"That is easily answered," replied Calhoun. "As you see by my uniform, I am a Confederate officer. I am on parole, and am on my way to my home in Danville, there to wait until I am regularly exchanged."
"A fine story," said the leader. "And I suppose your companion is also in the Confederate service."
"Not at all," replied Fred, quietly. "I am in the service of the United States."
"You are, are you?" sneered the man. "I think both of you are Lincolnites. We will have to search you, and I think in the end shoot you both."
"Here is my parole," said Calhoun, his face growing red with anger.
The man took it, glanced it over, and then coolly tore it in two, and flung it down.
"Any one can carry such a paper as that. Now, climb down in a hurry. We want them horses, and we want you. Boys, it will be fun to try our marksmanship on these youngsters, won't it?" and he turned to his companions with a brutal laugh.
But the guerrillas made a great mistake; they thought they were only dealing with two boys, and were consequently careless and off their guard.
With a sharp, quick look at Calhoun which meant volumes, Fred quickly drew his revolver. There was a flash, a report, and the leader of the guerrillas dropped from his horse. With a startled oath, the others drew their revolvers, but before they could raise them there were two reports so close together as almost to sound as one, and two more of the gang rolled from their horses. The remaining one threw up his hands and began to beg for mercy.