When Bob came out on the kitchen porch and glanced involuntarily and fearfully up at the windmill tower, he caught a glimpse of a rifle-barrel through one of the small dark openings his father had made, and knew, on the instant, how narrowly the household had escaped a tragedy. For, even as he looked, the soldiers were coming back, by the garden-path, to the house. The young sergeant was plainly disappointed and vexed over the result of his expedition. He had hoped and intended to have credit for bagging the most notorious copperhead in that section of the state. And now that his ambition was likely to fail of realization, he could not quite repress his deep feeling of annoyance. He came back to the boy on the porch.
“I don’t want to be harsh,” he said, “but from either you or your mother I must have definite information as to Rhett Bannister’s whereabouts. I believe both of you know where he is.”
“My mother is already so frightened by your raid,” replied Bob, “that if she knew and was willing to tell, I doubt whether she would be able to. But you may ask me any questions you like.”
“Very well. Do you know where your father is at this moment?”
“I believe I do.”
“Where is he?”
“I will not tell.”
The sergeant’s face flushed, and he bit his drooping moustache. He was plainly angry.
“I have already told you,” he said, “that to shield deserters is an offense hardly less treasonable than desertion itself. I don’t intend to be balked in this thing. Your father is somewhere about these premises. I know, for I have had the house watched. He could not have escaped. You can point out his hiding-place to me, or I will put you under arrest and take you before the provost-marshal.”
The boy’s face paled and his lip quivered, but he was still resolute.