"Do you mean to say you want me to knock you out?" demanded Deck, who thought that his newly discovered friend was "going it rather strong."
"I will do the deed, if you feel backward about it," answered Tom Derwiddie, modestly.
"I certainly do feel backward, if that is what you are going to call it. You are by far too much of a friend to be touched."
"But I must be knocked out, or my record won't bear investigation, Major Lyon. Are you ready to gallop away on this horse?"
"Yes," answered Deck, promptly.
"All right, and don't forget to take those animals with you—at least for a ways." The Confederate hesitated. "If I give you the password, will you promise to use it only to get away on?"
"I will, and do."
The countersign was then given, and Derwiddie looked again toward the house. Not a soul was in sight.
"Give me a small crack on the forehead with that pistol!" he cried. "Right there!" and he indicated the spot over his left eye, at the same time scratching it sufficiently hard to draw blood. "Now, strike—and good luck go with you!"
Deck understood, and with his heart in his throat, struck out lightly. As the pistol landed on Derwiddie's forehead, he threw up his arms and reeled from the saddle. Pretending to stagger for a moment, he finally pitched headlong on the rocks. He was far from overcome, but he lay like a log where he had fallen.