One of the wounded Confederates lay groaning and crying with pain, and Fred going up to him, asked if he could do anything for him.
The man looked up, and then a scowl of hate came over his face.
"It's you, is it?" he groaned, and then with an oath said: "I will have you if I die for it," and attempted to raise his revolver, which he still clutched.
As quick as a flash Fred knocked it out of his hand, and as quick one of Fred's men had a revolver at the breast of the desperate Confederate. Fred knocked the weapon up, and the shot passed harmlessly over the head of the wounded man.
"None of that, Williams," said Fred. "We cannot afford to kill wounded men in cold blood."
"But the wretch would have murdered you, capt'in," said Williams, and then a cry went up from all the men. "Kill him! kill him!"
"Mercy! mercy!" gasped the wretch.
Fred looked at the man closely, and then said: "You are Bill Pearson, the man I struck with my riding-whip at Gallatin."
"Yes; mercy! mercy!"
"You miserable wretch," said Fred, contemptuously. "By good rights I ought to blow your brains out, but your carcass is not worth the powder. Live, if you can."