The power of
army discipline was upon Oscar; if Claiborne had not been an officer he
would have run for it in the garden. As it was, he was taxing his wits to
find some way out of his predicament. He had not the slightest idea as to
what the paper might be. He had risked his life to secure it, and now
the crumpled, blood-stained paper had been taken away from him by a
person whom it could not interest in any way whatever.
He blinked under Claiborne's sharp scrutiny as they faced each other in
the library.
"You are the man who brought a horse back to our stable an hour ago."
"Yes, sir."
"You have been a soldier."
"In the cavalry, sir. I have my discharge at home."
"Where do you live?"
"I work as teamster in the coal mines--yes?--they are by Lamar, sir."
Claiborne studied Oscar's erect figure carefully.
"Let me see your hands," he commanded; and Oscar extended his palms.
"You are lying; you do not work in the coal mines. Your clothes are not
those of a miner; and a discharged soldier doesn't go to digging coal.
Stand where you are, and it will be the worse for you if you try to
bolt.
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