THE gentleman who entered the room from the other side was evidently Mr. Callicot, the father of the lady, and the Union man of whom the guerilla had spoken. He was unarmed, but there was a rifle hanging against the wall, after the manner of the South and West. The old gentleman was out of breath from hurry and excitement, and was hardly in condition to confront the ruffian, who had been bold enough in the presence of a timid woman.
“What do you want here?” demanded Mr. Callicot, in an excited tone.
“Nothin’, squire, but a drink of whiskey,” replied the Texan, glancing first at Somers, and then at the old man.
“There is not a drop of whiskey in my house, and has not been for years,” answered Mr. Callicot.
“I’m a Texican, squire, and yer can’t cheat me. I was born in the woods, and I kin smell whiskey nine mile off.”
“I have told you the truth.”
“No, yer hain’t. Fotch on your whiskey, squire,” added Skinley, taking one of his pistols from his belt.
“I have a safe-conduct from the general of this department,” said the old man. “Here it is.”
“I can’t read it, stranger. Don’t want ter read it, nuther.”
“Perhaps you will read it,” said Mr. Callicot, walking across the room, and handing it to Somers.