For he was a rebel indeed. Frank knew that by his gray uniform and short jacket. He had been perched in the thick top of a tall pine to pick off our men during the skirmish. It was he who had taken the bark from the tree near Captain Edney's head. It was he who had basely thought to assassinate those who were carrying away the wounded. And now, the advancing troops having passed him, he was taking advantage of the solitary situation to slip down the trunk and make his escape through the woods.
Unfortunately for him, he could not go up and down trees like a squirrel. He proceeded hugging his way so slowly and laboriously that Frank reached the spot when he was still within a dozen feet of the ground. Hearing a noise, and looking down over his arm, and seeing Frank, he would have jumped the remainder of the distance. But Frank was prepared for that.
"Stop, or I'll fire!"
Shrill and menacing rang the boy's determined tones through the soul of the treed rebel. He saw the gun pointed up at him; so he stopped.
"What's wanting?" said he, gruffly.
"I want you to throw down that rifle as quick as ever you can!" cried Frank.
"What do you want of my rifle?"
"I've a curiosity to see what sort of a piece you use to shoot at men carrying off the wounded."
And the "grayback" (as the boys termed the rebels) could hear the ominous click of the gun lock in Frank's hands.
"Was it you I fired at?"