Dad caught the loose-flung rein in his right hand and guided the terrified horse back into the road’s center.
As he did so a chinkapin and live-oak forest shut him off from the view of the floundering guerrillas.
“They never knew I was hit,” he growled. “That’s one comfort.”
He glanced down at his left arm. Already an inordinately large patch of blood was discoloring the blue uniform on either side of the bullet hole.
“Must have tapped a big vein or maybe an artery,” he conjectured, as he saw the blood trickle fast from the edge of his cuff. “At this rate, I’ll be too weak in a few minutes to sit in the saddle. I’ll have to stop somewhere to stanch it.”
He looked back. No sign yet of the guerrillas. He had been too far away from the larger cavalry column, he knew, for any of its riders to distinguish himself or his uniform. The thick woods still closed in the road on either side.
Dad looked for a likely spot to penetrate the forest.
But on both sides of the road a high snake-fence arose, a fence too high for any horse to jump.
There would be no time to dismount, tear down a panel of the fence, lead his horse through, and repair the gap so that the guerrillas’ sharp eyes would not detect the recent break.
So on he galloped, hoping for a gate or a lane farther ahead.