Part 23 (1/2)

”Down the Ringgold road about five miles.”

A murmur arose from the men.

”I can tell a Yank one mile off,” boasted Alf.

”I can tell a fool just as far away as I can see you,” interrupted Wilson.

”You....”

”Now, Alf, keep quiet,” said the Judge. ”What were you men doing down the Ringgold road?”

”We were trying to get to Chattanooga,” Tom replied, ”We got started on the wrong road this morning.”

Wilson broke in: ”We tried to tell this wild man with his rifle that we were going to enlist in the army. We've sneaked through the Union lines from Kentucky, and came across the Tennessee yesterday. Then we got on the wrong road. This fellow held us up and arrested us in the name of the law for something-or-other. I don't know yet what we're arrested for.”

”For burning bridges,” yelled Alf. ”That's what I arrested you for.”

”All right,” answered Wilson. ”We're arrested for burning bridges. Whose bridges? What bridges?”

”We're getting a whole lot of encouragement to fight for the South,” said Tom.

”He's crazier than any Yank I've ever seen in my life,” remarked Shadrack, nodding toward Alf.

”Search 'em,” demanded Alf. ”That'll show you whether I'm right or not.”

”Now, Alf,” said the Judge, ”you go on out to the kitchen and get something to eat. I'll examine these prisoners and I'll see that you get the credit for capturing them if they are the Yanks. Go on, now.” He pushed Alf gently toward the door. Alf, still protesting, disappeared reluctantly into the kitchen. The Judge shook his head, laughing.

”That man acts a little crazy,” said Tom.

”Oh, he's hot-headed,” said the Judge. ”He gets one idea and he can't think of anything else. Lock the door, Joe, so we won't be disturbed. And lock the kitchen door, too, or Alf'll be back. Now let's search these men, and see what we can find.”

Tom, Shadrack, and Wilson held their arms up, while the men dumped the contents of their pockets on a table. Three revolvers, handkerchiefs, Confederate money.... They found nothing of importance.

”Now let's sit down here and talk this thing over,” said the Judge. ”Where do you men say you come from!”

”From Fleming County, Kentucky,” replied Wilson. ”We were getting tired of the way the Yanks were running things and so we decided that we'd go and fight for the South. We started out last week and made our way through the lines. It was easy. We didn't see a single Union sentry.”

”Where did you come across the river?” demanded the Judge.

”A few miles this side of Decatur,” said Tom.

One of the men beside the Judge interrupted: ”There aren't any ferries running up there.”

”I know there aren't,” answered Tom. ”We were afraid to tell anyone what we were going to do until we got across the river, and so we had to build a raft.”

”A raft!” exclaimed the Judge.

”Yes, out of logs. I got washed overboard and I grabbed on to one of the logs and held there. Look at my hands.” He spread his hands out upon the table, palms up. They had been torn and bruised by the logs he had yanked from the tender.

”Hm-m-m!” grunted the Judge, ”must have whipped you around some in that current!”

”Once it whirled me right over, and I thought my wrists would break before I could get another grip. They were trying to pull me aboard, but every time they came to help me the raft tilted so that they had to crawl back.”