"Were you a slave ?" His rather thin lips closed over his white teeth, and his fingers gripped the saddle pommel.
"Yes,"-- the word snapped out.

"I'se nineteen, sah, an' my mother was a slave.

I reckon my father was white 'nough, but that don't count fo' much--I'se a nigger just de same.

Dat's bad 'nough, let me tell yo', but it's worse to be yo' own father's nigger." I had nothing to say to this outburst, feeling that back of it were facts into which I had no right to probe, and we rode along quietly.
Then he spoke, glancing aside at me: "Dey won't be no 'portant fightin' long yere, sah, not fo' 'bout ten miles." "How do you figure that out ?" "'Cause de lay ob de groun' ain't right, fo' one thing, an' 'cause all de Confed intrenchments was back yander." "Yonder--where ?" "In behind de log church at de Three Corners--done know dat country mighty well." I turned and faced him, instantly suspicious.
"Now see here; you do know that country, and a bit too well for a man riding in the ranks.

Where did you come from?
Were you in the Confederate service?
Let's have this straight." "Suah," with frankness.