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Updated: June 7, 2025
What do you say to that, Sergeant Whitley? You've had a lot of experience." Sergeant Whitley was standing beside them, also trying to pierce the darkness with trained eyes, although he could not see the Confederate intrenchments. "If a sergeant may offer an opinion I agree with you fully, sir," he said.
Jake, seeing that his employer was fast growing tired of the hunt, and guessing shrewdly, from his preoccupied manner, that hunting was not the real object of his stay in the mountains, became more and more suspicious. His careless, good-natured ways and talk changed to a sullen silence and he watched Whitley constantly.
And so, while the son played with his friend Whitley, and the two professional gamblers at the hotel, played with fear in his face and a curse in his heart, to save himself from sure disgrace, his fond parents and beautiful sister at home, forgot his absence in their eager efforts to win with the cards the petty prize of the evening, a silver-mounted loving cup. One, two, three hours passed.
They believed from what details they could gather that it was Slade and Skelly with a new force, and they thought it advisable to turn much farther toward the west. "The longest way 'round is sometimes the shortest way through," said Sergeant Whitley, and the others agreed with him. They came into a country settled then but little.
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.
They also found volunteers, and Major Hertford's little force swelled from three hundred to six hundred. In the main, the mountaineers were sympathetic, partly through devotion to the Union, and partly through jealousy of the more prosperous lowlanders. One day Major Hertford sent Dick, Warner, and Sergeant Whitley, ahead to scout.
"Good horse," said Judge Dillon quietly. Rob Roy bl. s. by Tempus Fugit dam Marigold. Henry L. Whitley, New York City. I read. I followed him with my eyes and wished him somewhere else. He looked so overpowering he and the millions behind him. . . . At last, a quarter of a mile away, they halted in a gorgeous shifting group.
The cooks had already prepared coffee and food. "Show me the enemy," said Pennington fiercely, "and as soon as I finish this cup of coffee, I'll go over and give him the thrashing he needs." "He's just across those ridges, sir, and on the banks of the far creek," said Sergeant Whitley. "How do you know?" "I made a call on him last night." "You did? And what did he say?" "I didn't send in my card.
Dick was chosen to lead a band of thirty picked men who rode about a mile on the right, and he had with him as his second, and, in reality, as his guide and mentor in many ways, the trusty Sergeant Whitley. It was altogether likely that Colonel Winchester would not have sent Dick unless he had been able to send the wise sergeant with him.
As he talked, the girl's utter helplessness overcame her, and rising to her feet she faltered, "Give me time to think; I will come to you here in an hour." When she returned she said: "Mr. Whitley, I will marry you; but my people must not know until later." Whitley started toward her eagerly, but she stepped back. "Not now. Wait.
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