on Lookout Mountain, who favored them with a shell intended
for their express benefit. It was no better directed than any of its
many predecessors had been, and was greeted with yells of derision, in
which all the camp joined.

Having done all possible for the boys' comfort, the Deacon had lighted
his pipe and taken his seat on a board laid over the front, where he
could oversee the road and the teamster, and take a parting look at the
animated scenery. The wagon pulled into the line of those moving out
toward Bridgeport, and jogged along slowly for some hours until it
was nearing the top of one of the hills that jutted out close to the
Tennessee River, at the base of Lookout Mountain. The Deacon saw, with
a little nervousness, that they were approaching the open space in which
he had had his experience with the horse and buckboard, and he anxiously
scanned the Craven House slope for signs of a rebel cannon. He saw that
his apprehensions were shared by the drivers of the three or four teams
just ahead. They were whipping up, and yelling at their teams to get
past the danger point as quick as possible.

[Illustration: THE DEACON RECONNOITERED THE SITUATION 62]

They had need of anxiety. A scattering volley of shots came from the
bushes and the rocks on the opposite side of the Tennessee River and one
of the leaders in the team just ahead of him dropped dead in his tracks.
The teams in front were whipped up still harder, and succeeded in
getting away. The shots were answered from a line of our own men on this
side of the river, who fired at the smoke they saw rising.

The Deacon's own teamster sprang from his saddle, and prudently got in
the shelter of the wagon until the affair would be over. The teamster
next ahead ran forward, and began cutting the fallen mule loose, but
while he was doing so another shot laid the other mule low. The teamster
fell fiat on the ground, and lay there for a minute. Then he cautiously
arose, and began cutting that mule loose, when a shot struck the
near-swing mule in the head, and he dropped. The Deacon kept that solid
old head of his throughout the commotion, and surveyed the scene with
cool observance.

"There's one feller somewhere over there doin' all that devilment," he
said to Shorty, who was pushing his head eagerly out of the front of the
wagon to find out what was going on. "He's a sharpshooter from way back.
You kin see he's droppin' them mules jest about as fast as he kin lo