While these thoughts were passing through his mind, the rebels sat on the portico listening, and at length the colonel said:
"I know I hear something now, but it is the tramping of a horse. I suppose it is Tibbs, coming with the mail."
The colonel's surmise proved to be correct, for in a few moments a man rode up, and dismounting so close to Archie that the latter could have touched him, tied his horse to the very bush which formed his concealment; then, throwing a pair of well-filled saddle-bags across his shoulder, he ran up the steps, saying:
"Good evening, gentlemen. What! colonel, are you wounded?" he added, on seeing the rebel's bandaged arm.
"Yes; this makes four times I have been shot while in the service. But how is the mail?"
"Rather heavy," answered the man. "If you have any letters to go, you will have to furnish another bag—these are full."
"All right," said the colonel; then raising his voice, he called out, "Bob! Bob! Where is that black rascal?"
"Heyar, sar," answered a voice, and presently a negro came around the corner of the house, and removing his tattered hat, stood waiting for orders.
"Bob," said the colonel, "tell Stiles that the mail is all ready to go across the river."
Stiles! How Frank would have started could he have heard that name! He would have known then, had he not before been aware of the fact, that he was again among Colonel Harrison's Louisiana Wild-cats.