"Tell 'em in Winchester that the foot cavalry are marchin' a hundred
miles an hour."

Harry did not resent these comments. He merely flung back an occasional
comment of his own and hurried on until he reached the rear. Then in the
dusk of the road he found four or five men limping along, and ready when
convenient to drop away in the darkness. Harry wasted no time. The fire
in his blood that had come from Jackson was still burning. He snatched a
pistol from his belt and, riding directly at them, cried:

"Forward and into the ranks at once, or I shoot!"

"But we are lame, sir!" cried one of the men. "See my foot is bleeding!"

He held up one foot and red drops were falling from the ragged shoe.

"It makes no difference," cried Harry. "Barefooted men should be glad
to march for Stonewall Jackson! One, two, three! Hurry, all of you,
or I shoot!"

The men took one look at the flaming face, and broke into a run for the
rear guard. Harry saw them in the ranks and then beat up the woods
on either side of the road, but saw no more stragglers or deserters.
Then he galloped through the edge of the forest and rejoined the general
at the head of the command.

"Were they all marching?" asked Jackson.

"All but four, sir."