Thus at the moment when his escape seemed certain he found his retreat cut off. He was hemmed in. As yet he had not fired a shot. His assailants were now so close upon him that his rifle was useless save as a club. If he realized his hopeless situation he did not hesitate in his headlong course. “On, Wildbird, on!” Like a Centaur he swept into the midst of his foes. Some were hurled right and left. The foremost seized the bridle of the plunging horse. “Hold up there, you Yankee devil!” “Never!” rang out the sharp retort, and the other was felled to the earth. “On, Wildbird, on!” The path was blocked. In vain the noble brute struggled to free himself. Three of the sentinels were clinging to its bridle and the plunging steed was stopped. Others of the assailants were trying to pull the rider from his seat. A few shots were fired, but the fight had come to such close quarters that firearms were of little use. The stranger’s rifle had been hurled from his grasp. He felt himself borne down, and for a moment his struggles ceased. “Will you surrender?” gritted the leader. “Never!” “On, Wildbird, on!” Suddenly, with a herculean effort, the horseman freed his right arm. An instant later a knife flashed in his hand. Descrying a circle in the air it descended with lightning-like rapidity, severing at a single stroke the horse’s bridle. At the same time the assailants staggered back, leaving the wounded and maddened steed free. With a snort of defiance it bounded forward sending the baffled men right and left. Before they could rally, the dashing scout had cleared them. A few shots were fired, but none seemed to take effect. As their yells of rage rang on the air, the fugitive disappeared down the valley. “That’s a pretty go!” muttered the leader of the discomfited gang. “I should rather have lost my right arm than that he should have escaped.” “Did you recognize him, captain?” asked a tall, flaxened-hair soldier. “He is Cavalry Curt.” “Not Phil Kearney’s scout?” “The same. I heard at headquarters yesterday that he was in these regions. His presence means us mischief.” “And his escape something worse.” “But he must not escape.” “Quick, into the saddle. We must follow him.” Three of the party were injured so that they could not join in the pursuit, and were forced to remain behind. The others vaulted into the saddle and a few minutes later were following as rapidly as the country would permit on the trail of the fugitive. He had only a slight start of them and they felt confident of quickly overtaking and capturing him. In the very heart of the enemy’s country his escape indeed seemed impossible. CHAPTER II. THE FUGITIVE SCOUT. “Look, Mara! Do my old eyes deceive me, or is that a horseman?” “Where, grandpa?” “Crossing the ridge yonder.”