The leader of the six shook his head. "No," he exclaimed, with an oath, "it's all off. Thar is a scouting party of Yanks up the road. They chased us. That's the reason we 'uns are down heah. That feller will fall in with them before we 'uns can ketch him."
So, much to their chagrin, the guerrillas gave up the chase and went to attend to their dead comrade.
About five miles from Monticello Harry overtook the scouting party, now on their way back to that city. Taking Harry for a guerrilla, they ordered him to surrender, which he did very willingly.
Harry was white with dust, blood was dripping from his left hand and his horse, white with foam, stood trembling.
The lieutenant in charge of the party rode up. "Well, young man," he began, then stopped and gazed in wonder.
"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed. "It's Harry Semans. Harry, what's up?"
"Porter is on the warpath. He has captured Palmyra," gasped Harry.
The news was astounding.
"When?" cried the lieutenant.
"This morning. But I have no time to talk. Give me a fresh horse. I must see McNeil."