“’Twas a close call,” was the captain’s comment to Fairfax. “You were doing nobly, sir, but the odds were hopeless.”
“Had you not come, captain, I dare not think of the result,” said Fairfax with emotion. “There was but one more round of ammunition left when you appeared with your men, though I knew not of it. Mother here was doing the loading, and she did not tell me.”
“I am glad that we happened along,” said the officer. “The highways are not safe these days. Our state troops are doing what we can toward making them so, but good men are scarce and robbers many. ’Twas the merest accident that we chose that spot for our midday meal. We were right in the midst of it when you were seen with those miscreants in pursuit.”
“But,” spoke the youth with some bewilderment, “my uncle wrote that their depredations had ceased since Yorktown.”
“And so they did for a time, but the respite was short. What with these robbers, and the raids of the refugees Jerseymen scarce know which way to turn. The state is in truth sorely tried. Where does your uncle live, and for what place are you bound?”
“Thomas Ashley is my uncle. He lives at Freehold, which should not be many miles distant,” answered Fairfax. “We came to make our home there. That is, my mother and I did. These two young ladies are visitors.”
“Their welcome, while a warm one, is not much to their liking, I’ll warrant,” said the officer with a light laugh, and a quick glance at the pale faces of the maidens. “Well, you will have no more trouble from this on. This stretch of the turnpike is the most dangerous in the county, and once past it one is safe from molestation. Good-bye! A safe journey to you. I think we shall finish that dinner now.”
He would not listen to their thanks, but saluting, wheeled, and rode back to the conflict ground where some troopers were attending to the wounded. Fairfax spoke to the horses, and silently the journey which had had such a tragic interruption was resumed.