Halting, as usual, before rounding the bend of a byroad, he strained his ears to catch any sound of riders ahead. There was only the drowsy spring silence.
He trotted around the wooded curve—and passed four men who sprawled, half asleep, on the wayside grass, their grazing horses hobbled behind them.
A glance told Dad the occupation and character of the resting quartet.
They were guerrillas; such as infected both Northern and Southern armies. Irregular troops in demi-uniform, who pursued a system of free-lance fighting, and often of free-lance plundering as well.
He had ridden too far into their line of vision to retreat. His uniform was an instant introduction. The fine horse that he rode was, alone, worth a chase from these horse-loving Confederate marauders.
At sight of the rider one of the somnolent guerrillas opened an eye. The spectacle of a blue uniform set both eyes wide-open.
He called loudly to his fellows. All four sat up with the grotesque suddenness of jumping-jacks.
Then they scrambled to their feet and flung themselves at the horseman.
Dad had already dug spurs into his mount. Now he flashed out the pistol he had brought along. But, finger on trigger, he hesitated and forbore to fire, lest the report bring to the scene every possible Confederate within a half-mile.
The foremost guerrilla reached his bridle and jumped for it as the horse darted nervously forward under the sudden double impact of the spurs.