ght straight forrerd de bes' I kin. I ain't hatter
go so mighty fur, nudder, 'fo' I come 'cross de place whar dey had de
skirmish; en fum dat day ter dis I ain't never see no lonesome place
like dat. Dey wuz a cap yer, a hat yander, en de groun' look like it
wuz des strowed wid um. I stop en listen. Den I rid on a little ways, en
den I stop en listen. Bimeby I year hoss whicker, en den de creetur w'at
I'm a-ridin', he whicker back, en do des like he wanter go whar de t'er
hoss is. I des gin 'im de rein; en de fus news I know, he trot right up
ter de big black hoss w'at my young marster rid.

"I look little furder, I did, en I see folks lyin' on de groun'. Some
wuz double' up, en some wuz layin' out straight. De win' blow de grass
back'ards en forrerds, but dem sojer-men dey never move; en den I know
dey wuz dead. I look closer; en dar 'pon de groun', 'mos' right at me,
wuz my young marster layin' right by de side er one er dem Yankee mens.
I jumped down, I did, en run ter whar he wuz; but he wuz done gone. My
heart jump, my knees shuck, en my han' trimble; but I know I got ter git
away fum dar. Hit look like at fus' dat him en dat Yankee man been
fightin'; but bimeby I see whar my young marster bin crawl thoo de weeds
en grass ter whar de Yankee man wuz layin'; en he had one arm un' de
man' haid, en de ter han' wuz gripped on he's canteen. I fix it in my
min', ma'am, dat my young marster year dat Yankee man holler fer water;
en he des make out fer ter crawl whar he is, en dar I foun' um bofe.

"Dey wuz layin' close by a little farm road, en not so mighty fur off I
year a chicken crowin'. I say ter myse'f dat sholy folks must be livin'
whar dey chickens crowin'; en I tuck'n' mount my young marster's hoss,
en right 'roun' de side er de hill I come 'cross a house. De folks wuz
all gone; but dey wuz a two-hoss waggin in de lot en some gear in de
barn, en I des loped back atter de yuther hoss, en 'mos' 'fo' you know
it, I had dem creeturs hitch up: en I went en got my young marster en de
Yankee man w'at wuz wid 'im, en I kyard um back ter de camps. I got um
des in time, too, kase I ain't mo'n fairly start 'fo' I year big gun,
_be-bang!_ en den I know'd de Yankees mus' be a-comin' back. Den de
bung-shells 'gun ter bus'; en I ax myse'f w'at dey shootin' at me fer,
en I ain't never fin' out w'at make dey do it.

"Well, ma'am, w'en I git back ter camps, dar wuz Cunnel Tip Herndon,
w'ich he wuz own br'er ter Miss Hallie. Maybe y