"He's trying to overtake the soldiers!" gasped Rodney.
"He certainly is," replied Mrs. Turnbull calmly. "He will succeed, too, and when he brings them back with the hounds——"
"The Yankees will burn him out before he is a week older," said Rodney, through his clenched teeth.
"They will do nothing of the sort unless you bear witness against him, and I know you will not do that," answered Mrs. Turnbull. "But waste no time in words. You know what to do."
"I will say something in your favor and Mr. Turnbull's as soon as I can gain the ear of the provost marshal," said Rodney. "Good-by, and thank you for the interest you take in my Yankee friends."
Rodney made a sign to Dick as he sprang down the steps and ran around the corner of the house, and told him his story as they sped across the field side by side. There was one thing in their favor, he said. Biglin's mule was one of those critters that gallop up and down in one place instead of going ahead, and if the Confederates were moving with any speed at all, he might not be able to overtake them until they had gone a mile or two toward Mooreville. But he would certainly come up with them sooner or later and bring them back; and then——
"And then they'll put the hounds on the Yanks' trail and ours," exclaimed Dick, finishing his sentence for him. "Rodney, you have got yourself into the worst kind of a scrape by helping those prisoners."
"And how about yourself?"
"I'm going to skip out and go over the river, you know; but you've got to stay here and face the music. The lieutenant may not be able to set Tom Randolph's cowardly Home Guards on to you—indeed, I don't believe he will try; but he'll report the matter at Camp Pinckney, and that will be bad for you."