"No," he said, "that's not the game to hunt.They'll do when thar's nothin' better to be had, but now powder an' lead kin be used to more advantage.Besides they're outen range o' your smooth-bore now.Come."As Fortner threw his rifle across his shoulder Harry looked at it curiously.It had a long, heavy, six sided barrel, with a large bore, double triggers, and a gaily striped hickory ramrod in its thimbles.The stock, of fine, curly rock-maple, was ornamented with silver stars and crescents, and in the breech were cunning little receptacles for tow and patches, and other rifle necessaries, each closed by a polished silver cover that shut with a snap.It was evidently the triumph of some renowned kentucky gunsmith's skill.
The mountaineer's foot was on the soil he had trodden since childhood, and Harry found it quite difficult to keep pace with his strong, quick stride.His step landed firm and sure on the sloping surfaces, where Harry slipped or shambled.Clinging vines and sharp briers were avoided without an apparent effort, where every one grasped Harry, or tore his face and hands.
The instinct of the wolf or the panther seemed to lead Fortner by the shortest courses through the pathless woods to where he came unperceived close upon the flank of the mass of harassed fugitives.
Then creeping behind a convenient tree with the supple lightness of the leopard crouching for a spring, he scanned with eager eyes the mounted officers within range.Selecting his prey he muttered:
"'Tain't HIM, but he'll hev to do, THIS time."The weapon rang out sharply.The stricken officer threw up his sword arm, his bridle arm clutched his saddle-pommel, as if resisting the attempt of Death to unhorse him.Then the muscles all relaxed, and he fell into he arms of those who had hurried to him.
Harry fired into the mass the next instant; a few random shots replied, and another impetus of fear spurred the mob onward.
Fortner and Harry sped away to another point of interception, where the same scene was repeated, and then to another, and then to a third, Fortner muttering after each shot his disappointment at not finding the one whom he anxiously sought.
When they hurried away the third time they were compelled to make a wide circuit, for the little valley suddenly broadened out into a considerable plain.Upon this the long-drawn-out line of fugitives gathered in a compact, turmoiling mass.
"That's Little Rockassel Ford," said Fortner, pointing with his left hand to the base of the mountain that rose steeply above the farther side of the commotion."That's Rockassel Mountain runnin'
up thar inter the clouds.The Little Rockassel River runs round hits foot.That's what's a-stoppin' 'em.They'll hev a turrible time gittin' acrost hit.Hit's mouty hard crossin' at enny time, but hit's awful now, fur the Rockassel's boomin'.The big rains hev sent her up kitin', an' hit's now breast-deep thar in the Ford.
We'll git round whar we kin see hit all."Another wide detour to keep themselves in the concealment of the woods brough Fortner and Harry out upon an acclivity that almost overhung the ford, and those gathered around it.The two Unionists crawled cautiously through the cedars and laurel to the very edge of the cliff and looked down upon their enemies.They were so near that everything was plainly visible, and the hum of conversation reached their ears.They could even hear the commands of the officers vainly trying to restore order, the curses of the teamsters upon their jaded animals, the ribald songs of the few whose canteens furnished them with forgetfulness of defeat, and contempt for the surrounding misery.
All the flooding showers which had been falling upon hundreds of square miles of precipitous mountin sides were now gorging through the crooked, narrow throat of the Little Rockcastle.The torrent filled the ragged banks to the brim, and in their greedy swirl undermined and tore from there logs, great trees, and even rocks.
