At sight of the rider one of the somnolent guerrillas opened an eye. The spectacle of a blue uniform set both eyes wide-open. He called loudly to his fellows. All four sat up with the grotesque suddenness of jumping-jacks. Then they scrambled to their feet and flung themselves at the horseman. Dad had already dug spurs into his mount. Now he flashed out the pistol he had brought along. But, finger on trigger, he hesitated and forbore to fire, lest the report bring to the scene every possible Confederate within a half-mile. The foremost guerrilla reached his bridle and jumped for it as the horse darted nervously forward under the sudden double impact of the spurs. Dad threw his own body far forward and with his pistol-butt caught the guerrilla’s outflung wrist a numbing blow that deflected the grasp from the bridle leather. A second guerrilla clutched at the leg of the rider himself, missed it by a scant inch, and rolled in the dirt from a glancing contact with the roan’s flank. Dad was clear of the men and was still riding at top speed. A glance over his shoulder gave him a momentary picture of the four turning back and running for their hobbled horses. Apparently it was to be a chase. Dad settled himself low in the saddle, returned his pistol to its holster, and nursed his eager horse along at every atom of speed the mettled brute possessed. The horse was not fresh, but was strong and swift. Dad, despite his five feet eleven inches of muscular height, was slender and no galling weight in the saddle. Also, there was every probability that his pursuers’ mounts were little fresher than his own. Yet he was riding straight into the enemy’s country, with no further chance of subterfuge or skulking. At any point he might be headed off, or speedier horses might be added to the chase. He must trust to blind luck and to no other mortal agency, that he might possibly be able to gain sufficient lead to give the four guerrillas the slip before they could drive him into some body of Confederates coming from an opposite direction or rouse the whole region against him. And so he rode as never before he had ridden. Once and again he looked back. The guerrillas were mounted now and in full pursuit, strung out in a long line of three vari-sized groups. As he looked the second time the foremost gave voice to the Virginian foxhunters’ “View-halloo!” It was an insult that stung the fugitive to hot rage. Snake-fences, copses, and fields swept past on either hand. The roan was well in his mile-eating stride, and thus far showed no sign of distress at the fearful strain put upon him. Yard by yard, he was pulling away from the four laboring steeds that thundered along in his dusty wake. The by-road, at an acute angle, met and merged with the highway. Here was added danger of meeting foes. But there was no other course to take.