Claiborne started
through the wet undergrowth at a dog trot. Armitage, he judged, was about
half a mile away, and to make their line complete Oscar should traverse
an equal distance. The soldier blood in Claiborne warmed at the prospect
of a definite contest. He grinned as it occurred to him that he had won
the distinction of having a horse shot under him in an open road fight,
almost within sight of the dome of the Capitol.
The brush grew thinner and the trees fewer, and he dropped down and
crawled presently to the shelter of a boulder, from which he could look
out upon the open and fairly level field known as the Port of Missing
Men. There as a boy he had dreamed of battles as he pondered the legend
of the Lost Legion. At the far edge of the field was a fringe of stunted
cedars, like an abatis, partly concealing the old barricade where, in
the golden days of their youth, he had played with Shirley at storming
the fort; and Shirley, in these fierce assaults, had usually tumbled over
upon the imaginary enemy ahead of him!
As he looked about he saw Armitage, his horse at a walk, ride slowly out
of the wood at his right.
Pages:
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331