The Red Acorn | Page 9

I know'd."
Kent's face crimsoned still deeper, and he half raised his musket, as if
to strike him, but at that moment came the order to march, and the
regiment moved forward.
The enemy was by this time known to be near, and the men marched in
that silence that comes from tense expectation.
The day was intensely hot, and the stagnant, sultry air was perfumed
with the thousand sweet odors that rise in the West Virginia forests in
the first flush of Summer.
The road wound around the steep mountain side, through great thickets
of glossy-leaved laurel, by banks of fragrant honeysuckle, by beds of
millions of sweet-breathing, velvety pansies, nestling under huge
shadowy rocks, by acres of white puccoon flowers, each as lovely as
the lily that grows by cool Siloam's shady rill--all scattered there with

Nature's reckless profusion, where no eye saw them from year to year
save those of the infrequent hunter, those of the thousands of
gaily-plumaged birds that sang and screamed through the branches of
the trees above, and those of the hideous rattlesnakes that crawled and
hissed in the crevices of the shelving rocks.
At last the regiment halted under the grateful shadows of the
broad-topped oaks and chestnuts. A patriarchal pheasant, drumming on
a log near by some uxorious communication to his brooding mate,
distended his round eyes in amazement at the strange irruption of men
and horses, and then whirred away in a transport of fear. A crimson
crested woodpecker ceased his ominous tapping, and flew boldly to a
neighboring branch, where he could inspect the new arrival to good
advantage and determine his character.
The men threw themselves down for a moment's rest, on the springing
moss that covered the whole mountain side. A hum of comment and
conversation arose. Jake Alspaugh began to think that there was not
likely to be any fight after all, and his spirits rose proportionately. Abe
Bolton growled that the cowardly officers had no doubt deliberately
misled the regiment, that a fight might be avoided. Kent Edwards saw a
nodding May-apple flower--as fair as a calla and as odorous as a
pink--at a little distance, and hastened to pick it. He came back with it
in the muzzle of his gun, and his hands full of violets.
A thick-bodied rattlesnake crawled slowly and clumsily out from the
shelter of a little ledge, his fearful eyes gleaming with deadly intentions
against a ground-squirrel frisking upon the end of a mossy log, near
where Captain Bob Bennett was seated, poring over a troublesome
detail in the "Tactics." The snake saw the man, and his awkward
movement changed at once into one of electric alertness. He sounded
his terrible rattle, and his dull diamonds and stripes lighted up with the
glare that shines through an enraged man's face. The thick body seemed
to lengthen out and gain a world of sinuous suppleness. With the
quickness of a flash he was coiled, with head erect, forked tongue
protruding, and eyes flaming like satanic jewels.
A shout appraised Captain Bennett of his danger. He dropped the book,
sprang to his feet with a quickness that matched the snake's, and
instinctively drew his sword. Stepping a little to one side as the reptile
launched itself at him, he dexterously cut it in two with a sweeping

stroke. A shout of applause rose from the excited boys, who gathered
around to inspect the slain serpent and congratulate the Captain upon
his skillful disposition of his assailant.
"O, that's only my old bat-stroke that used to worry the boys in
town-hall so much," said the Captain carelessly. "It's queer what things
turn out useful to a man, and when he least expects them."
A long, ringing yell from a thousand throats cleft the air, and with its
last notes came the rattle of musketry from the brow of the hill across
the little ravine. The bullets sang viciously overhead. They cut the
leaves and branches with sharp little crashes, and struck men's bodies
with a peculiar slap. A score of men in the disordered group fell back
dead or dying upon the green moss.
"Of course, we might've knowed them muddle-headed officers 'd run us
right slap into a hornets' nest of Rebels before they knowed a thing
about it," grumbled Abe Bolton, hastily tearing a cartridge with his
teeth, and forcing it into his gun.
"Hold on, my weak-kneed patriot," said Kent Edwards, catching Jake
Alspaugh by the collar, and turning him around so that he faced the
enemy again. "It's awful bad manners to rush out of a matinee just as
the performance begins. You disturb the people who've come to enjoy
the show. Keep you seat till the curatin goes down. You'll find enough
to interest you."
The same sudden inspiration