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A militia command, 300 strong, came out to capture us, but they did not risk an attack until nearly midnight. Capt. Quantrell, John Jarrette, and I were sleeping together when the alarm was given, the sentry’s challenge, “Who are you?” followed by a pistol shot. We were up on the instant.
In a swift moment, timed to the sentry’s passing to the farthest point from the spy hole, the Kentuckian rolled to the floor, slapped and pulled the blanket into place over the mounded straw. Not too good—it certainly would not fool any inspection within the room.
Then he similarly bound and gagged the warder, and then gave him a heavy blow on the head, feeling that it was best for the man himself that it should be a severe one. Then he took the sentry’s musket and hid it under the bed, so that, if by any chance he managed to free himself of his bonds, he could not fire it to give the alarm.
Then he added, in a lower tone, with just the suspicion of a grin showing at the corners of his mouth: “Say, friend, for a stranger, you must have had a high old frolic in the town last night.” Jack frowned. The sentry’s grin broadened a bit. As he did not offer to detain the boy longer, Benson hurried on along one of the walks.
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