They drew up at the gate, with a scrabble of hoofs and a confusion of horses’ bodies.
“Take that man and boy prisoner,” came the voice from the big, black-bearded man at the head—a man with the bars of a captain.
Four troopers spurred into the yard and approached.
“Shoot till they get us,” ordered Captain Dadd. “Better anything than a Southern military prison. Especially for Joe when he’s wounded. Good luck, Emily; good luck, Jimmie. Stand behind that tree there, Emily dear. They’re real men. They won’t pester you. Careful aim, Jimmie. Let ’er go!”
The revolvers of two men—one a boy and one gray of hair, but men both—rang out together.
Two troopers, now but ten feet away, swayed in the saddle and one very quietly slid off.
Again rang the revolvers, but before anyone could tell whether the shots had taken effect, the whole troop came hurtling up the lane, and thundering, whirling around them, caught at the two.
A swift down-swoop by the black-bearded captain of Southern cavalry, and a revolver butt laid Captain Dadd out senseless and bleeding.
A quick twirl of a halter and Jimmie was swung up to a trooper’s saddle, kicking, but helpless. A nasty saber scratch was across the lad’s forehead.
The old lady was left alone beside the fallen body of Dad. She knelt beside him with great tears in her eyes, her voice keening the world-old sob of sorrow that brave women give their dying lovers.