He feels that he is the "Poor Joe" of the Army--under perpetual orders to "move on." Down we wound over the road that zig-tagged through the forts, batteries and rifle-pits covering the eastern ascent to the Flap-past the wonderful Murrell Spring--so-called because the robber chief had killed, as he stooped to drink of its crystal waters, a rich drover, whom he was pretending to pilot through the mountains--down to where the "Virginia road" turned off sharply to the left and entered Powell's Valley.

The mist had become a chill, dreary rain, through, which we plodded silently, until night closed in around us some ten miles from the Gap.

As we halted to go into camp, an indignant Virginian resented the invasion of the sacred soil by firing at one of the guards moving out to his place.
The guard looked at the fellow contemptuously, as if he hated to waste powder on a man who had no better sense than to stay out in such a rain, when he could go in-doors, and the bushwhacker escaped, without even a return shot.
Fires were built, coffee made, horses rubbed, and we laid down with feet to the fire to get what sleep we could.
Before morning we were awakened by the bitter cold.

It had cleared off during the night and turned so cold that everything was frozen stiff.
This was better than the rain, at all events.

A good fire and a hot cup of coffee would make the cold quite endurable.
At daylight the bugle sounded "Right forward! fours right!" again, and the 300 of us resumed our onward plod over the rocky, cedar-crowned hills.
In the meantime, other things were taking place elsewhere.