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This on the march of the enemy from Dalton, Ga., to Calhoun, Ga., and on the 16th day of May, 1864. "O, goodness gracious!" murmured little Pete Skidmore, almost fainting with terror, in the covert of oak leaves, just above the court's head, whither he had noiselessly climbed, to overhear everything. "He's a-goner, sure! They'll shoot him, sure as guns. Saltpeter won't save him.
That feller was born addled, on Friday, in the dark of the moon." "Them mules," dolefully corroborated Si, scraping an acre, more or less, of red Tennessee soil from his overcoat with a stick, "need to be broke again with a saw-log. Luck for old Job that the devil didn't think o' settin' him to drive mules. He'd 'a-bin a-goner in less'n an hour."
They were only too glad to take his advice, and shortly after the four gathered around the revived campfire to exchange opinions. They were a pretty smutty-looking crowd; but Jerry declared that those marks were medals of honor. "Now, if we had all been like Will here, and each rushed for his possessions, the camp would have been a-goner," he remarked, with a reproachful look.
Thought I was a-goner, I give you my word," and Andy shuddered. "How long did you lie there?" questioned the other. "Hours and hours, it seemed to me. I'd shout when I could, but something seemed to tell me it wasn't no good that I just deserved to die right there, because I'd never been no good to my folks at home or anybody else. But you just wait and see. I got a light, I did.
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