“Stop!” he called. “Stop, you thief!” “Yo’ go on back!” returned the negro. “Doan yo’ know de Yankees is jest above dis yere trail?” “I don’t care--you’re not going to steal my mount in this fashion,” returned Andy, determinedly. “You’re a runaway nigger, and if you don’t stop I’ll put a bullet through you.” And as he spoke the young Confederate drew his pistol, which he had taken from the holster on turning Firefly over to be fed and rubbed down. “If yo’ shoot de Yankees will be down on yo’ afo’ yo’ kin turn yo’self,” answered the negro, but his tones showed that he was much disturbed. Again he urged Firefly forward, and bent low, to escape the expected shot. The pistol was indeed ready for use, freshly loaded, and Andy would certainly have fired had the chance of hitting his mark been a good one. But the light was uncertain, the rough road made Firefly bob up and down continually, and he was afraid he might wound the very animal he had come to save. At last a bright idea struck him. Stopping short, he took a deep breath. “Whoa, Firefly! Whoa, old boy!” he called, with all the strength at his command. The faithful horse heard and pricked up his ears. Then, when Andy called again, he suddenly came to a dead stop. “Git on, yo’ lazy hoss, git on!” screamed the negro, but in spite of a beating, Firefly refused to budge, for Andy kept calling to him to whoa, and ran up closer and closer. At last, seeing he was beaten in his attempt to steal the animal, the negro slipped from the saddle and darted off among the trees. “I’ll git dem Union sodgers after yo’ in no time!” he sang out as he disappeared. “I dun racken yo’ won’t nebber see Virginy no mo’!” and then off he crashed; and that was the last Andy saw of him. Once again in the saddle, Andy did not deem it advisable to remain in the vicinity long. The Union soldiers, if not close at hand, were certainly not far off, and it was barely possible the negro might keep his word and send them down upon him. He turned Firefly on the back trail and urged the faithful beast on as rapidly as the nature of the uncertain ground permitted. Reaching the cabin again, he found the old woman at the doorway, still smoking her pipe. “Got back your hoss, eh?” she said. “That nigger is a sly one.” “I want to cross the river,” returned the young cavalryman. “If you can furnish me with a flatboat I’ll pay you well for its use.” “I ain’t got no flatboat. But I’ll tell you where to git one--up to Lemming’s. There’s a flatboat there--up in the creek.” Further conversation revealed the fact that Lemming’s was nearly an eighth of a mile down the Potomac. Lemming was a plantation owner, and used the flatboat to ferry hay and other commodities from one shore to the other--or at least he had used it before the war put an end to such traffic. The old woman was certain that Lemming was off to the war and nobody was at home but his wife and her two daughters.