"Wha—what do dis mean, massa?" stammered the negro. "What right hab you-un to dat hoss?"
"Every right in the world, Sambo," answered Deck. "The horse belongs to me, don't you, Ceph?"
For answer Ceph gave a low snort of satisfaction.
"Belong to yo'? I fink dat's a mistake, massa. Dat am Captain Loring's hoss, fo' suah," and the colored man shook his head decidedly. Then as he came close enough to note what uniform Deck was wearing, he gave a gasp of horror. "Fo' pity sake, massa, is you-un a—a Yankee?"
"Yes, I am, Sambo, and I want you to keep your mouth shut about this," replied Deck, sternly. "The horse is mine and always was mine, and I am going to ride off on him. If you make any outcry I will shoot you."
"Don't go fo' to do dat, massa orsifer!" came with a shiver. "I won't say a single word, 'deed I won't. But—but who's to take the 'sponsibility when Captain Loring find dat hoss ain't heah no mo'?"
"You'll be telling the truth when you say he got away from you, Sambo,—for he did get away just now. Is this the way to Hall's Ford?"
"No, massa; dat's de way to Lee and Gordon's Mill."
"I don't know whether to believe you or not," said Deck, simply in order to get the negro "mixed." "I guess I'll find Breckinridge's camp somewhere around here. Now I'm off. If you give the alarm, remember, I'll come back and put half a dozen bullets through your body."
"Won't say a word, massa orsifer," returned the negro in a more shaky voice than ever.