"Gol darn the luck!" said Si with Wabash emphasis, beginning to limp forward.
"Wish the whole outfit was a mile deep in burnin' brimstone," wrathfully observed Shorty.
A couple of lucky shots had emptied two of the rebel saddles. The frightened horses turned away from the fighting line, and galloped down the road to the right of the boys. The leading one suddenly halted in a fence-corner about 30 yards away from Si, threw up his head and began surveying the scene, as if undecided what to do next. The other, seeing his mate stop, began circling around.
Hope leaped up in Si's breast. He began creeping toward the first horse, under the covert of the sumach. Shorty saw his design and the advantage it would give Si, and, standing still, began swearing worse than ever.
Si crept up as cautiously as he had used to in the old days when he was rabbit-hunting. The horse thrust his head over the fence, and began nibbling at a clump of tall rye growing there. Si thrust his hand out and caught his bridle. The horse made one frightened plunge, but the hand on his bridle held with the grip of iron, and he settled down to mute obedience.
Si set his gun down in the fence-corner and climbed into the saddle.
Shorty made the Spring air yellow with profanity until he saw Si ride away from his gun toward the other horse. When the latter saw his mate, with a rider, coming toward him he gave a whinney and dashed forward. In an instant Si had hold of his bridle and was turning back. His face was bright with triumph. Shorty stopped in the middle of a soul-curdling oath and yelled delightedly:
"Bully for old Wabash! You're my pardner after all Si."
He hastened forward to the fence, grabbed up Si's gun and handed it to him and then climbed into the other saddle.
The rebels were now falling back rapidly before Co. Q's fire. A small part detached itself and started down a side road.