The cows kept moving across the road but the lad stood still until the last of the cows had passed. Then, finding himself alone in the road, still facing the men in tattered blue, he wheeled and ran. To their right the land rose gently. It offered little cover. It would be folly to retreat along the road. Tim motioned left toward the railroad track. “That’s as good a way as any. At least there’s a little cover there.” They ran across a field and into a grove of scrub oak and pine. They dashed pell-mell down a steep little hill and across a brook and up toward the ridge where the railroad ran. They heard the sound of horses’ hoofs crashing through the undergrowth across the stream. They ducked behind a clump of weeds. The riders came into view and jumped the stream. They reined in and looked along the little valley and up the hill. Tim and Red watched unmoving as the men talked in low tones. One was well past middle age, thin and handsome. He was hatless, his face was tan and his head was covered with a thick mat of snow-white hair. The other man was big and burly, a giant of a man. A gray slouch hat sheltered his eyes. Both were armed. The big man shouted, “You better show yourselves. We know you’re in this place. We saw you high-tailin’ it across the fields.” Tim whispered, “We better give up to save our lives.” They stood with their hands in the air and the rifles came up. The horses moved close. The white-haired man spoke with a hint of a burr. “Are you the soldiers who escaped from the jail in Columbia?” “We are,” said Red. “Are you armed?” “Not even a knife,” Tim said. The big man spoke. “I’ll search them.” He dismounted, and leaving his rifle with the older man, moved forward with caution. “Step out from behind those weeds.” They held their hands in the air, and the giant ordered, “Take off your haversacks and blanket rolls.” He watched them closely. “Throw them behind me on the ground.” The soldiers did as they were told and the man slapped their pockets with the flats of his hamlike hands. Tim heard the crinkle of the map but their captor took no interest in this. He felt the diary and the book of photographs. “Unbutton your blouse.” “That’s my diary and home photographs.” The man’s expression didn’t change. He fumbled for the things but couldn’t find the top of the pocket and finally he said, “Bring them out yourself, but mind, if you try any funny stuff Mr. MacNeil will shoot you down.” Tim brought out the album and the diary and held them in the palm of his hand. The man reached roughly for the leather-bound books and slipped them into his overcoat pocket. Red lowered his hands but he held them away from his sides. “Those things are personal property.” The big man flushed. “You dirty Yankee muck. You’d better raise your hands.” Now the older man’s voice came sharp. “Don’t talk to the prisoners that way, Kane. These men are Union officers, prisoners of war. Give the books to me.”