A blind man might have followed the trail of the retreating army. They had thrown away, as they passed through the woods, every article that impeded their progress. Once he came on a man lying with his face in the dead leaves. He turned him over.
“His troubles are past, poor devil,” said Yates, as he pushed on.
“Halt! Throw up your hands!” came a cry from in front of him.
Yates saw no one, but he promptly threw up his hands, being an adaptable man.
“What’s the trouble?” he shouted. “I’m retreating, too.”
“Then retreat five steps farther. I’ll count the steps. One.”
Yates strode one step forward, and then saw that a man behind a tree was covering him with a gun. The next step revealed a second captor, with a huge upraised hammer, like a Hercules with his club. Both men had blackened faces, and resembled thoroughly disreputable fiends of the forest. Seated on the ground, in a semicircle, were half a dozen dejected prisoners. The man with the gun swore fearfully, but his comrade with the hammer was silent.
“Come,” said the marksman, “you blank scoundrel, and take a seat with your fellow-scoundrels. If you attempt to run, blank blank you, I’ll fill you full of buckshot!”
“Oh, I’m not going to run, Sandy,” cried Yates, recognizing him. “Why should I? I’ve always enjoyed your company, and Macdonald’s. How are you, Mac? Is this a little private raid of your own? For which side are you fighting? And I say, Sandy, what’s the weight of that old-fashioned bar of iron you have in your hands? I’d like to decide a bet. Let me heft it, as you said in the shop.”
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said Sandy in a disappointed tone, lowering his gun. “I thought we had raked in another of them. The old man and I want to make it an even dozen.”