“A fellar on hossback,” was the answer. “He come up on us like a streak out o' thet black hollor, an' he'd a sure got away of Mason hed n't clubbed him with his gun. I've got the cuss safe collared now.”
“Who are you?” I asked sternly, striving in vain to see something of him through the darkness. “Where were you riding?”
He maintained a sullen silence, and Sands kicked him.
“None of that,” I commanded. “Ebers, strike a match, will you, and let me see this chap.”
I had scarcely spoken when our prisoner thrust Sands roughly aside and took one hasty step toward me.
“My God, Wayne! Is it possible this is you?” he cried excitedly.
“Caton?” I exclaimed, as surprised as himself. “Caton? What is it? What is wrong?”
“Am I to do dot?” asked the Sergeant, anxiously.
“No,” I answered. “I know this man, and we shall need no fire. Caton, are you from the Minor house? Has it been attacked?”
“Yes,” he answered, panting yet from his exertion and excitement. “We were to start North with the ladies at nine o'clock, but the house was surrounded as soon as it became dark. Those devils supposed it to be unguarded, and advanced without precautions. We fired and drove them back. We had repulsed three attacks when I left at eleven, but three of our men were already hit.”