I had reined my horse out of the road, and when my companions turned to go, was standing at the edge of the bank, overlooking the river.  Suddenly I saw, on one of the abutments of the bridge, what seemed a long, black log—­strange to say, in motion!

‘Colonel,’ I shouted, ‘see there! a living log, as I’m a white man!’

‘Lord bless you,’ cried the planter, taking an observation, ’it’s an alligator!’

I said no more, but pressing on after the hound, soon left my companions out of sight.  For long afterward, the Colonel, in a doleful way, would allude to my lamentable deficiency in natural history—­particularly in such branches as bacon and ‘living logs.’

I had ridden about five miles, keeping well up with the hound, and had reached the edge of the swamp, when suddenly the dog darted to the side of the road, and began to yelp in the most frantic manner.  Dismounting, and leading my horse to the spot, I made out plainly the print of Firefly’s feet in the sand.  There was no mistaking it—­that round shoe on the off fore-foot. (The horse had, when a colt, a cracked hoof, and though the wound was outgrown, the foot was still tender.) These prints were dry, while the tracks we had seen at the river were filled with water, thus proving that the rain ceased while the overseer was passing between the two places.  He was then not far off.

The Colonel and Sandy soon rode up.

‘Caught a living log! eh, my good fellow?’ asked my host, with a laugh.

’No; but here’s the overseer as plain as daylight; and his tracks not wet!’

Quickly dismounting, he examined the ground, and then exclaimed: 

’The d—­l! it’s a fact—­here not four hours ago!  He has doubled on his tracks since, I’ll wager, and not made twenty miles—­we’ll have him before night, sure!  Come, mount—­quick.’

We sprang into our saddles, and again pressed rapidly on after the dog, who followed the scent at the top of his speed.

Some three miles more of wet, miry road took us to the run of which the Colonel had spoken.  Arrived there, we found the hound standing on the bank, wet to the skin, and looking decidedly chop-fallen.

‘Death and d—­n!’ shouted the Colonel; ’the dog has swum the run, and lost the trail on the other side!  The d—­d scoundrel has taken to the water, and balked us after all!  Take up the dog, Sandy, and try him again over there.’

The native spoke to Caesar, who bounded on to the horse’s back in front of his master.  They then crossed the stream, which there was about fifty yards wide, and so shallow that in the deepest part the water only touched the horse’s breast, but it was so roiled by the recent rain that we could not distinguish the foot-prints of the horse beneath the surface.

The dog ranged up and down on the opposite bank, but all to no purpose:  the overseer had not been there.  He had gone either up or down the stream—­in which direction, was now the question.  Calling Sandy back to our side of the run, the Colonel proceeded to hold a ‘council of war.’  Each one gave his opinion, which was canvassed by the others, with as much solemnity as if the fate of the Union hung on the decision.