Miss Katie's Rosewood Read Online Free PDF Page A

life worked—the harder you worked the more “luck” came your way.
    In the middle of his sketch pad, on a page never on top nor seen by any of the soldiers who came and went looking at his work, was a sketch of the layout of the camp. It showed every tent, every temporary barricade, all the corrals and equipment and mess wagons. On it he kept track of his own thoughts and observations. He referred to it many times a day and marked out his own movements accordingly.
    As he went about he watched . . . and listened . . . and waited.

B Y THE S TREAM B ANK
    5

    M IDWAY THROUGH HIS FIFTH DAY PRETENDING TO be an artist, young Robert’s patience at last paid off. He was a little ways away from the camp, sketching a man trying to train a horse—which wasn’t easy since they kept moving—when suddenly behind him he heard the words,
    â€œAll I’ve got to say is, long live Corporeal Jacob’s beef stew!”
    Then followed the sound of two or three men laughing.
    â€œYou’re right, Sergeant,” said another. “The last unit I was with had an old boy as cook who must have been seventy and didn’t know the difference between a chicken leg and a mutton chop.”
    â€œYou think that’s bad . . . down in Mississippi we had a fellow who put the leftover oatmeal in the bottom of the coffeepot—said it added character!”
    But the listener hardly heard any of this. The words long live had gone off in his ears like a gong. They had an eerily familiar ring. It was not only the words . . . he was sure he also recognized the voice!
    Quivering, he hurriedly glanced behind him. But he was only in time to see the backs of three men as they walked intoa tent forty or fifty feet away. He had not been able to get a look at any of their faces.
    He crept toward the tent as the three men disappeared inside. But little was visible through the open flap.
    He couldn’t afford to look too conspicuous or call attention to himself. He backed away, returned to his easel, flipped up the pages to his drawing of the camp, and marked the tent.
    Too agitated to make a convincing appearance of trying to concentrate on his work, he picked up his things and started wandering about, thinking what to do next.
    He glanced back every few seconds, keeping the tent in view from a distance.
    Several minutes later one of the three soldiers reemerged. He wore a hat, the shadow from the small bill in the late afternoon’s sun partially obscuring his face.
    He had a feeling it was the man he had heard with his long live the stew comment. But he couldn’t tell.
    Maybe it was the hat that was throwing him. He had not thought about it until this moment. But as he recalled that day in the church, at the first sounds of commotion as the man had stormed in, he had turned around in the pew where he sat with the rest of his family . . . yes, the memory was suddenly clear—the man who had run in hadn’t been wearing an army hat. His hair was waving about as he ran.
    No wonder he hadn’t been able to spot him yet. It was impossible to separate the face he had seen from the long hair.
    Nothing eventful happened the rest of the day. It was late. Dusk had already begun to fall. He went home eagerly anticipating the next morning and already trying to scheme a way to get close enough to see the man’s face clearly, hopefully without his hat.
    He arrived early, hoping to catch the men in the process of washing and getting dressed in the informality of early morning.
    He wandered about, eyeing the man’s tent in the distance.He hoped that no one would notice that he seemed to be doing more staring than drawing. But he was so near the end of his search, he couldn’t stop now.
    The smell of coffee and bacon was in the air. Several men in his vicinity headed toward the nearby stream in their undershirts. Unfortunately they were all wearing their hats. He followed from a safe distance. The men