"Does your captain hold a commission from headquarters?" "'Tain't fer me to answer thet question, Major." "From the fact that you refuse to answer it, I infer that he does not; consequently he is nothing but a guerilla, and worse, and you are--" "Hold on, Major, don't be too hard on a poor fellow who has his living to make." "This isn't making a living--it's stealing one. Tell me truthfully, is Gaffy Denny with your company?" "Gaffy Denny is first leftenant, Major." "Where are the others?" "Somewhere around the house and barns." "How long since you arrived here?" "'Bout an hour and a half ago." "How many are there here? Answer me truthfully, or, my word for it, I and my friends will hang you to one of yonder trees." "Got many friends with yer, Major?" "Enough. Now answer my question," and again Deck's weapon came up on a level with the guerilla's head. "There air twenty-five on us, I reckon." "Were you the only man left on guard?" "I dunno." "Who put you on guard?" "Leftenant Denny." "Isn't Captain Casswell in command?" "No, the cap'n was shot down in a skirmish three days ago--back of Edmonton, and he's laying at the house of a friend ten miles from yere." While talking the pair had moved across the road, and now Deck turned his prisoner in the direction of the clearing. Soon they came in sight of General, Clinker, and one other of the slaves. "The first prisoner, General," said the young officer. "Have you anything with which to bind him?" "Look yere, Major, this ain't handsome!" cried Sergeant Hank Scudder, in alarm. "Handsome or not, you can thank your stars that I didn't shoot you dead on the bridge," rejoined Deck. "How about a cord, General?" "We dun got one, Mars'r Deck," answered the slave, and producing it he and Clinker soon bound the guerilla's hands behind him, after which the rope at his wrists was passed around a stout tree. Deck's next movement was in the direction of the raft, for nothing was to be seen of Artie, and he was anxious to know how the young captain was faring. He had hardly reached the pile of logs to which the raft was moored, when a sharp cry rang out on the frosty air. "Help! General, Woolly, Clinker! Help!" There followed another cry, and leaping through the brush and onto the logs Deck saw his cousin battling manfully in a hand-to-hand conflict with two rough men in gray, one of whom was trying to possess himself of the captain's sabre. In such an emergency Major Deck did not hesitate as to a proper course of action. Had the men been regular Confederates he would have been justified in shooting at them; being guerillas he felt himself even more justified. He took careful aim and fired, and the rascal who had just wrenched the sabre from Artie's grasp fell, shot through the thigh, an ugly wound though not a fatal one.