“We’ll take care of him!” Levi retorted roughly. “Who are you? That is the point! You’re none of Shelby’s men, nor Campbell’s! Where do you live?” “Well, I don’t live here.” “Then—” “Do you know Wilmer? Captain Wilmer?” the stranger asked. “Yes, but—” “He knows me. Ask him.” I struck in before Levi could make the angry rejoinder which was on his lips. “I am Captain Wilmer’s prisoner,” I cried, thrusting my horse forward. For the moment I forgot pain and weakness. “And I take you to witness, sir, whoever you are, that I am no spy, and that these men have carried me off from Captain Wilmer’s house.” “D—n you, hold your tongue!” cried one of the other men, pushing forward and trying to silence me. “I am Major Craven of the English Army!” I persisted. “I am a wounded man, taken at King’s Mountain, and given quarter, and these men—” One of them clapped his hand on my mouth. Another seized my horse’s head and dragged it back. They closed round me. “Knock his head off!” cried Levi. “Choke him, some one!” “That man, Barter—the smith!” I shouted desperately—the old man had just come to the smithy entrance—“he knows! He saw me with Captain Wilmer! Ask him!” I could say no more. One of the men flung his arm round my neck and squeezed not only my throat but my shoulder. I screamed with pain. “Take him on! Take him on!” Levi cried furiously. “I and Margetts will deal with this fellow. Take him on!” “Stop!” said the little man; and more nimbly than I had ever seen it done, he whipped out a pistol, cocked it, and covered Levi, who was sitting in his saddle not three paces from him. “Don’t take him,” he went on. “And stand still. If a man goes to draw his weapon I shoot.” Never was a surprise more complete. The man who had tried to choke me let his arm fall from my shoulder, the men’s mouths opened, Levi gaped. Not a hand was raised among them. “Wilmer’s prisoner, is he?” the little man went on; he spoke as quietly as he had spoken before. “And you were going to hang him? Mighty hurried, wasn’t it?” “What the h—ll is it to you?” Levi cried. The muzzle rose from his breast to his head. “Better tell that man of yours to be still!” the stranger said—this time he spoke rather grimly. Then to me “Taken at King’s Mountain, sir?” “Yes,” I said. “I’ve a broken arm and my shoulder was crushed. I appeal to you to rescue me from these men. If you leave me in their hands—” The man stopped me by a nod. He took his cigar from the corner of his mouth, threw it away and substituted for it something that gleamed in the light. He whistled shrilly. “Better stand still!” he said, as one or two of the horses backed and sidled, “I miss sometimes, but not at three paces.” He whistled again, more loudly. “On second thoughts, you’ll be wise to take yourselves off,” he added. “Not before I know who you are,” Levi retorted with an oath. His mean face was livid with anger—and fear.