Chapter II. The Mountain Lights

The Guns of Shiloh

by Joseph A. Altsheler

When Dick left the balloon it was nearly night. Hundreds of
campfires lighted up the hills about him, but beyond their circle
the darkness enclosed everything. He still felt the sensations of
one who had been at a great height and who had seen afar. That rim
of Southern campfires was yet in his mind, and he wondered why the
Northern commander allowed them to remain week after week so near
the capital. He was fully aware, because it was common talk, that
the army of the Union had now reached great numbers, with a
magnificent equipment, and, with four to one, should be able to
drive the Southern force away. Yet McClellan delayed.

Dick obtained a short leave of absence, and walked to a
campfire, where he knew he would find his friend, George Warner.
Sergeant Whitley was there, too, showing some young recruits how to
cook without waste, and the two gave the boy a welcome that was both
inquisitive and hearty.

"You've been up in the balloon," said Warner. "It was a rare
chance."

"Yes," replied Dick with a laugh, "I left the world, and it is
the only way in which I wish to leave it for the next sixty or
seventy years. It was a wonderful sight, George, and not the least
wonderful thing in it was the campfires of the Southern army,
burning down there towards Bull Run."

"Burnin' where they ought not to be," said Whitley--no gulf
was yet established between commissioned and non-commissioned
officers in either army. "Little Mac may be a great organizer, as
they say, but you can keep on organizin' an' organizin', until it's
too late to do what you want to do."

"It's a sound principle that you lay down, Mr. Whitley," said
Warner in his precise tones. "In fact, it may be reduced to a
mathematical formula. Delay is always a minus quantity which may be
represented by y. Achievement is represented by x, and,
consequently, when you have achievement hampered by delay you have x
minus y, which is an extremely doubtful quantity, often amounting to
failure."

"I travel another road in my reckonin's," said Whitley, "I
don't know anything about x and y, but I guess you an' me, George,
come to the same place. It's been a full six weeks since Bull Run,
an' we haven't done a thing."

Whitley, despite their difference in rank, could not yet keep
from addressing the boys by their first names. But they took it as
a matter of course, in view of the fact that he was so much older
than they and vastly their superior in military knowledge.

"Dick," continued the sergeant, "what was it you was sayin'
about a cousin of yours from the same town in Kentucky bein' out
there in the Southern army?"

"He's certainly there," replied Dick, "if he wasn't killed in
the battle, which I feel couldn't have happened to a fellow like
Harry. We're from the same little town in Kentucky, Pendleton.
He's descended straight from one of the greatest Indian fighters,
borderers and heroes the country down there ever knew, Henry Ware,
who afterwards became one of the early governors of the State. And
I'm descended from Henry Ware's famous friend, Paul Cotter, who, in
his time, was the greatest scholar in all the West. Henry Ware and
Paul Cotter were like the old Greek friends, Damon and Pythias.
Harry and I are proud to have their blood in our veins. Besides
being cousins, there are other things to make Harry and me think a
lot of each other. Oh, he's a grand fellow, even if he is on the
wrong side!"

Dick's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he spoke of the cousin
and comrade of his childhood.

"The chances of war bring about strange situations, or at
least I have heard so," said Warner. "Now, Dick, if you were to
meet your cousin face to face on the battlefield with a loaded gun
in your hand what would you do?"

"I'd raise that gun, take deliberate aim at a square foot of
air about thirty feet over his head and pull the trigger."

"But your duty to your country tells you to do otherwise.
Before you is a foe trying to destroy the Union. You have come out
armed to save that Union, consequently you must fire straight at him
and not at the air, in order to reduce the number of our
enemies."

"One enemy where there are so many would not count for
anything in the total. Your arithmetic will show you that Harry's
percentage in the Southern army is so small that it reaches the
vanishing point. If I can borrow from you, George, x equals Harry's
percentage, which is nothing, y equals the value of my hypothetical
opportunity, which is nothing, then x plus y equals nothing, which
represents the whole affair, which is nothing, that is, worth
nothing to the Union. Hence I have no more obligation to shoot
Harry if I meet him than he has to shoot me."

"Well spoken, Dick," said Sergeant Whitley. "Some people, I
reckon, can take duty too hard. If you have one duty an' another
an' bigger one comes along right to the same place you ought to
'tend to the bigger one. I'd never shoot anybody that was a heap to
me just because he was one of three or four hundred thousand who was
on the other side. I've never thought much of that old Roman
father--I forget his name--who had his son executed just because he
wasn't doin' exactly right. There was never a rule that oughtn't to
have exceptions under extraordinary circumstances."

"If you can establish the principle of exceptions," replied
the young Vermonter very gravely, "I will allow Dick to shoot in the
air when he meets his cousin in the height of battle, but it is a
difficult task to establish it, and if it fails Dick, according to
all rules of logic and duty, must shoot straight at his cousin's
heart."

The other two looked at Warner and saw his left eyelid droop
slightly. A faint twinkle appeared in either eye and then they
laughed.

"I reckon that Dick shoots high in the air," said the
sergeant.

Dick, after a pleasant hour with his friends, went back to
Colonel Newcomb's quarters, where he spent the entire evening
writing despatches at dictation. He was hopeful that all this
writing portended something, but more days passed, and despite the
impatience of both army and public, there was no movement. Stories
of confused and uncertain fighting still came out of the west, but
between Washington and Bull Run there was perfect peace.

The summer passed. Autumn came and deepened. The air was
crisp and sparkling. The leaves, turned into glowing reds and
yellows and browns, began to fall from the trees. The advancing
autumn contained the promise of winter soon to come. The leaves
fell faster and sharp winds blew, bringing with them chill rains.
Little Mac, or the Young Napoleon, as many of his friends loved to
call him, continued his preparations, and despite all the urgings of
President and Congress, would not move. His fatal defect now showed
in all its destructiveness. To him the enemy always appeared
threefold his natural size.

Reliable scouts brought back the news that the Southern troops
at Manassas, a full two months after their victory there, numbered
only forty thousand. The Northern commander issued statements that
the enemy was before him with one hundred and fifty thousand
soldiers. He demanded that his own forces should be raised to
nearly a quarter of a million men and nearly five hundred cannon
before he could move.

The veteran, Scott, full of triumphs and honors, but feeling
himself out of place in his old age, went into retirement.
McClellan, now in sole command, still lingered and delayed, while
the South, making good use of precious months, gathered all her
forces to meet him or whomsoever came against her.

Youth chafed most against the long waiting. It seemed to Dick
and his mathematical Vermont friend that time was fairly wasting
away under their feet, and the wise sergeant agreed with them.

The weather had grown so cold now that they built fires for
warmth as well as cooking, and the two youths sat with Sergeant
Whitley one cold evening in late October before a big blaze. Both
were tanned deeply by wind, sun and rain, and they had grown
uncommonly hardy, but the wind that night came out of the northwest,
and it had such a sharp edge to it that they were glad to draw their
blankets over their backs and shoulders.

Dick was re-reading a letter from his mother, a widow who
lived on the outskirts of Pendleton. It had come that morning, and
it was the only one that had reached him since his departure from
Kentucky. But she had received another that he had written to her
directly after the Battle of Bull Run.

She wrote of her gratitude because Providence had watched over
him in that dreadful conflict, all the more dreadful because it was
friend against friend, brother against brother. The state, she
said, was all in confusion. Everybody suspected everybody else.
The Southerners were full of victory, the Northerners were hopeful
of victory yet to come. Colonel Kenton was with the Southern force
under General Buckner, gathered at Bowling Green in that state, but
his son, her nephew Harry, was still in the east with Beauregard.
She had heard that the troops of the west and northwest were coming
down the Ohio and Mississippi in great numbers, and people expected
hard fighting to occur very soon in western and southern Kentucky.
It was all very dreadful, and a madness seemed to have come over the
land, but she hoped that Providence would continue to watch over her
dear son.

Warner and the sergeant knew that the letter was from Dick's
mother, but they had too much delicacy to ask him questions. The
boy folded the sheets carefully and returned them to their place in
the inside pocket of his coat. Then he looked for a while
thoughtfully into the blaze and the great bed of coals that had
formed beneath. As far as one could see to right and left like
fires burned, but the night remained dark with promise of rain, and
the chill wind out of the northwest increased in vigor. The words
just read for the fifth time had sunk deep in his mind, and he was
feeling the call of the west.

"My mother writes," he said to his comrades, "that the
Confederate general, Buckner, whom I know, is gathering a large
force around Bowling Green in the southern part of our state, and
that fighting is sure to occur soon between that town and the
Mississippi. An officer named Grant has come down from Illinois,
and he is said to be pushing the Union troops forward with a lot of
vigor. Sergeant, you are up on army affairs. Do you know this man
Grant?"

Sergeant Whitley shook his head.

"Never heard of him," he replied. "Like as not he's one of
the officers who resigned from the army after the Mexican War.
There was so little to do then, and so little chance of promotion,
that a lot of them quit to go into business. I suppose they'll all
be coming back now."

"I want to go out there," said Dick. "It's my country, and
the westerners at least are acting. But look at our army here!
Bull Run was fought the middle of summer. Now it's nearly winter,
and nothing has been done. We don't get out of sight of Washington.
If I can get myself sent west I'm going."

"And I'm going with you," said Warner.

"Me, too," said the sergeant.

"I know that Colonel Newcomb's eyes are turning in that
direction," continued Dick. "He's a war-horse, he is, and he'd like
to get into the thick of it."

"You're his favorite aide," said the calculating young
Vermonter. "Can't you sow those western seeds in his mind and keep
on sowing them? The fact that you are from this western battle
ground will give more weight to what you say. You do this, and I'll
wager that within a week the Colonel will induce the President to
send the whole regiment to the Mississippi."

"Can you reduce your prediction to a mathematical certainty?"
asked Dick, a twinkle appearing in his eye.

"No, I can't do that," replied Warner, with an answering
twinkle, "but you're the very fellow to influence Colonel Newcomb's
mind. I'm a mathematician and I work with facts, but you have the
glowing imagination that conduces to the creation of facts."

"Big words! Grand words!" said the sergeant.

"Never let Colonel Newcomb forget the west," continued Warner,
not noticing the interruption. "Keep it before him all the time.
Hint that there can be no success along the Mississippi without him
and his regiment."

"I'll do what I can," promised Dick faithfully, and he did
much. Colonel Newcomb had already formed a strong attachment for
this zealous and valuable young aide, and he did not forget the
words that Dick said on every convenient occasion about the west.
He made urgent representations that he and his regiment be sent to
the relief of the struggling Northern forces there, and he contrived
also that these petitions should reach the President. One day the
order came to go, but not to St. Louis, where Halleck, now in
command, was. Instead they were to enter the mountains of West
Virginia and Kentucky, and help the mountaineers who were loyal to
the Union. If they accomplished that task with success, they were
to proceed to the greater theatre in Western Kentucky and Tennessee.
It was not all they wished, but they thought it far better than
remaining at Washington, where it seemed that the army would remain
indefinitely.

Colonel Newcomb, who was sitting in his tent bending over maps
with his staff, summoned Dick.

"You are a Kentuckian, my lad," he said, "and I thought you
might know something about this region into which we are going."

"Not much, sir," replied Dick. "My home is much further west
in a country very different both in its own character and that of
its people. But I have been in the mountains two or three times, and
I may be of some help as a guide."

"I am sure you will do your best," said Colonel Newcomb. "By
the way, that young Vermont friend of yours, Warner, is to be on my
staff also, and it is very likely that you and he will go on many
errands together."

"Can't we take Sergeant Whitley with us sometimes?" asked Dick
boldly.

"So you can," replied the colonel, laughing a little. "I've
noticed that man, and I've a faint suspicion that he knows more
about war than any of us civilian officers."

"It's our task to learn as much as we can from these old
regulars," said a Major Hertford, a man of much intelligence and
good humor, who, previous to the war, had been a lawyer in a small
town. Alan Hertford was about twenty-five and of fine manner and
appearance.

"Well spoken, Major Hertford," said the thoughtful miner,
Colonel Newcomb. "Now, Dick, you can go, and remember that we are
to start for Washington early in the morning and take a train there
for the north. It will be the duty of Lieutenant Warner and
yourself, as well as others, to see that our men are ready to the
last shoe for the journey."

Dick and Warner were so much elated that they worked all that
night, and they did not hesitate to go to Sergeant Whitley for
advice or instruction. At the first spear of dawn the regiment
marched away in splendid order from Arlington to Washington, where
the train that was to bear them to new fields and unknown fortunes
was ready.

It was a long train of many coaches, as the regiment numbered
seven hundred men, and it also carried with it four guns, mounted on
trucks. The coaches were all of primitive pattern. The soldiers
were to sleep on the seats, and their arms and supplies were heaped
in the aisles. It was a cold, drizzling day of closing autumn, and
the capital looked sodden and gloomy. Cameron, the Secretary of
War, came to see them off and to make the customary prediction
concerning their valor and victory to come. But he was a cold man,
and he was repellent to Dick, used to more warmth of temperament.

Then, with a ringing of bells, a heave of the engine, a great
puffing of smoke, and a mighty rattling of wheels, the train drew
out of Washington and made its noisy way toward Baltimore. Dick and
Warner were on the same seat. It was only forty miles to Baltimore,
but their slow train would be perhaps three hours in arriving. So
they had ample opportunity to see the country, which they examined
with the curious eyes of youth. But there was little to see. The
last leaves were falling from the trees under the early winter rain.
Bare boughs and brown grass went past their windows and the fields
were deserted. The landscape looked chill and sullen.

Warner was less depressed than Dick. He had an even
temperament based solidly upon mathematical calculations. He knew
that while it might be raining today, the chances were several to
one against its raining tomorrow.

"I've good cause to remember Baltimore," he said. "I was with
the New England troops when they had the fight there on the way down
to the capital. Although we hold it, it's really a Southern city,
Dick. Most all the border cities are Southern in sympathy, and
they're swarming with people who will send to the Southern leaders
news of every movement we make. I state, and moreover I assert it
in the face of all the world, that the knowledge of our departure
from Washington is already in Southern hands. By close mathematical
calculation the chances are at least ninety-five per cent in favor
of my statement."

"Very likely," said Dick, "and we'll have that sort of thing
to face all the time when we invade the South. We've got to win
this war, George, by hard fighting, and then more hard fighting, and
then more and more of the same."

"Guess you're right. Arithmetic shows at least one hundred
per cent of probability in favor of your suggestion."

Dick looked up and down the long coach packed with young
troops. Besides the commissioned officers and the sergeants, there
was not one in the coach who was twenty-five. Most of them were
nineteen or twenty, and it was the same in the other coaches. After
the first depression their spirits rose. The temper of youth showed
strongly. They were eager to see Baltimore, but the train stopped
there only a few minutes, and they were not allowed to leave the
coaches.

Then the train turned towards the west. The drizzle of rain
had now become a pour, and it drove so heavily that they could see
but little outside. Food was served at noon and afterward many
slept in the cramped seats. Dick, despite his stiff position, fell
asleep too. By the middle of the afternoon everybody in their coach
was slumbering soundly except Sergeant Whitley, who sat by the door
leading to the next car.

All that afternoon and into the night the train rattled and
moved into the west. The beautiful rolling country was left behind,
and they were now among the mountains, whirling around precipices so
sharply that often the sleeping boys were thrown from the seats of
the coaches. But they were growing used to hardships. They merely
climbed back again upon the seats, and were asleep once more in half
a minute.

The rain still fell and the wind blew fiercely among the
somber mountains. A second engine had been added to the train, and
the speed of the train was slackened. The engineer in front stared
at the slippery rails, but he could see only a few yards. The
pitchy darkness closed in ahead, hiding everything, even the peaks
and ridges. The heart of that engineer, and he was a brave man, as
brave as any soldier on the battlefield, had sunk very low.
Railroads were little past their infancy then and this was the first
to cross the mountains. He was by no means certain of his track,
and, moreover, the rocks and forest might shelter an ambush.

The Alleghanies and their outlying ridges and spurs are not
lofty mountains, but to this day they are wild and almost
inaccessible in many places. Nature has made them a formidable
barrier, and in the great Civil War those who trod there had to look
with all their eyes and listen with all their ears. The engineer
was not alone in his anxiety this night. Colonel Newcomb rose from
an uneasy doze and he went with Major Hertford into the engineer's
cab. They were now going at the rate of not more than five or six
miles an hour, the long train winding like a snake around the edges
of precipices and feeling its way gingerly over the trestles that
spanned the deep valleys. All trains made a great roar and rattle
then, and the long ravines gave it back in a rumbling and menacing
echo. Gusts of rain were swept now and then into the faces of the
engineer, the firemen and the officers.

"Do you see anything ahead, Canby?" said Colonel Newcomb to
the engineer.

"Nothing. That's the trouble, sir. If it were a clear night
I shouldn't be worried. Then we wouldn't be likely to steam into
danger with our eyes shut. This is a wild country. The
mountaineers in the main are for us, but we are not far north of the
Southern line, and if they know we are crossing they may undertake
to raid in here."

"And they may know it," said the colonel. "Washington is full
of Southern sympathizers. Stop the train, Canby, when we come to
the first open and level space, and we'll do some scouting
ahead."

The engineer felt great relief. He was devoutly glad that the
colonel was going to take such a precaution. At that moment he,
more than Colonel Newcomb, was responsible for the lives of the
seven hundred human beings aboard the train, and his patriotism and
sense of responsibility were both strong.

The train, with much jolting and clanging, stopped fifteen
minutes later. Both Dick and Warner, awakened by the shock, sat up
and rubbed their eyes. Then they left the train at once to join
Colonel Newcomb, who might want them immediately. Wary Sergeant
Whitley followed them in silence.

The boys found Colonel Newcomb and the remaining members of
his staff standing near, and seeking anxiously to discover the
nature of the country about them. The colonel nodded when they
arrived, and gave them an approving glance. The two stood by,
awaiting the colonel's orders, but they did not neglect to use their
eyes.

Dick saw by the engineer's lantern that they were in a valley,
and he learned from his words that this valley was about three miles
long with a width of perhaps half a mile. A little mountain river
rushed down its center, and the train would cross the stream about a
mile further on. It was still raining and the cold wind whistled
down from the mountains. Dick could see the somber ridges showing
dimly through the loom of darkness and rain. He was instantly
aware, too, of a tense and uneasy feeling among the officers. All
of them carried glasses, but in the darkness they could not use
them. Lights began to appear in the train and many heads were
thrust out at the windows.

"Go through the coaches, Mr. Mason and Mr. Warner," said
Colonel Newcomb, "and have every light put out immediately. Tell
them, too, that my orders are for absolute silence."

Dick and the Vermonter did their work rapidly, receiving many
curious inquiries, as they went from coach to coach, all of which
they were honestly unable to answer. They knew no more than the
other boys about the situation. But when they left the last coach
and returned to the officers near the engine, the train was in total
darkness, and no sound came from it. Colonel Newcomb again gave
them an approving nod. Dick noticed that the fires in the engine
were now well covered, and that no sparks came from the smokestack.
Standing by it he could see the long shape of the train running back
in the darkness, but it would have been invisible to any one a
hundred yards away.

"You think we're thoroughly hidden now, Canby?" said the
colonel.

"Yes, sir. Unless they've located us precisely on advance
information. I don't see how they could find us among the mountains
in all this darkness and rain."

"But they've had the advance information! Look there!"
exclaimed Major Hertford, pointing toward the high ridge that lay on
their right.

A beam of light had appeared on the loftiest spur, standing
out at first like a red star in the darkness, then growing intensely
brighter, and burning with a steady, vivid light. The effect was
weird and powerful. The mountain beneath it was invisible, and it
seemed to burn there like a real eye, wrathful and menacing. The
older men, as well as the boys, were held as if by a spell. It was
something monstrous and eastern, like the appearance of a genie out
of the Arabian Nights.

The light, after remaining fixed for at least a minute, began
to move slowly from side to side and then faster.

"A signal!" exclaimed Colonel Newcomb. "Beyond a doubt it is
the Southerners. Whatever they're saying they're saying it to
somebody. Look toward the south!"

"Ah, there they are answering!" exclaimed Major Hertford.

All had wheeled simultaneously, and on another high spur a
mile to the south a second red light as vivid and intense as the
first was flashing back and forth. It, too, the mountain below
invisible, seemed to swing in the heavens. Dick, standing there in
the darkness and rain, and knowing that imminent and mortal danger
was on either side, felt a frightful chill creeping slowly down his
spine. It is a terrible thing to feel through some superior sense
that an invisible foe is approaching, and not be able to know by any
kind of striving whence he came.

The lights flashed alternately, and presently both dropped
from the sky, seeming to Dick to leave blacker spots on the darkness
in their place. Then only the heavy night and the rain encompassed
them.

"What do you think it is?" asked Colonel Newcomb of Major
Hertford.

"Southern troops beyond a doubt. It is equally certain that
they were warned in some manner from Washington of our
departure."

"I think so, too. It is probable that they saw the light and
have been signalling their knowledge to each other. It seems likely
to me that they will wait at the far end of the valley to cut us
off. What force do you think it is?"

"Perhaps a cavalry detachment that has ridden hurriedly to
intercept us. I would say at a guess that it is Turner Ashby and his
men. A skillful and dangerous foe, as you know."

Already the fame of this daring Confederate horseman was
spreading over Virginia and Maryland.

"If we are right in our guess," said Major Hertford, "they
will dismount, lead their horses along the mountain side, and shut
down the trap upon us. Doubtless they are in superior force, and
know the country much better than we do. If they get ahead of us
and have a little time to do it in they will certainly tear up the
tracks."

"I think you are right in all respects," said Colonel Newcomb.
"But it is obvious that we must not give them time to destroy the
road ahead of us. As for the rest, I wonder."

He pulled uneasily at his short beard, and then he caught
sight of Sergeant Whitley standing silently, arms folded, by the
side of the engine. Newcomb, the miner colonel, was a man of big
and open mind. A successful business man, he had the qualities which
made him a good general by the time the war was in its third year.
He knew Whitley and he knew, too, that he was an old army regular,
bristling with experience and shrewdness.

"Sergeant Whitley," he said, "in this emergency what would you
do, if you were in my place?"

The sergeant saluted respectfully.

"If I were in your place, sir, which I never will be," he
replied, "I would have all the troops leave the train. Then I would
have the engineers take the train forward slowly, while the troops
marched on either side of it, but at a sufficient distance to be
hidden in the darkness. Then, sir, our men could not be caught in a
wreck, but with their feet on solid earth they would be ready, if
need be, for a fight, which is our business."

"Well spoken, Sergeant Whitley," said Colonel Newcomb, while
the other officers also nodded approval. "Your plan is excellent
and we will adopt it. Get the troops out of the train quickly but
in silence and do you, Canby, be ready with the engine."

Dick and Warner with the older officers turned to the task.
The young soldiers were out of the train in two minutes and were
forming in lines on either side, arms ready. There were many
whisperings among these boys, but none loud enough to be heard
twenty yards away. All felt intense relief when they left the train
and stood upon the solid, though decidedly damp earth.

But the cold rain sweeping upon their faces was a tonic, both
mental and physical, after the close heat of the train. They did
not know why they had disembarked, but they surmised with good
reason that an attack was threatened and they were eager to meet
it.

Dick and Warner were near the head of the line on the right of
the tracks, and Sergeant Whitley was with them. The train began to
puff heavily, and in spite of every precaution some sparks flew from
the smoke-stack. Dick knew that it was bound to rumble and rattle
when it started, but he was surprised at the enormous amount of
noise it made, when the wheels really began to turn. It seemed to
him that in the silence of the night it could be heard three or four
miles. Then he realized that it was merely his own excitement and
extreme tension of both mind and body. Canby was taking the train
forward so gently that its sounds were drowned two hundred yards
away in the swirl of wind and rain.

The men marched, each line keeping abreast of the train, but
fifty yards or more to one side. The young troops were forbidden to
speak and their footsteps made no noise in the wet grass and low
bushes. Dick and Warner kept their eyes on the mountains, turning
them alternately from north to south. Nothing appeared on either
ridge, and no sound came to tell of an enemy near.

Dick began to believe that they would pass through the valley
and out of the trap without a combat. But while a train may go two
or three miles in a few minutes it takes troops marching in the
darkness over uncertain ground a long time to cover the same
distance. They marched a full half hour and then Dick suppressed a
cry. The light, burning as intensely red as before, appeared again
on the mountain to the right, but further toward the west, seeming
to have moved parallel to the Northern troops. As Dick looked it
began to flash swiftly from side to side and that chill and weird
feeling again ran down his spine. He looked toward the south and
there was the second signal, red and intense, replying to the
first.

Dick heard a deep "Ah!" run along the line of young troops,
and he knew now that they understood as much as he or any of the
officers did. He now knew, too, that they would not pass out of the
valley without a combat. The Southern forces, beyond a doubt, would
try to shut them in at the western mouth of the valley, and a battle
in the night and rain was sure to follow.

The train continued to move slowly forward. Had Colonel
Newcomb dared he would have ordered Canby to increase his speed in
order that he might reach the western mouth of the valley before the
Southern force had a chance to tear up the rails, but there was no
use for the train without the troops and they were already marching
as fast as they could.

The gorge was now not more than a quarter of a mile away.
Dick was able to discern it, because the darkness there was not
quite so dark as that which lay against the mountains on either
side. He was hopeful that they might yet reach it before the
Southern force could close down upon them, but before they went many
yards further he heard the beat of horses' feet both to right and
left and knew that the enemy was at hand.

"Take the train on through the pass, Canby!" shouted Colonel
Newcomb. "We'll cover its retreat, and join you later--if we
can."

The train began to rattle and roar, and its speed increased.
Showers of sparks shot from the funnels of the two engines, and
gleamed for an instant in the darkness. The beat of horses' feet
grew to thunder. Colonel Newcomb with great presence of mind drew
the two parallel lines of his men close together, and ordered them
to lie down on either side of the railroad track and face outward
with cocked rifles. Dick, the Vermonter, and Sergeant Whitley lay
close together, and the three faced the north.

"See the torches!" said Whitley.

Dick saw eight or ten torches wavering and flickering at a
height of seven or eight feet above the ground, and he knew that
they were carried by horsemen, but he could not see either men or
horses beneath. Then the rapid beat of hoofs ceased abruptly at a
distance that Dick thought must be about two hundred yards.

"Lie flat!" cried Whitley. "They're about to fire!"