Captain Wardle's campaign had been a complete success. He had made twenty prisoners, he had secured most of the arms and the camp equipage, with one hundred and six horses. Vain search was made for the bodies of the dead who had been slain in the fight, none could be found; and from the marks of the bullets on the timber one would judge that no one had been touched, as no trees had been struck lower than twenty feet.

Camp-kettles, tents, rusty fire-locks, and weapons of nearly every description, were scattered about over the ground. The soldiers, the ununiformed especially, entertained themselves with the very exhilarating amusement of shattering against the trees these old fire-locks and such other weapons as could not be conveniently carried off. The plundering of the camp was an interesting occupation—interesting, even, to those who took no part in it. The ununiformed took the lead in this business. Perhaps they regarded it as their especial duty to be foremost now, since they had been in the rear during the attack.

Corporal Grimm and Sergeant Swords were both present, very busy, and trying to look very soldier-like, though their brown homespun suits and broad-brimmed hats gave them anything but a military appearance. Corporal Grimm kept his jaws in lively motion on a huge piece of pig-tail, while he kept up a lively conversation with Sergeant Swords and others immediately about him. Somehow the scene reminded him of his ten days' experience as a soldier with "General Preston," and he related that experience at length. The scene also vividly impressed Sergeant Swords with his experience under Captain Floyd, and he impelled to tell his comrades of that.

All were in excellent spirits. Captain Wardle congratulated the men on their coolness and gallant conduct, and the men congratulated Captain Wardle on his coolness and good generalship—all congratulating each other.

About three hours were spent on the late camping ground of the Confederates, and then the entire force, with their twenty prisoners and the plunder they could carry, started on their return to the Junction. Night overtook them about five miles after they had passed Snagtown, and, selecting a suitable place, they encamped. There was but one thing to dampen their ardor, but one thing had been overlooked. Their arms were in excellent condition, and they were all well mounted; but even riotous soldiers must eat, and this little fact had been overlooked. When night came they were tired and hungry, but there were rations only for about one-half of their force, and many went supperless to bed, with a fine prospect of having nothing to eat before noon the next day.

Captain Wardle felt most keenly his mistake in not bringing supplies, and spent most of the night in examining an old backless drill book to see how the thing could be remedied. Not finding anything in the tactics, he thrust it in his pocket and, throwing himself on his blanket, closed his eyes and in a few moments solved the problem. He then went to sleep, and it was not until his lieutenant had dragged him several feet from under his covering that he awoke next morning.

The sun was up, and so were the men, the latter hungry and ill-natured.

"Never mind! Tell the boys I've got this question fixed. They shall all have their breakfast. Tell the bugler to sound the roll-call."

The blast of the bugle called the men together, and the roll was soon called.

"Now," said Captain Wardle, who had been holding a conversation with Captain Gunn, "I think you are hungry—"

"You bet we are, Capen," put in a red-faced private.

"Shet up, sir, or I'll have you court-martialed and shot for contempt."

All became silent; the men looked grave and appeared willing to learn from the old, time-honored soldier, Captain Wardle.

"We haven't got enough in camp to feed more than about twenty-five men, so the rest o' ye will have to forage. Go in gangs of ten or fifteen and hunt your breakfast where yer can. The people all around here are secesh, and it will be a good thing to make them feed Union soldiers once in a while."

This announcement was received with applause, and the troops commenced dividing into small squads, the uniformed mixing promiscuously with the ununiformed, and waiting only for instructions where to join the main force, which now, consisting of twenty-five men and the prisoners, mounted their horses and rode off.

The eastern sun, like a blazing ball, was rising higher and higher in the sky as twelve men, among whom were Corporal Grimm and Sergeant Swords, galloped down a wooded road, keeping a sharp lookout for "bushwhackers." Six of these men wore the uniform and carried the arms of the United States Infantry, and six were dressed in citizens' attire and armed with rifles or double-barreled shot-guns. All rode at a furious pace, splashing through the mud and frightening the birds in the woods on either side.

A boy was riding down the road in the opposite direction. He was mounted on a thin, slow-moving mare, of an indistinct color, which might have been taken for a bay, yellow or sorrel. The boy was barefooted, had on a straw hat, rode on a folded sheepskin instead of a saddle, held an empty bag before him, and certainly did not look very warlike.

"Halt!" cried Sergeant Swords, drawing an old, rusty sword from its sheath and waving it in the air.

"Halt!" cried Corporal Grimm, drawing a many-barreled pistol, commonly known as a pepper-box, which he flourished in a threatening manner.

"Halt!" again cried both, "or we will fire."

The boy, being overawed by numbers, felt constrained to pull up the thin mare.

"Advance and give the countersign!" said Corporal Grimm.

"Shet up, Grimm! I command this squad," said Sergeant Swords.

Grimm chewed his pigtail in silence. In the meantime the boy seemed undecided whether to fly or to stand his ground, though his face betrayed a strong inclination in favor of the former proposition.

"Who comes there?" said Sergeant Swords, bringing his rusty sword to a salute.

"Who are ye talkin' to?" asked the boy, looking around to see if he could possibly be addressing any one else.

"I am talkin' to you, sir," said the Sergeant, sharply.

"What d'ye want?" asked the boy.

"Who comes there, I said?" answered the Sergeant more sharply.

"Me."

"Advance, then."

"Do what?"

"Come here."

The boy understood this. He had it delivered in just such a tone when he had been violating the domestic law. He advanced.

"What d'ye want?" he asked again.

"Where can we get our breakfast?"

"Dunno," he replied, wonderingly.

"Well, how fur is it to the next farm-house?"

"Taint more'n a mile."

"Who lives there?"

"Old Ruben Smith; but he ain't there now."

"Where is he?"

"Dunno; says he's gone to the war, him and his two boys."

"Which army?"

"Dunno."

"Are they Union or secesh?"

"Lor bless ye, we're all secesh here."

"You are? Well, we are Union. We'll take ye prisoner, then," said Corporal Grimm.

"Oh, but I ain't secesh."

"Well, then, you are a good boy," said the Sergeant. "Where are ye going?"

"Gwine to Snagtown to git the mail and buy some sugar and coffee."

"Well, you may go on," said the grim soldier, winking at the Corporal; the boy trotted on, looking curiously back at the men and their blue uniforms and big guns.

The cavalcade now galloped on towards the house of Ruben Smith. The steep gable roof soon loomed up in the distance, and after dashing down the lane, around a pasture, through a small wood, they pulled up in front of the house.

"Dismount!" commanded the Sergeant. The men were on the ground in an instant. "Now hitch where you can, and two of you stay on guard while the rest are eating."

"Who are ye, and what do ye want," demanded a sharp-visaged, ill-natured looking woman, coming out on the porch as the soldiers entered the yard.

"We are Union soldiers, and we want our breakfast," said Corporal Grimm, as the Sergeant was busy giving orders to the men.

"You low, nigger-lovin', aberlition thieves, I wouldn't give ye a bite if ye were starvin'," said the woman.

"Mother, don't talk that way to them," said a pretty, red cheeked girl of about fifteen, standing by her side.

"We want breakfast for twelve," said Sergeant Swords, now coming forward.

"Well, sir, ye won't git it here. Go to some nigger shanty and let them cook for ye."

"Oh, no, my good woman, we want you to get our breakfast. You are a good lookin' woman, and I know you can get up a good meal."

"If I was to cook for ye scamps, I'd pizen the last one o' ye," she fairly shrieked.

"We shall have you eat with us, my good lady, and we can eat anything you do," said Sergeant Swords, good-humoredly. The young girl was all the while persuading her mother to be more calm.

"Come now, I'll help you. I'll kindle the fire and carry the wood and draw the water," said the corporal.

"Come in my house an' I'll pour bilin' hot water in yer face, and scald yer eyes out!"

"Don't talk so, mother," urged the pretty daughter.

At this moment the kitchen door opened, and a negro girl peeped out.

"Say, kinky head, stir up the kitchen fire and get us some breakfast right soon," said Corporal Grimm. The black face withdrew, and the two non-commissioned officers entered the house to see that their bidding was performed.

While the latter were discussing the possibility of bushwhackers being in the neighborhood, they were suddenly startled by a loud cackling of hens and screaming of chickens; at the same instant a flock came rushing around the house with half a dozen soldiers in close pursuit.

"Good idea, boys! We will have chickens for breakfast," said Corporal Grimm.

A dozen or more chickens were caught and killed and carried to the cook. The soldiers politely inquired of the lady of the house if they could be of any further assistance, and then most of them returned to the front yard, where their arms were stacked or strewn promiscuously about. Three of them, with Corporal Grimm, remained to pick the chickens and prepare them for the cook, while their very amiable hostess was sullenly grinding away at a large coffee mill. The negro girl and the rosy-cheeked daughter of the house were both very busy hurrying up the fire, putting on the kettles of water, making biscuits, and attending to the various culinary duties.

"Where is your husband?" asked Corporal Grimm.

"None of your business," was the quick reply.

"Where are your sons?" asked Grimm.

"In Jeff Davis' army, to shoot just such thieves as you are."

"How long have they been in Jeff Davis' army?"

"Ever since the war commenced."

"How old is this hen I am picking?"

"I hope she is old enough and tough enough to choke ye to death," said the women, giving the coffee mill a furious rap.

"Your husband must be a very happy man," said Corporal Grimm.

"If he was here, you wouldn't be very happy," she replied, testily.

"No, I am happier with his amiable spouse."

"There, I hope that'll pizen ye," she said, emptying the ground coffee into a coffee-pot, and pouring boiling water over it.

"Make it strong enough to bear up an iron wedge," said Corporal Grimm; then, addressing his men:

"Watch the old vixen, for she may pizen us if she gets a chance."

The men needed no second bidding, and as the cooking progressed, they watched more keenly. They were all very hungry, yet none wanted to be poisoned.

Breakfast being prepared, the reluctant hostess was compelled to eat with the soldiers, who, being thus convinced that none of the viands were poisoned, did full justice to the really excellent meal.