“Holy Gee, Cap,” he explained penitently, “ye don't go ter think I ever did it a purpose, do ye? Why, ther gosh-durned old thing run away.” “Ran away?” “Sure; I've bin a hangin' on ter ther mane o' thet critter fer nigh 'pon three mile, an' a prayin' fer a feather bed ter light on. It's my last 'listment en ther cavalry, ye bet. I never seed none o' yer steam keers, but I reckon they don't go no faster ner thet blame hoss. Gosh, Cap, ye ain't got no call fer ter git mad; I couldn't a stopped her with a yoke o' steers, durned if I cud. I sorter reckon I know now 'bout whut Scott meant when he said, 'The turf the flying courser spurn'd,'--you bet this en did.” Jed rubbed his cheek as if it stung him, and I looked at him in the faint dawning light of day, and laughed. His peaked head and weazen face looked piteous enough, decorated as they were with the black loam through which he had ploughed; his coat was ripped from tail to collar, while one of his eyes was nearly closed where the bruised flesh had puffed up over it. “'It is a fearful strife, for man endowed with mortal life,'” he quoted mournfully. “You're right,” I assented. “No doubt you had the worst of it. But how came you here?” “Why, I wus a huntin' fer a hoss thar et ther picket post whin ye scared up ther bunch, an' by some sort a fule luck I got hole o' thet one, an' tuke arter ye, tho' in course I didn't know who it wus raised sich a rumpus, it wus so durned dark. Ther whole blame Yankee caboodle tuke a blaze et me, I reckon, leastwise they wus most durn keerless with ther shootin' irons, an' I rode one feller over, knocked him plum off his hoss down ther bank, kerslush inter ther water, by thunder, an' then ther derned critter I wus a straddlin' bolted. Thet's 'bout all I know, Cap, till I lit yere.” There was no doubting the truth of his story, and I held out my hand. “You're a good man, Jed,” I said heartily, “and so long as we are both alive, a few hard jolts won't hurt us. Let's see if the horses are in any condition for service.” A single glance told the story. The black mare was browsing by the roadside, apparently little the worse for the shock, although a thin line of blood trickled slowly down her flank. But the big roan had not been so fortunate, and lay, head under, stone dead in the middle of the narrow road. Bungay gazed at the motionless figure mournfully. “'Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, that cost thy life, my gallant gray,'” he recited solemnly, “only it's a roan, an' I ain't so durn sorry either.” Regrets of any nature, however, were vain, and as the little man positively refused to ride, I mounted again. He trudging along manfully beside me, the two of us set forth once more, our faces turned toward the red dawn. CHAPTER XXI REINFORCEMENTS FOR EARLY “Come Wayne, wake up, man! Captain, I say, you must turn out of this.”