“I’m off!” called Battle Jimmie, stopping. “But—say! I wish I could stay and help you. Are you dead sure you can finish licking him without me, Dad?”
“Yes!” gasped Dad. “Go—everything depends on it! You’re carrying the fate of the whole army! Ride! And—God go with you, lad!”
“All right, sir! Get back there, Emp! Go back! Wait for Dad! You can’t keep up with me!”
Over the hillock crest swept the black horse, the boy clinging to his mane and, by kicks and shouts, urging him to top speed. Over the hill summit and down the steep slope and on until the thud of hoofs died to the straining ears of Dad.
Then Dad turned back to the business in hand; first angrily shoving off Emp, who, with shrill barks, had been encircling the fighters, seeking for a good chance to sink his teeth into some part of the Confederate’s struggling anatomy.
But there was little more to do. With a final kick and a straining heave of the shoulders, the Southerner’s body all at once grew limp.
“Fainted from the pain, poor cuss!” mused Dad, rising. “But maybe it’s best to make sure.”
He passed the dropped bearing rein about the senseless man’s ankles; then fell to examining the hurt hand and shoulder. As Dad worked over him, the Confederate opened his eyes and lay very quiet, staring up at his conqueror.
“Nothing dangerous,” cheerily reported Dad. “Broken fingers and—I guess your collar bone needs attention.”