as the same with that made by the dugout
at Holly-Dale. He had thus gained one step. He did not lose
it. He now noted all the impressions of the miry tract about
him. He found where the horses had been led down to the
spot where the creek enters the river, and into the river when
made to swim or wade across beside the boat. He examined
especially the tracks of the horses. Each one was found to have
some distinguishing mark by which it could be tracked hereafter.
In one in particular, a fragment of the shoe was gone. In another,
the rivet was awkwardly curled and obtrusive; in a third,
a nail was wanting. He so studied each that recognition would
instantly follow his encounter with them on any future occasion.

He found the tracks of Inglehardt and the negro boy Julius,
and there were the huge feet, broad as an elephant's, of Devil
Dick, and there were the long narrow footmarks of the Trailer.

“Got 'em all here! — all here!” said the soliloquizing scout,
with a chuckle of satisfaction. “If I could only keep 'em now!
They've crossed! that's clear — for they couldn't be taking the
nags down stream nor up. They've crossed! And good reason
for it too — good reason. This side the river was too hot for 'em.
Well, they've crossed. But do they stick there! That's the
question — question. I must nose 'em out before I walk into
their camp — nose 'em out! Must wait till dark — dark; then
swim across — swim — put in a leetle above — then snake down
upon 'em — snake down from above. I see just where to put
in — just; the old ford will answer. But shall I want my horse?
I reckon. They'll put out, and I must after 'em. Yes, must
have the horse. So! we'll see if nobody's found the old fellow
out in his hiding-place. Found him out. We'll take the ford,
hide the critter above, snake down and nose 'em out. Got their
measure — all. Devil Dick's foot, Inglehardt's, Trailer's, nigger's.
Must see I don't find 'em too sudden. Four to one —
four. But I can snake 'em. It's only a fool nigger that grunts
as he goes — hog fashion — grunts as he goes. The dog that
hunts the deer has a reason for giving tongue: but where its
wolf or tiger, set the teeth down, fast as a trap, even if you bite
off the tongue. Snake down, and nose close; nose close and
snake down. Got the measure of every rascal's foot in all the
gang — every rascal's foot.”

We suppose that everybody can gather Ballou's policy from
his soliloquy. He resolved upon his course, while gazing from
close covert, a little before sunset, across the Edisto to the
point opposite the mouth of Four-Mile Branch. He noted with
understanding eye, every detail which might possibly affect his
future operations.

“They've struck inside that bank t'other side. They've
pushed for the close thicket behind it. There's a great dead
cypress just over it, with one big arm p'inting out down the
river. I must look out for that cypress. It stands just over a
mighty big laurel, and I reckon its sandy and swampy about,
all hammocky. Good for snaking.”

A couple of hours enabled him to find his horse in the thicket
where he had hidden him, and afforded him the darkness requisite
for his safe progress across the river. Fastening his horse
in the swamp over a mile above the place of supposed harborage
of the fugitives and their captives, Ballou proceeded to
“snake down” upon their camp.

His calculations had proved correct in most particulars. He
found his dead cypress, his living laurel, his hammocky harboring
places, and the spot where the horses had been landed.
But the birds had flown. Their nests were all warm — the
trail was fresh — “hot” as Ballou phrased it — but they themselves
had disappeared. Ballou slept that night in the camp
which they had deserted. The further pursuit of his game required
daylight.

With the dawn he was at work on hands and knees, identifying
the tracks of the fugitives. He found them all; found the
traces of two boats upon the bank instead of one, and traced
the course of the horses for a hundred yards up the river. He
then began to reason out the logical issues from his facts.

A good scout is a good logician. His premises found, he will
work out the results in a manner to put to shame half the lawyers
in the land. Ballou said: —

“Now, we have 'em again, certain. If we can only keep
'em now. What was they to do? Here was Willie Sinclair
dashing down with a smart troop upon Orangeburg; another
party up at Holly-Dale: there was no safety up or down for a
matter of five miles. A party of four can't stop long, with an
inimy's troop each side of 'em. They've dropped below, most
of 'em, in the canoes, and gone down from ten to twenty miles.
They've made a fetch round Orangeburg with the horses, and
I reckon two men's carried them round, and two have gone
down with the prisoners. They've just gone fur enough to be
out of reach from a dash, and not too fur for the men that have
the horses to get to them by daylight. That's not more than
ten miles I reckon. Then they've landed on this side; for you
see, they won't want to be crossing the horses to t'other side;
there's no sense in taking such useless trouble; and then, it's
natural sense and reason that Inglehardt will be for keeping this
side, where he can soonest make Orangeburg, and be safest out

of the way of Coulter, ten miles below. They could drop down
there in three hours easy. They've made their calculations.
I reckon they cut loose three hours before daylight. They've
got a day's start of me. Well! It's to be done. I must follow
the horses, for a boat leaves so narrow a trail on the water
that it's mighty hard to find it in hot weather — in hot weather.”

And he took the track of the horses.

“Lord,” said he, as he noted the course thus pursued by the
fugitives, and how nigh it had taken them to Orangeburg —
“Lord! if Willie Sinclair had only knowd what I know! How
he could ha' gobbled 'em up — every mother's son of 'em. Only
half a mile from the village, sneaking round, just, I reckon,
when he was a gutting it! Oh! the blindness of these dragoon
soldiers. They're fit for nothing but a charge — nothing but a
charge.”

And, soliloquizing at every half turn, our scout stole forward
through swamp and thicket, never once losing the trail upon
which he had fastened, until it led him into the deepest swamps
of the river about ten miles below the village. As soon as he
found the trail turning certainly down to the river, he sought
out a close thicket and harbored his horse securely. The rest
of his scrutiny in the precinct required to be pursued on foot.
He had not once lost the trail. It led him to the river's edge.
He saw where the two boats had left the measure of their
prows upon the banks. He noted once more the footsteps of
the party. But the camp was again deserted. The fugitives
were vigilant. He followed their progress upward to the highland
— saw where they had passed into the main road — one
of the avenues from Charleston to the village — and where
they were lost, utterly indistinguishable from the thousand
tracks of horse, and mule, and cattle, man and beast, which
makes of the route through a light soil in the piney regions, a
mere sinuous stripe of sand, in which one impression with the
help of the breeze rapidly effaces another. Inglehardt and his
party were no doubt somewhere abroad in the world of space
and swamp and forest, but where? Our scout no doubt summoned
up the echoes to his soliloquy, but he did not look to
them for his response. He had once more to look to his logic.

Meanwhile, let us look back, and endeavor to supply the details

which our scout, with all his sagacity, could not altogether
grasp in his conjectures with regard to the progress of the fugitives.
When Inglehardt and his party were all safely landed
on the opposite side of the river the night when they were so
closely pressed by Sinclair's scouts, he at once called his companions
into consultation. The result of this conversation, was
to put their captives into their two boats — one having been
found on the opposite shore. The father and son, equally ignorant
of each other's condition were still kept apart, and placed
in separate vessels. In one of these Inglehardt bestowed himself;
the other was confided to Dick of Tophet. To the Trailer
and Julius, the negro, were allotted the task of bringing down
the horses. Armed each with a paddle, Inglehardt and Dick
set their skiffs in motion. The labor was small, the paddle
being used rather to guide than to work the vessels, the current
propelling them downward at an average rate of four miles an
hour. They reached a point agreed on, some time before the
Trailer and his horses, landed themselves and their captives,
the latter still kept separate, and suffered the boats to make
their farther way down stream as they might. They housed
themselves in a thicket, laid their captives in silence under separate
trees, and stretched themselves out for rest if not for
slumber. It was an hour after daylight before the Trailer
made his appearance, with Julius and the horses.

It was with a stubborn silence, and the noble fortitude of a
soldier, not unprepared for reverses, that Captain Travis bore
up under his captivity, and during the long period of humiliation,
when, no longer a free agent in any respect, kept in complete
ignorance of any of the facts in his condition except his
captivity, and capable of only imperfect conjectures as to his
whereabouts — he was treated more like a bale of luggage than
a human and intelligent being — lifted from boat to shore, from
shore to boat, from boat to shore again, and tumbled carelessly
from stalwart shoulders upon the ground to brood in silence
upon his painful situation, his limbs all stiffened and sore from
restraint, and his flesh irritated with the cords that threatened
to cut into it. His pride suffered him to offer no remonstrance.
His knowledge of his captors taught him that it would be idle.
He had but to endure with all the philosophy and fortitude

within his command. He was sustained by the conviction
which he felt, that, though he himself was a loser in the game,
his enemy was yet foiled in his attempts upon his daughter,
Rutledge, and Willie Sinclair. He exulted, in his bonds, at the
idea that Inglehardt had experienced a mortifying defeat, with
the loss of nearly all his troop. This conviction could not be
a mistaken one. The stealthy progress of his captor, his isolation,
want of means and followers, all led him to the true conclusion.
So far, he was consoled; nay, held himself a gainer
by the result, though he had lost his own point in the game.
He did not yet know all!

The boy too, Henry Travis, was sustained beyond his
strength and years, by the consciousness of the first development
of his powers; by the pride of his incipient mannishness;
by a resolute determination not to suffer his enemies to discern
that his young heart was sore, and his young soul apprehensive.
He tasked his thought momently to teach him how to endure
bravely, and to defy his captors to the last. He was resolved
to play the soldier in the captive.

But he felt his constraint in pain. His bonds hurt his limbs;
his position fevered him; his sinews were not yet hardened for
endurance, and his heart suffered in sympathy with his body.
It required all his ambitious thoughts and courage to keep him
from the displays of weakness which he felt; and when he
happened to think of his mother, and her grief and apprehension,
the tears rose into his eyes; his heart filled; he felt like
choking with his sobs! But he choked them down. He would
not have his enemy exult in his sufferings. He strove to think
of Willie Sinclair and his hardihood, and his teachings; of his
daring valor; the sweep of his great broadsword; and that
fierce cry of exulting rage with which he led the charge against
the enemy, the first that the boy had ever witnessed; and his
young soul beat and bounded with the thought:—

“Oh! if Willie Sinclair would but come!” But this soon
subsided to another that brought back all his weakness:—

“My poor mother! She does not know what has happened
to me. She will think they have killed me. My poor, poor
mother!”

He as little dreamed of his father's condition, so near him,

fettered like himself, as the father dreamed of his! And their
strength to endure was in part due to their mutual ignorance.

And both slept in the brief hour that they lay beneath the
trees on the banks of the river, while Inglehardt waited for the
appearance of the Trailer with the horses. They slept from
exhaustion. For that brief interval they forgot their pain and
captivity. Their instincts never once taught them, that, not
twenty feet apart, they lay opposite to each other.

Their captors were the first to awaken. It is possible that
they had not slept at all. They were bustling about when
Travis first opened his eyes. He saw Inglehardt coming up
from the river where he had been bathing; he was only half
dressed, and was rubbing head and face with a towel. Dick
of Tophet was counting bullets from one hand to the other.
They chatted together at a short distance from their captives.

Seeing but these, Captain Travis closed his eyes again as if
to shut out a disagreeable prospect. But he soon reopened
them on hearing a wild cry from the foot of the great red oak
in front of him. He had raised his head to look around him.
At that moment Henry Travis opened his eyes and gazed about
the scene confusedly. His sense seemed to take in his situation
slowly. He stared at his father with bewildering sensations,
closed his eyes again, again opened them — then, as if he had
finally grasped the fact fairly, he cried out in a voice of anguish,

“Oh! father, have they got you too?”

The father again raised his head, and made a desperate effort
to raise himself up, writhed violently in his bonds, and sunk
back. He could only murmur —

“My son! my son! Oh! God be merciful! My son! my
son!”

The son again spoke:—

“Father! are you tied like me?”

The person addressed writhed once more in his bonds, making
a powerful effort to free his arms.

“'Twon't do, cappin,” said Dick of Tophet, jeeringly, as he
drew nigh, “'twon't do. The hitch is too good and the line
too strong, for a small man. Ef you was a young Samson
now, you might work through it; but you ain't what you was
twenty years ago, and I reckon you never was much in heft and

sinew. Better take it easily, for a plough-line is mighty cutting
ef you works much agin it.”

“Villain, why do you tie that child?” was the howl rather
than the speech of the father.

“Child!” said Dick; “he's a blasted for'ard one, if he's a
child; and leetle cocksparrow as he is, I reckon he tumbled
more than one good fellow, with his d—d little shooting-irons
yesterday. Child! Blast my daylights, ef he didn't come
mighty nigh to knocking daylight out of my own eyes intirely
yesterday.”

“And if he had, 'twould have saved the rope a burden and a
task hereafter. But where's your master — where's Inglehardt?
— put him before me, that I may speak to his base soul touching
the cruel usage of that boy.”

“Good morning, Captain Travis,” said Inglehardt in his
quietest and mildest tones, now emerging from the rear — “I
am glad to see you looking so bright this morning, after your
fatigues of the night and the day before. When I reflect that
you have had nothing to eat since yesterday at breakfast, and
have been ever since in rather a constrained position, it is wonderful
to me how elastic you appear. Excuse me that the
necessities of the service have not suffered me to provide the
necessary creature comforts. But you will forgive me when
you learn that I need them quite as much as yourself. However,
we shall shortly have a little breakfast, and that will put
us in better condition for travel. That you have not suffered
relieves me greatly. It is perfectly delightful to see how fresh
you are this morning!”

“Inglehardt,” said Travis, with hoarse and choking accents
—“we are enemies, that I understand; I am in your power.
For myself, I have no plea to make, no prayer to offer; but
why have you made a prisoner of that boy — that mere child
— torn him from his mother — roped his little limbs, like a
felon?”

“Child! Rather a stout child, Travis, and shoots a pistol
like a buccaneer. You disparage the son of your loins — your
first-born!”

“He is a child — but fifteen! Release him, Inglehardt —
let him go to his mother. As a man you should feel shame

only in subjecting him to such treatment. Of what use keep
him. I pledge myself that he will return quietly to his mother.
For myself, I ask nothing. I submit to my fate.”

“It is verily a good spirit — that of resignation, and the
more you exercise it, Travis, the better. You are in a bad
way. You played bravely, fearlessly, and with excellent skill.
You have lost, and the stakes are forfeited. Your life was on
the game, Travis!”

“No matter about my life! The boy! the boy! He has
played no such game. He has incurred no such penalties.
Release him — send him home. It is the shame of manhood
that his tender limbs are thus corded.”

“You mistake, Travis. He, too, has had his game — has
probably the life of one or more men to answer for. His
stakes are also forfeit; but these do not involve his life. He
must undergo the fate of all prisoners — must wait exchange.
But, farther, he is no prisoner of mine. Mr. Andrews, there, is
his captor.”

“Pshaw! You do not mean to impose upon me the silly
idea that the private of a troop exercises a discretion on such a
subject independently of his superior?”

“You may believe what you please. It is enough to repeat
that Mr. Andrews is not in my troop, and exercises his own
discretion in his adventures. His accountability is elsewhere.
The boy is his prisoner.”

“Ay, but you can move him, Inglehardt, to do your pleasure
rather than his own.”

“Humph! perhaps; but I see not that the claims of Captain
Travis, or any of his family, are sufficiently strong to make it
my pleasure to gratify their wishes.”

“Good God! Inglehardt,” said the other, now beginning to
comprehend his enemy, “can it be that you look to the detention
of that child as one of the means by which to gratify your
purposes?”

“Oh! my dear Captain Travis, my purposes are all very
innocent. I trust to make it equally your pleasure and policy
to see that they are gratified.”

“Great God! have I lived for this? My boy! my boy!”

Such was the ejaculation, hoarse and convulsive, of the father,

as, half-crawling and half-rolling, both arms and legs being
tightly corded, the boy scrambled over the space that separated
the two, and flung himself moaning into his father's lap. No
clasp — no embrace — no caresses, awaited him. The limbs of
Travis were as tightly fettered as his own; but he stooped
over, and pressed his lips upon the cheeks and forehead of the
boy, then burst into a sobbing convulsion. The hard man was
terribly softened. Dick of Tophet looked inquiringly at Inglehardt.
The latter smiled faintly and turned away, walking
silently out toward the high ground. The ruffian followed him,
after a brief pause, with hurried steps, and the two conferred
together out of hearing of the captives.

“I say, cappin,” began Joel Andrews — “I reckon there's
no use in keeping the boy, since you've got the father. He's
only a trouble, and always in the way.”

“Eh? what? No use! My good fellow, you have no idea
of the uses of useless things. We'll make him very useful.”

“I don't see how, cappin.”

“Eh! you don't? You will open your eyes to a discovery
then before very long. Why, man, don't you already see how
the father softens? Before he saw the boy he was stubborn
as a rock: now he melts and flows like running water.”

“But what's the use of his melting to us? We've got him,
and kin always manage to make his rock melt—”

“Ay, so long as we keep the son. Enough, Dick; you seem
wonderfully disposed to melt yourself. But we can't afford it,
Dick. We must keep all our captives, big and little. They
are so much capital for both of us. It'll make the boy strong
and hardy to give him a little training as a prisoner; and you
see he wishes to be a soldier. No school like adversity for
that, Dick. As for the father — d—n him! — the melting process
must begin now or never. We can not manage him else.
I tell you, we must coin his heart up, drop by drop — all the
blood in it — till we bring him to a sensible condition. Through
that boy we subdue him. His ransom will pay you well; the
father's will pay me. You shall know hereafter how we shall
manage it.”

Dick of Tophet still looked inquiringly, but his superior
seemed nowise disposed to continue the subject. It was not

often that Inglehardt permitted himself to swear, and the fact
of his having done so, struck the ruffian with some surprise. He
could now perceive that there were mixed motives and emotions
at work prompting Inglehardt to measures, in respect to the
two captives, for which he could not definitely account. Dick
of Tophet turned back to the prisoners, between whom, meanwhile,
a long and touching conversation had taken place, which
the approach of the ruffian interrupted. But he, appearing to
see this, continued his walk to the river, and the two resumed
their speech. The boy had given his father a full account, as
far as he had arrived at the particulars, of all that had taken
place at Holly-Dale. There was much that he did not know,
but he could speak positively of the general result of the affair.
Old Travis was confirmed in his belief that Inglehardt had been
defeated, and that Rutledge and Sinclair had not only escaped
the snare, but had turned the petard of the tory-captain upon
himself.

“And, oh! father, if you could have seen how we made 'em
skip. You should have seen our charge! How we came
down upon 'em, and scattered them every way! They've got
us, it's true, but that's all! I don't think that Inglehardt's
got half a dozen men left. The dragoons of Willie Sinclair
cut 'em down, right and left, just as the hurricane throws the
trees.”

“Oh! my son, you forget that Inglehardt has a full corps of
mounted-riflemen now in Rawdon's army. They'll be down
before long, and then he'll be stronger than ever.”

“But they'll have to exchange us, father. Willie Sinclair
will see to that. He's got enough of the tories in his hands to
exchange for us a dozen times over.”

Travis shook his head despondingly. He saw what the boy
could not. He rightly conjectured the policy of the tory-captain,
and was about to deliver it, when he reflected that it
would only serve unnecessarily to dishearten the child, and
add the anxieties of a new doubt to a condition already sufficiently
depressing. The tearful eyes of the boy looking up
into his own, the tremulous eagerness of his lip, the soft, girlish
delicacy of his cheek, its peachy hue — all expressive of innocence
and gentleness, such as we seek to protect from harsh

encounter and biting winds — made the father careful to sustain
and encourage rather than depress his hope, and he said:—

“Yes, Henry, there can be no question but that Willie Sinclair
will soon relieve us. But you must now take your real
lessons as a soldier. You must expect some trials of your
strength and courage. Be of good cheer, and do not suffer anything
you see or hear to alarm you. We are in rough hands,
and it is one of the arts of such people to overcome the souls of
their captives — their principles — through their fears. Keep
a stout heart, and bear manfully your troubles.”

“Oh! father, if you had seen me when we made the rush on
them fellows! Why, when I heard the bugle sound, and the
cry of our lieutenant to charge, I had no more fear — I thought
only how to get a-head of the rest.”

“Ah! my son, it is easier to face an enemy, with the bugles
blowing in one's ears than to endure bonds. The charge warms
the blood, but cords and chains chill and enfeeble it.”

“Yes, indeed! Oh! my father. I never felt how sweet
freedom was, till these cords were on my wrists and legs!”

The approaching tramp of horses silenced the conversation.
Anon, Dick of Tophet was seen speeding up from the river.
He joined Inglehardt on the higher land, where he was awaiting
the Trailer and Julius who soon appeared through the trees
bringing the horses. He brought a basket of provisions, baked
biscuit of corn, the fragment of a boiled ham, and half-a-dozen
eggs, boiled hard, with a morsel of salt in a paper. These he
had picked up somewhere on the route, at the house of some
friendly tory. It is just probable that the prog may have been
stolen from the cupboard of some doubtful patriot.

It was no intention of Inglehardt to starve his captives. A
portion of the breakfast was assigned them, and the cords were
taken from their hands while they ate.

“Eat, Henry,” said the father, seeing the boy disinclined,
“a good stomach is necessary to a captive. Eat! you will need
all your strength.”

And he set the boy an example of good trencher service.
While they ate, Julius, the negro-boy, stood watching them
from a little distance. The runaway felt some twinges of conscience
at beholding them. They both saw him, but as if by

tacit understanding, they made no remark. When the repast
was over, and the horses made ready for a new start — Dick of
Tophet said, with an air of ruffianly indifference:—

“I reckon, cappin, we needn't cord up the prisoners, ef so
be they'll only give their word of honor, that they won't try to
git off.”

But Inglehardt preferred the security of cords to words. He
did not, however, answer the suggestion in the hearing of the
captives. There was a feeling of shame, perhaps, that made
him silent. Apart from them, he replied to Andrews:—

“We must risk nothing. Travis is a sly rascal. He won't
feel bound by any pledges to us. He'll argue that we have no
right to exact them. Besides, Dick, we've got to melt the rock
you remember. To bring Travis to the right condition of mind.
I must make him very fearful. I must bring him to his knees
through his terrors.”

“But the boy —”

“It is only through the boy that we can work upon the
father's terrors. He has no fears for himself. We must make
him fearful for the boy. Remember that, Dick. You must
second me in waking up his fears.”

Dick of Tophet, ruffian as he was, was a little at a loss to
see how this was to be done; but he was not willing that his
superior should suppose him inexperienced and ignorant.

“Oh! very well. Only jest you say what's got to be done.
That's all.”

“At present, we have only got to secure them on horseback.
Mount them with free legs and then tie the legs fast under the
belly of the horse. We can guide the horses for them.”

And in this fashion the two captives were mounted. Travis
expostulated in behalf of his son; pledged himself that the boy
would not attempt escape, but he was not listened to. Inglehardt
rode on a-head. It was in vain that the commissary demanded
an interview with his old associate.

They were gone from the scene, as we are already aware,
when, conducted by his unerring instincts, or, rather, the unerring
logic of the scout, Jim Ballou came upon the ground.
He tracked the party, as we have seen, up to the point where
they passed from the woods into the main road. Here the

tracks were all lost, in the wilderness of impressions, made by
every beast that runs, upon the sandy thoroughfare. But Jim
Ballou proceeded to work out his usual scout logic.

“They're not going to keep this main track,” he soliloquized
in a murmur as he looked about him. “They're for hiding,
and they've just crossed the road to get into the lower woods.
Well, we'll see, but I reckon they're quite too old at foxing to
go right across, making but one step from the old track into the
new one.”

And our scout was right. His search directly across the road
yielded him no discovery.

“As I thought,” said he. “No, they've kept the road a bit,
up or down only to break off the connection. They've gone
across, that's certain, for if that wasn't their plan, they needn't
ha' come out of the swamp thicket to the road at all. They'd
ha' just pushed on, up or down, in the same old woods. Yet
here's their track to the very edge of the road. Well, it's certain
they've gone across, and it's up or down. And it only
needs keen sighting on t'other side, for a matter of fifty yards,
more or less, to see where they come out. For they wouldn't
keep the main track a minute longer than needful.”

So he reasoned. His own horse was still hidden in the
thicket. He was careful not to suffer his own tracks to mar
those which he sought. He stepped the road carefully up and
down its lower margin. Nothing escaped his eyes. They were
those of one who riding at a canter through the woods will stop
his horse and show you the track of deer or turkey among the
leaves, and tell you just how many hours have elapsed since
the animal made it. His reasoning was so nearly certain that
he had no doubts of finding the trail. After a while, a low
chuckle escaped him, and he raised himself erect.

“Have 'em again! I knowed it must be so. And now to
find all the tracks, and see if any of 'em has broke off from the
party.”

And for this further object, he again addressed himself to the
trail.

“All right! all together. And now for the general course.”

He followed the track for a hundred yards into the woods;
then, as if satisfied, he took his way back carelessly to where

his horse had been fastened. He slipped the bridle and let the
animal graze. While the horse was thus employed, the scout
drew from across his saddle a small buckskin sack, with two
pouches, one on either side. From one of these pouches he
drew a smaller sack containing a dry grainy sort of meal a few
handfuls of which he swallowed. His food was a simple meal of
maize and sugar, browned together over the fire, one part sugar
to eight of meal. A draft from the pure sweet waters of the Edisto,
swallowed with mouth buried in the running stream, which he
could thus reach only by prostrating himself upon his breast
with his hands grasping the roots of trees jutting from the banks
into the water, satisfied his thirst; and our scout was ready to
pursue the trail which he had found. But he did not immediately
set off. He returned to the spot where his steed had
been left to graze and seated himself quietly beneath a tree to
ruminate, or sleep. For two hours he kept this position seeming
to drowse, and perhaps really drowsing. At the end of
this time, quietly rising up, just as if he had arranged for two
hours' sleep, and could will at pleasure the duration of his slumbers,
he proceeded to bit the animal and mount. A few moments
after this he was in motion, taking the trail of Inglehardt's
party, deep in the forests, and pushing in a southeasterly direction.
We need not follow him for the present. Enough that
the beagle was on the track, with the scent keen and warm,
and that, if any scout can fairly keep the trail of the tory and
his captives, Jim Ballou is the man to do so. The great forests
soon swallowed him and them from sight.