"What is to be done now?" asked Harry of himself. "I know," he cried suddenly. "If I can make Monticello before night, McNeil can get to Whaley's Mill nearly as quickly as Porter. I'll make Monticello or die in the attempt."
Thus saying, he turned his horse to the north and rode swiftly away. He had gone some distance when he suddenly drew rein. "Great guns!" he exclaimed. "I have forgotten Bruno. He will stay by that blanket until he starves."
He reined in his horse and sat a moment in deep thought. "It's no use," he sighed. "It's full five miles. I can never go back and make Monticello in time. Poor Bruno! I won't let him suffer for more than a day or two."
His mind made up, Harry rode on at as swift a pace as his horse could stand. Residents along the road gazed in wonder as Harry dashed past. Most of them took him for a guerrilla fleeing from his foes, and looked in vain for blue-coated pursuers. A number hailed him and two or three sent a ball after him on receiving no answer.
When about half way to Monticello three rough-looking men blocked the road, demanding his name and the reason of his haste.
"I'm carrying the news to the boys," he explained. "Porter captured Palmyra this morning."
"Yo' un don't say. But who air yo' un carryin' the news to?"
"To Sam Dodds. Porter wanted him to rally all the boys he could and join him at Whaley's Mill."
This was a guess by Harry. He only knew Dodds was a leader among the guerrillas in that section of the country.
"That's a lie. Sam Dodds is with Porter and—" The guerrilla never got further. Harry's revolver cracked and the fellow rolled from his horse. Bending low over his horse's neck, Harry was off like a shot.