Let us now return to the cavalrymen and see how they came out in their assault on the Union men who had been left to guard the bridge, and particularly to tell how Dan and Cale felt when they found themselves going back among those who would be sure to know them. Cale was frightened, and consequently he said nothing, but Dan was just scared enough to have plenty of talk in him.

“Take that man up behind you,” said Captain Cullom, addressing himself to one of the leading fours of his company.

“Up you come with a jump,” said the man, reaching down to catch Dan by the hand.

“Oh, now, I tell you I don’t want to get up there,” said Dan. “Those people at the bridge will surely know me, and I’ll be tumbled off with the first volley you get.”

“Get on up there,” said Captain Cullom, and he reached over as if he was going to draw his sword.

“Give us your hand,” said the man, getting impatient. “Now throw your leg over the back of the horse. You are Southerner enough to do that.”

Dan finally made out to get on the cavalryman’s horse, but it was more the effects of the sword, which had leaped half-way out of its scabbard while the captain was talking to him. Cale was already seated behind his man, and in response to the adjutant’s order, “Forward!” they moved toward the bridge. Dan was more than half-inclined to cry when he found that he must go whether he wanted to or not, and the man he was with began to torment him.

“Oh, they will give it to you if they catch you up there,” said he, in a tone so low that the captain couldn’t hear it. “Say, Charlie, you remember what they done to those two fellows they caught down to Mobile?”

“You’reYou’re right, I do,” replied the man thus addressed. “They hung ’em up to the nearest tree.”

“What did they do that for?” asked Dan.

“Because they wanted to betray their friends into our hands,” said the man.

“But these ain’t friends of mine,” replied Dan, “I’ve been down on them ever since I have been here.”

“No matter. You know what we will do to them if we catch them, and the others will serve you the same way. I would rather be in my boots than in yours.”

“But you are going to lick them, ain’t you?”

“Lick them? Of course we are. That’s what we are going up here for. Have you got any friends there?”

“I’ve got a father and a mother.”

“Then they had better get out. We’re going to sweep everything clean. There won’t be hide nor hair left of a Union man to-night.”

“Now, if you will let me get off and go through the woods,” said Dan, “I can warn my relatives.”

“Can’t do it,” said the man, shaking his head. “Didn’t you hear what the captain said? If you were in the service you would know how to obey orders.”

“Silence in the ranks!” commanded Captain Cullom, and this put a stop to all conversation between them, although Dan had many things that he wanted to say.

After this they rode along in a sort of a fox trot, but Dan noticed that they didn’t take as much pains to go quietly as the squad had done the night before. By the time they got to the bend Dan was certain that the pickets had heard them and taken to the bushes, and when they got around it in plain view of the bridge there was not a sentinel in sight. But before they had gone many feet along the road a voice called out:

“Halt! Who comes there?”

“Draw sabres and revolvers!” shouted the colonel, and the order was repeated by the adjutant, who galloped back along the column and yelled out the command as he went. “Forward! Charge!”

In a second Dan was flying along the road faster than he had ever travelled on horseback before, and in another second the line was thrown into confusion by a discharge of rifles and carbines from the woods on each side of the bridge. The shots were well-aimed, too, for each man was sure of his mark. The colonel and his horse went down, and so did the two men who were carrying Dan and Cale double. The leading four were also badly cut up, and before the major could get up to command in place of his colonel a second discharge followed, which came within an ace of putting the column to a rout. Dan and Cale were on their feet as soon as they struck the ground, the former with his left arm hanging loose and the latter with a bullet-hole through both cheeks.

“I’ve got it now! I’ve got it now!” moaned Dan, and when he tried to raise his arm he saw that the lower part of it was useless.

“And I, too!” yelled Cale. “What’s the matter with my face, Dan? I can’t hardly talk.”

But Dan wasn’t staying around there to tell Cale what was the matter with his face. In fact he didn’t think anything of his brother at all, for his thoughts were wrapped up in his own wound. He gazed at the fallen men who were scattered around him, heard the major issue some rapid orders, and then he, too, fell off his horse. The pickets were evidently going for the officers, and they made short work of them. Dan saw and heard all this and then made a desperate lunge for the bushes, and Cale was close at his heels when he got there.

“Oh, my face!” groaned Cale. “I wish I knew what was the matter with it.”

“Do you think there is nobody killed but yourself?” retorted Dan. “Look at this arm. It don’t hurt me so much, but it feels bruised, and you have got nothing but a bullet-hole through your cheeks.”

By this time the column was under command of a captain, who had little difficulty in rallying them, and Dan heard a yell such as he had never heard before, the yell of charging cavalry, and he saw the body of men sweep on toward the bridge; but when they got there they saw the Union pickets far up the road. But they loaded their rifles as fast as they went, and when they turned around to fire at their pursuers some man was certain to go down. At last the captain who commanded the cavalry went over also, and this left Captain Cullom, who was the second in rank, in charge of the regiment.

“Forward!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “They are going on ahead to arouse the other men, and we must overtake them before they get there.”

Again that charging yell arose, and it was answered by yells equally as savage from the Union men, who turned and fired another volley at them. The ten miles that lay between them and Ellisville were quickly passed over, and by the time the pickets had arrived within sight of the camp there was not a man to be seen. The houses didn’t look as though there was anybody around them, but when they came nearer they found that every window was filled with sharpshooters. The church, too, was used as a barricade, and as it stood broadside to the road we can imagine that it must have been hot work for that column of cavalry to have stood against it. As they came opposite the hotel the door opened and Mr. Knight and Mr. Sprague stepped out.

“What is going on down the road?” asked the former.

“The rebs are coming!” shouted half a dozen voices. “They have got a whole regiment of cavalry with them. We hain’t lost a man.”

“You have done nobly,” said Mr. Sprague. “Go around behind the church-house and make your horses fast, and go in there. Be ready to shoot when you hear us.”

“This looks like a fight,” said one of the pickets, as they made their way into the church. “Boys, I laid out one traitor the first fire I had. It was that miserable Dan Newman.”

“And I made all haste to lay out the other one,” chimed in a second. “His brother, Cale Newman, was there, and Bob, here, shot the man’s horse, and I took particular aim at his head. I know I hit him, but I did not fix him. I saw him get up and go into the bushes.”

“Here they come!” said one of the sharp-shooters, who was keeping watch at one of the windows. “There is lots of them, ain’t they?”

“Yes, but it is going to take more than they have got to get away with us,” said one of the pickets. “If ten men can throw a column like that into confusion, they won’t stand long against the fire of five hundred.”

“Now, all you men who can get there at the window fire your one shot, and then fall back and give somebody else a chance,” said the quartermaster—the one who had refused to give Cale Newman a mule. “In that way we can keep up a regular fusillade on them.”

The Confederates came on, yelling as they went, and there was more than one man who took note of the fact that discipline was a great thing. All those in front were coming to their death, but not one was seen to flinch. The men in the church began to wonder if Mr. Sprague had forgotten how to shoot, his signal was so long delayed, and some of the most excitable ones yelled “Fire!” as the rebels came on, but the calm voice of their leader broke in with:

“Steady there, men. Don’t shoot until you have the word;” and scarcely had he got the words out of his mouth when a rifle-shot came from the hotel across the way, and an instant afterward nearly a thousand rifles and carbines cracked in unison. The slaughter was fearful. The captain, who was leading the charge, fell with a dozen bullets in his person, and when the smoke cleared away so that they could see the effect of the shot, they found that the leading company had been dismounted, and their horses were running about as if they didn’t know which way to go.

“Now, you men at the window who have had a hand in this fall back,” said the quartermaster; but nobody seemed to hear him. The men struggled to keep their places, and the men in the body of the church, finding that no opportunity was to be given them, opened the door and went out. Then the rebels got another volley, and it was almost as disastrous as the first. And this wasn’t the worst of it. All the men came out from their hiding-places, from the hotel and from behind the trees that concealed them in the grove, and the surviving rebels, seeing nothing before them but a regiment of Union men who were backed by rifles that never missed, and more running up to join them, took to their heels and made the best of their time down the road.

“Get on your horses and follow them!” shouted Mr. Knight from the window of the hotel. “Don’t let one escape!”

That was the way the rebels got scattered. The Union men pursued them on fresh horses; and some of them, seeing that their chances for escape were slim indeed, threw down their arms and surrendered, while the rest took off through the woods. That was the time that Leon and Ballard might have added some glory to their escape by capturing the two men who went across the creek, but the trouble was they didn’t know how the thing had ended.

“Now, if you think they were whipped we can go up the main road,” said Leon. “But I really shouldn’t like to get so close to home and then have them jump onto me.”

“I shouldn’t like it, either,” said Ballard, with a laugh. “I would be apt to fare worse than you would. But can’t we go on and reconnoitre the ground? If we find some of your men there we’ll be safe.”

“Let us try it,” said Leon. “Anything is better than walking through this thick underbrush.”

Leon was not more than half a mile below the bridge, and before he had gone that distance he heard somebody talking in the road. He raised his hand to Ballard, and the latter at once took his horse by the head and forced it down. Leon held on, and after carefully feeling his way came upon several Union men who were gathered about a rebel who had been shot from his horse. One of the Union men he recognized as Bud McCoy, but who the others were he didn’t know.

“Halloo! there. You licked them, didn’t you?”

“Well, I’ll be dog-gone!” exclaimed the man, as he turned about and saw Leon advancing upon him through the bushes. “Where have you been? Your pap has been in a heap of worry about you.”

“And well he might be,” said Leon. “I have been a prisoner. Come on, Ballard; it’s all right.”

The men all straightenedstraightened up—they were busy getting ready to remove the wounded rebel—and presently saw Ballard coming through the woods leading his horse.

“And here’s the man who saved me,” added Leon. “Know him, boys. His name is Ballard. He was going to take me down to Mobile, but after he got out of sight of the rebels he asked me into the woods and gave me something to eat. How many of the Confederates did you kill?”

“But first, I want to know how you came to be taken prisoner?” said Bud. “Did you run onto the rebels before you knew it? The last time I saw you, you were up to old Newman’s house.”

“No, I didn’t run onto the rebels before I saw them,” said Leon; and he knew the confession he was about to make would not meet the entire approval of Bud McCoy. “One man made a prisoner of me.”

“Who was it?”

“Dan Newman.”

“And you had a revolver in your pocket?”

“Yes, but he got it away from me.”

“Dan Newman! Well, I’ll be dog-gone! Before I would let a man like Dan Newman capture me—”

“But, Bud, he threw me down when I didn’t know he was near me,” protested Leon, “and when I turned over to see what had happened to me, there was my own revolver aimed straight at me.”

“Well, you will never have an opportunity to get even with him now,” said Bud. “He was shot right through the arm, and his brother got a bullet-hole through both cheeks.”

“Why, who did that?” exclaimed Leon, who felt very much disappointed to hear it. He had always contended that no Newman could handle him, and now he would have to live with that shadow on his mind.

“I don’t know; some of the pickets did it, Tom Howe was almost as worked up as your father. He’s down there now, helping gather up the wounded rebels,” said Bud, jerking his head down the road.

“I hope Dan will get well, for I am bound to try my strength with him some day,” said Leon. “Has anybody here got a horse that I can ride?”

“Take that gray,” said one of the men, “I have got to carry this man to Ellisville, so I will have to walk.”

Leon thanked him, unhitched the horse, swung himself upon his back and galloped across the bridge and down the road to the place where his two friends were at work. Tom and Dawson were surprised to see him, and while he was telling them the story he looked all around to find Dan and Cale. He wantedwanted to see how badly hurt Dan was, for he believed, if they were to measure strength once more, that Dan would go under.

“There’s one thing that happened about this business that you won’t like,” said Tom; and he spoke as though he was very much disheartened himself. “Old man Smith was badly wounded during the fight.”

“Why, how did that happen?” asked Leon in surprise.

“Well, you must know that all the shooting that was done wasn’t confined to our men,” said Tom. “The rebels rallied two or three times, and every time they poured in a volley.”

“But how did Mr. Smith get hit? Wasn’t he under cover?”

“Yes; he was in the hotel with your father, but he came out. He was just getting all ready to fire when a bullet took him in the side and over he went.”

Leon was very sorry to hear this. He remembered that Mr. Smith had told him particularly that he had something to say to him, and he had not been near him since. Perhaps if he went directly home he would get there in time to hear what he had to say. He didn’t think it anything worth listening to, but he would show his good-will. While he was looking around at the dead and wounded Confederates lying there—and he was really surprised when he saw what a havoc ten guns had made in the assaulting column—he became aware that there was a man leaning on a rifle and keeping guard over several prisoners. Among them were Dan and Cale. One’s arm and the other’s face had been bandaged after a fashion, and they were waiting until the rebels were all gathered up, when they would go on to Ellisville and be placed under the care of the doctor. Leon gave his horse the rein and rode up and accosted Dan.

“Well, old fellow, I am sorry to see you in this fix,” said he.

“Yes, no doubt you are glad of it,” whined Dan, moving his wounded arm to a better place.

“I am, really. I was in hopes that you and I would come together again, and I wanted you to see that you couldn’t take me down as easy as you did before. You handled me as easy as though I wasn’t there.”

“I can do it all the time,” replied Dan, snappishly, for just then his arm pained him and he moved it to another position. “I can get away with you the best day you ever saw.”

“Oh, it is very easy for you to talk that way now, but if you had two good arms I would try you right here.”

“Say, Leon, what do you reckon those fellows will do with us after they get us to Ellisville?” said Cale, speaking with difficulty.

“I am sure I don’t know. If I had my way with you I would send you among the rebels, with orders not to come back. You talk of the rebels as ‘our men,’ and you belong with them.”

“I guess you’ll stretch hemp,” said the man who was acting as sentry over them.

“I hope they won’t go that far, but I don’t know,” said Leon, as he turned his horse about and started for Ellisville.

It was getting dark by this time, but all the way Leon saw some signs of the fight. Here was a dead rebel who had been shot during the retreat, and who had fallen in the middle of the road, and he had been moved out on one side and his body covered with a blanket. A little further on he came across a wagon which was loaded with wounded Confederates, and the Union men all greeted him as though they were glad to see him. There was one thing about it, if there was any faith to be put in what the men said to him: His father had been in a constant worry ever since he failed to show up at Newman’s house, and he became so satisfied that Newman was to blame for his capture—for Mr. Sprague knew that somebody had made a prisoner of him—that he sent a squad of men back to the house and placed them all in custody. Finally Leon came up to the place where the slaughter had taken effect when the Confederates got ready to make their charge, and he shuddered when he looked at it. The rebels and their horses had fallen together in a heap until they were piled on top of one another. The Union men had not got through removing them yet.

“By gracious, if those rebels could come up here from Mobile and see what I have seen to-day, I’ll bet they would give up trying to conquer us,” said Leon, as he once more gave his horse the rein and drew up before the hotel porch. “I didn’t suppose that a battle ended in that way. I thought the dead and wounded were scattered all around, and that you had to hunt a long time before you found them, but—I never want to see another fight.”

The hotel porch was empty when he got there, but a little way up toward the grove he saw a company of Confederates, all huddled together, and Union men were keeping guard over them. They were waiting there until their paroles could be made out. You see they had no printing-press in Jones county, and everything like this had to be made out by hand. He went up into the President’s room, and there he found as many men as could find seats at the table engaged in writing. Some of the prisoners were there to assist them.

“The way we do this,” said Mr. Knight, addressing himself to the captain who had last commanded the regiment (by the way, he was wounded, too, for a handkerchief that was wet with blood was tied around his forehead)—“the way we do this is all owing to you rebels alone. You have not hung any of our men yet; indeed, I don’t know that you have had a chance, but if you had hung any of them, we should pick out as many men as had been executed and hang them to the nearest tree. We want you to understand that these paroles are matters of life and death with you. If you go into battle against us without being exchanged, and we capture you, you can expect nothing but death. I think you have found out, by the way that cavalry charged upon us, that we know how to fight. How many men had you to go back to Mobile?”

“Well, sir, I should say about two hundred.”

“And how many had you in the first place?”

“We marched up here to assault you with eleven hundred men, sir.”

“And only two hundred escaped! That’s doing pretty good work.”

Leon was astonished when he found out that so small a number of Confederates had got away, and then, seeing that the conversation between the President and the rebel captain had ceased, he began looking around for his father. He found him at last sitting at a table in a remote corner of the room, and walked up and placed his hand upon his shoulder. Mr. Sprague looked up, and finding Leon’s face beaming down upon him, put his pen in his mouth and extended his hand.

“Halloo, Leon; you have got back, haven’t you?” he exclaimed; and for the first time in his life he saw his father’s eyes filled with tears.

“Yes, sir, I have got back. Where’s Mr. Smith?”

“Mr. Smith has got his death-wound, I am afraid,” said his father, looking down at the paper on which he was writing with a most gloomy expression. “He wants to see you bad, and I would advise you to go down to him at once. You will find him in the parlor, lying on the sofa.”

Leon waited to hear no more, but worked his way through the men toward the door, stopping to shake hands with this one, or to give a bow and a smile to another, and presently found himself in the parlor. The doctor was there and bending over the wounded man, and so was a distant relative of his, who seemed determined that the doctor should not exchange any words with Mr. Smith without he could hear them. Leon had never liked that man, Leonard Smith. It is true that he had never worked for his father, nor for Mr. Smith, either, for there was something about him that neither of the gentlemen approved of. He was constantly telling around that he was going to have a lot of money one of these days, and nobody knew where he was going to get it. Mr. Smith had a little, just how much no one knew, and it was very clear to everyone that Leonard Smith wouldn’t get any of it when he got done with it. Mr. Smith had often been heard to declare:

“I’ll never help a man who is too lazy to help himself. What does that Leonard Smith do to earn his living? He works at the logs about half the time, and the balance he spends in visiting me. I have often told him to go to work, but he won’t do it. He is a sort of second cousin to me, but all the same he has no claim on me.”

When Leon came into the parlor Mr. Smith turned his head and saw him. With more strength than a person of his injuries would be likely to show he thrust out his hand and welcomed him in his cheery way.

“Why, Leon, where have you been?” exclaimed the wounded man. “Come here and tell me all about it. Now, doctor, I can get along without any more help until I get through with Leon. Take everybody out of the room.”

The only person in the room besides the doctor and Leon was this Leonard Smith, and he didn’t seem inclined to move. He walked back toward the foot of the sofa and leaned upon it, and there he seemed determined to stay.

“I want you to go, too,” said Mr. Smith, in angry tones. “Take him out with you, doctor.”

“I guess I had better stay here,” said Leonard. “You might want me to hand you your water or something.”

“I reckon this man I have got here is enough to hand me my water or anything else,” retorted Mr. Smith. “Doctor, I want to see Leon about something particular, and I would thank you to take that fellow out of the room. I haven’t got but a short time to live—”

“Come, now, Leonard, go out of the room,” said the doctor.

Leonard waited a moment, just long enough to cast a glance of mingled hate and rage upon Mr. Smith and Leon, and then went out, banging the door after him.

“That’s all right,” said Mr. Smith. “Now, lock the door. It will take not more than a minute, but what little I do say I want to reach your ears, and your ears alone. Pull up a chair and sit down.”

Leon complied. He fastened the door, and then drew a chair close to the wounded man’s side and leaned over him.