in the neighborhood of Lewisburg, my impromptu claim of being a Cowan would be easily exploded. I had assumed that particular name on the spur of the moment, chancing to remember there was such a family prominent along the Green Briar, but the deception would be very apparent so soon as we crossed the mountains. Even now I had grave reason to doubt if I had actually deceived this man by my sudden invention. There had been a look in those glinting blue eyes that told of cunning suspicion. However, at present nothing remained but to play out the game and thus gain all the advantage possible. Whoever the man might prove to be—spy, scout, bushwhacker, or deserter—beyond all question he possessed intimate knowledge of the country lying beyond the Alleghanies. He knew the existing conditions there, and was acquainted with the people. Once his confidence could be fully secured, providing his sympathies were with the cause of the South, as was most probable, his information would be of the utmost value. And surely, if we journeyed together, there would be some revelation of his identity, his reason for being where he was, and the side he espoused in the quarrel. Reticent as he was, suspicious and close-mouthed, a silent, typical mountaineer, he could surely be induced to let fall some scrap of information. And
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The Red Mist
