Shifting his pistol muzzle ever so little, and embracing both Dad and Jimmie in the same glance of his sleepy eyes, the Confederate raised his voice: “You orderly up there!” he called. “Walk back to that sorrel horse! Straight back! He’s in line with you! Keep your hands up! Go back there and unfasten the bearing-rein from the bit. Then, with your hands still up, come down this slope in the same line and tie this gentleman’s wrists together with the rein. “You see, suh,” he explained courteously to Dad, “the way is pretty crooked. And there’s bushes both sides of the road. I can’t quite make certain of you both, walking ahead of me, unless at least one of you is tied. Hurry up there, orderly! Get me that rein.” “I’ll see you and Jeff Davis and Bob Lee and all the rest of the South in Kingdom Come, first!” shrilled Jimmie. “I put up my hands because Dad told me to. Not because I’m afraid of that pop-gun of yours. But if you think I’m going to tie him up for you--say, Reb, I could pretty near lick you myself. And I’ll try it, if you’re man enough to gimme half a show by pocketin’ that gun.” “They breed ’em game in your part of the world, sonny,” smiled the captain. “And now that you’ve said your little piece, just shut up on the heroics and do as I tell you. A bullet hole in your little stomach would be a mighty unbecoming sight. Step lively!” “I won’t!” roared Jimmie. “You soft-voiced bully! I’m getting to hate every bone in your body. Dad! Dad! Say, can I put my hands down, and I’ll take a chance with his gun. I licked Roddy Slade, and Roddy’s pretty near as big as that Reb is--I can do _him_, I bet you!” “Jimmie!” called Dad, his voice steady with a gentle authority. “Do as he says.” “_Dad!_” “Exactly as he says,” ordered Dad. “Oh, Dad! Let me--” “Jimmie! Obey orders.” There was now no doubt as to the authority in Dad’s voice. Jimmie groaned aloud and started at snail-pace toward the sorrel. “I’d a lot rather charge a gun battery,” he lamented. “Say, Reb, I’m doing this because my grandfather tells me to. And he’s my s’perior officer. Not because you told me to, or because I’m scared of your gun. And say, you! Don’t you go getting the notion Dad’s a-scared of you, either. He isn’t scared of anything. I don’t know why he’s surrendering, but if he’s doing it, it’s all right, somehow.” Still grumbling, mouthing horribly murderous threats, the boy began to unfasten the bearing rein from bit and saddle bow. “You’ll pardon my grandson’s heat, sir,” apologized Dad to his captor. “He’s only a youngster, and he hasn’t learned philosophy yet. You see, we-- “Pardon me, captain,” broke off Dad, with a sudden wide grin as his eyes chanced to drop from the Confederate’s face to the leveled revolver whose muzzle was now less than a yard from his own chest, “but when you try to hold men up with a pistol, mightn’t it be just a trifle wiser to see that your pistol is cocked?”