It is likely Sam Jacks guessed what was passing in his mind, for he called to Caleb Fox to get a rope and bind the “mud-sill” securely. The rope was soon forthcoming and Louis was made a close prisoner, being tied up in a manner similar to that he had experienced at the deserted mill near Deems. “I’ll settle with you jess as soon as we’ve had a mouthful ter eat,” remarked Fox, and Sam Jacks nodded approvingly. Both walked towards the fire, leaving the young soldier alone inside of the dugout. From the position he occupied Louis could see but little of what was going on around the camp fire. The most frequent words which reached his ears were ones requesting that the flask be passed this way or that, indicating that the party was doing more drinking than eating, and that the liquid refreshments did not come entirely from the coffee pot. As his captors ate and drank, the young soldier worked bravely at his bonds, but as when similarly situated, he was unable to release himself. At last he gave himself up to whatever might come, silently praying to God that he might be delivered in safety from his enemies. A quarter of an hour had passed, and the eight men still hung under the overshot roofing of the dugout when several rifle shots rang out a short distance up the ravine. A small detachment of the Union troops had come forward to ascertain if the Confederates were retreating. Soon half a dozen men in gray came running along close to the water’s edge. “The Yankees are coming!” two of them shouted. “Better make tracks if you want to save your hides!” Instantly there was a commotion, as the eight men leaped up and reached for their guns. They had no relish for a skirmish, only fighting when there was no help for it. “Wot will we do with the prisoner?” asked Sam Jacks. “Kill him,” was Caleb Fox’s cold reply. “Come on.” Both started to enter the dugout. As they did so, half a score of Union men appeared on the opposite side of the stream. The Confederates were plainly visible by the glare of the camp fire, and a volley rang out. Two of the strangers to Louis were hit, one fatally, and Caleb Fox received an ugly wound in the left arm. “I’m shot!” he groaned, as the arm dropped limply by his side. “We can’t wait for the boy!” answered Sam Jacks. “If we do we’ll be either killed or captured. Come on!” And away he darted, after those who had gone before. Caleb Fox hesitated for an instant. Then with a savage kick of his boot he sent the firebrands flying into the dugout. “Burn, you Yank you, burn!” he yelled, and bounded after Sam Jacks, just as a second volley rang out.