“Ye can’t frighten us, Arlington,” chuckled Sam Jacks. “Don’t we know neither of yer pistols is loaded? An’ if yer try to draw thet saber--” Jacks finished by suggestively tapping his own pistol. An instant later there came a savage howl from Caleb Fox, who had come close to Andy with the intention of searching him. The young Confederate had whipped out his saber and the point had caught Fox in the fleshy part of his left lower limb. “Back, I say!” cried Andy, as he took a stand near a tree. Wild with rage Caleb Fox drew a long horse-pistol from his belt. “I’ll fix yer!” he fairly hissed, and aimed the weapon at Andy’s head. Before, however, he could pull the trigger, if such was really his intention, there came a sharp crack from the brush and the pistol fell to the ground while Fox began to dance around in pain, a bullet wound directly through his wrist. “Louis!” burst from Andy’s lips, as the young Union soldier rushed forward. “Was it you shot him?” “It was, Andy; and I’ll shoot him again if he attempts another such attack. Rascals like these are a disgrace to any army. Up with your hands, Sam Jacks!” For Jacks had made a motion towards his belt. Louis’s pistol was now on a level with the mountaineer’s head, his eyes shone with cool determination--and the hands went up as requested. “This ain’t fair an’ squar’,” muttered Sam Jacks. “Put thet gun down--it might go off.” And he endeavored to step out of range. “Stand still, Jacks,” commanded Louis, “or my pistol will go off, and Fox can testify to what sort of a bead I can draw.” “My wrist is broke!” moaned Fox, still dancing about. “You young villain! If ever I git a chance--” “No threats, Fox. The best thing you can do is to wet your handkerchief, if you have one, in yonder pool and bind the wound up. Stop--that pistol can remain where it is--or Andy, perhaps you had better pick it up.” “I will, seeing that my own is unloaded,” answered Andy. “But what brought you here, and in that outfit?” “I’ll explain later. At present--Hi, Jacks, stop!” But Sam Jacks was not stopping just then. Watching his chance, he had leaped for the shelter of the nearest bushes. Now he went tearing along at a breakneck speed. Louis tried to follow him, but soon stopped the pursuit, thinking it would be useless to catch the rascal. Presently the sounds of his footsteps died away in the distance. “He’s gone,” he announced, upon returning to the clearing. “You may as well let Fox go, too. I reckon he has learned a lesson he won’t forget in a hurry.” “Won’t you let me have my pistol?” demanded the guerrilla. “No,” was the short reply. “Go, and be thankful you have saved your life,” answered Andy. “If ever I catch sight of you near our camp I’ll report you and have you both put under arrest as battlefield thieves.” Muttering under his breath, Caleb Fox slunk off, one hand holding the wounded wrist. He pursued the direction Jacks had taken--a path leading to the rendezvous of the guerrillas.