It was about three hours past sundown. The full moon was a quarter way up in the night sky.
"Hold up there! Who the hell are you, pilgrim?" a rough throaty belligerent voice called from the trees beside the narrow road, just west of Decatur, Alabama.
Same as you, Neighbor! A wandering Reb looking for some mess mates and hot food," J. N. responded lightly to the phantom voice, raising his good hand slowly above his head. "Don't shoot. We're friends, trooper."
"Advance and be recognized," the picket ordered. The three riders with two pack mules, slowly moved towards the veiled voice. The moonlight was bright and they could now see one another in the middle of the road.
"Rebels, huh, you all with what unit?" the Confederate corporal said to the three, his musket at his shoulder with its' sights trained on J. N.'s chest. Two other Confederate soldiers with muskets aimed at Alex and Lou emerged from the tree line.
"24th Tennessee Sharpshooters, Sergeant. Who are you folks? Wheeler's boys, I sure hope," J. N. answered.
"Hell, I ain't no sergeant. I'm a working soldier. 24th, you say, then why you ain't over at Chickamauga Creek stuck with Bragg? You near 200 miles from his happy command," the guard responded.
J. N. raised his busted hand, only lightly wrapped now but the salve was fragrant. He had taken off his sling three days ago. "Busted hand got me sent home near three weeks ago to heal up. It's not all the way mended but I can hold a rifle or pistol. We just rode a long way to find you all. Awful quiet and boring at home sleeping in a feather bed and eating real food, don't you know." J. N. smirked.
"Well, ain't you the Tennessee terror," the guard grunted.
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Later at the guard station the officer of the day, a fresh fish from Mississippi, questioned J. N. and determined he was who he said he was. J. N. lied and said he'd brought his 17, near 18, year-old twin cousins to join up. He said to the officer, "Sir, Yankee raiders killed my uncle, their father and big brother, last month. They had to come, Sir. They couldn't do nothing else." J. N.'s face was somber, his eyes hard. The 2nd Lieutenant looked as if he credited his story.
Every morning on the trail, J. N. had rubbed dirt on Lou's face and hands and told her to keep her battered wide brimmed hat down on her head. He'd ordered her to keep her collar up and not to wash her face, ever. "Just rub it off every day, no water!" His guise seemed to have worked.