Frederick was well behind them now. The last Union outposts, a half-mile beyond the town and as far to the north of the two riders, were past.
Into “no-man’s land,” into that most perilous of regions, the “debatable ground” between two hostile armies, sped pursuer and pursued.
Hearing the ever-nearing drumming of hoofs behind him, the runaway increased his flagging speed.
Jimmie heard, too, and, glancing back over his shoulder, grinned delightedly at the white-faced man who rode so furiously in pursuit of him.
To the boy it was a glorious lark. The long, smooth gait of the runaway did not toss him about in the saddle as had the rough trot and gallop. Jimmie, helpless as he was to curb his mount’s pace, was thoroughly enjoying the novelty of this exploit.
Dad’s spurs were blood-flecked. Dad’s gallant horse was beginning to breathe in gasps. The September wind hammered and whipped the man’s hot face and blurred his eyes. The octuple thud of hoofs was nauseating him.
Another mile and the runaway breasted a steep hillock. Dad was a bare ten yards behind.
“Now, then, Jimmie!” he sung out. “Now’s your chance as he takes that rise. Both hands on the reins. Forget the pommel. Both hands on the reins, I said. Lean back with all your weight. Hold the right rein stiff, and saw on the left. With your whole weight, son!”
The lad obeyed, though with visible reluctance, for he was having a beautiful time and saw no good reason for ending it so soon.
The maneuver with the reins jerked back the bit from between the runaway’s teeth. It incidentally caused him to break momentarily his long stride.