There was something more than a touch of fall in the evening air, and Butterfly sprang forward eagerly, and chafed at the bit that held him back. The short, sharp snorts that came from his quivering nostrils showed the tremendous energy he had in reserve, and it was not until he had gone a mile or more that he settled down into the long, swift, sweeping gallop that seemed in the dim light to throw the trees and fences behind him. At a cross-road Joe heard the tramp of horses and the jingling of spurs and bridle-bits, but he never paused, and it was not until long afterward he learned that he had come near forming the acquaintance of Wilson’s raiders, who were making their way back to Atlanta.
By the time the stars had come out, Joe could see the lights of Hillsborough twinkling in the distance, and in a short time he had turned into the back street that led by the jail and made way across the town until he reached the square below the tavern. Then he turned to the left, and was soon in front of Mr. Deometari’s room. Boy-like, he was secretly sorry that some sentinel had not challenged him on the way, so that he could give the countersign. A muffled figure, sitting on the edge of the veranda, roused itself as Joe rode up.
“Where is Mr. Deometari?” the lad asked.
“He in dar,” replied the figure. “Is you fum de plantation, sah?”
“Yes.”
“Den I’m to take yo’ hoss,” the negro said.
“Well, you must be careful with him,” said the lad.
“Dat I will, suh, kaze Marse Deo say he gwine pay me, an’ ’sides dat, I stays at de liberty stable.”
Joe saw his horse led away, and then he knocked at Mr. Deometari’s door.
“Come in!” cried that genial gentleman.