"Well, suh, 'twuz des like dis," explained Big Abel, poking the roast with
a small stick. "I know I ain' got a bit a bus'ness ter shoot dat ar sheep
wid my ole gun, but de sheep she ain' got no better bus'ness strayin' roun'
loose needer. She sutney wuz a dang'ous sheep, dat she wuz. I 'uz des
a-bleeged ter put a bullet in her haid er she'd er hed my blood sho'."
As the shout went up he divided the legs of mutton into shares and went off
to eat his own on the dark edge of the wood.
A little later he came back to hang Dan's cap and jacket on the branches of
a young pine tree. When he had arranged them with elaborate care, he raked
a bed of tags together, and covered them with an army blanket stamped in
the centre with the half obliterated letters U. S.
"That's a good boy, Big Abel, go to sleep," said Dan, flinging himself down
upon the pine-tag bed. "Strange how much spirit a sheep can put into a man.
I wouldn't run now if I saw Pope's whole army coming."
Turning over he lay sleepily gazing into the blue dusk illuminated with the
campfires which were slowly dying down. Around him he heard the subdued
murmur of the mess, deep and full, though rising now and then into a
clearer burst of laughter. The men were smoking their brier-root pipes
about the embers, leaning against the dim bodies of the pines, while they
discussed the incidents of the march with a touch of the unconquerable
humour of the Confederate soldier.
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