“I’m off!” called Battle Jimmie, stopping. “But--say! I wish I could stay and help you. Are you dead sure you can finish licking him without me, Dad?” “Yes!” gasped Dad. “Go--everything depends on it! You’re carrying the fate of the whole army! _Ride!_ And--God go with you, lad!” “All right, sir! Get back there, Emp! Go back! Wait for Dad! You can’t keep up with me!” Over the hillock crest swept the black horse, the boy clinging to his mane and, by kicks and shouts, urging him to top speed. Over the hill summit and down the steep slope and on until the thud of hoofs died to the straining ears of Dad. Then Dad turned back to the business in hand; first angrily shoving off Emp, who, with shrill barks, had been encircling the fighters, seeking for a good chance to sink his teeth into some part of the Confederate’s struggling anatomy. But there was little more to do. With a final kick and a straining heave of the shoulders, the Southerner’s body all at once grew limp. “Fainted from the pain, poor cuss!” mused Dad, rising. “But maybe it’s best to make sure.” He passed the dropped bearing rein about the senseless man’s ankles; then fell to examining the hurt hand and shoulder. As Dad worked over him, the Confederate opened his eyes and lay very quiet, staring up at his conqueror. “Nothing dangerous,” cheerily reported Dad. “Broken fingers and--I guess your collar bone needs attention.” CHAPTER XXIX THE END OF THE FIGHT Dad subconsciously recalled what the captain had said about his company taking their noon rest a half-mile beyond. A cavalry company at that, from the captain’s uniform and saber. Probably one of the many small bodies of horse thrown out to guard the rear of Lee’s army and to forage. At any moment some of the men in search of their leader might come down the winding path that led from their temporary bivouac to the hillock. Yet Dad hated to leave temporarily helpless a man whom he himself had crippled. He hesitated. “I--I suppose I am your prisoner, suh?” muttered the captain. “You surrender?” “I’m afraid I’ve no alternative. You have me at your mercy. And this confounded hand and arm are torturing me. They’re useless. I surrender.” “Good,” sighed Dad, in genuine relief. He was very tired. He wanted to sit down somewhere and get back his breath and his sorely overtaxed strength. “There is my sword, on the grass yonder,” went on the Southerner. “It is yours by right of war.” “My dear boy,” laughed Dad. “I don’t want your hardware. Keep it. What earthly use is it to me? It’s a saber. And I’m an infantry officer.” “It is customary, suh, as you know,” stiffly returned the captain, “for a prisoner to give up his sword to--” “But, man, dear, you’re not my prisoner,” interrupted Dad. “_I_ don’t want you. What would I do with you? There are more men in the prisons now than we can afford to feed well.” “Do I understand, suh,” asked the bewildered captain, “that you release me on parole?”