Blount, in reply to the warning of his friends, had urged that it might very well be that a horse that shied by day at a gun would act differently at night. And he was right. By daylight the gray was in the habit of making one or two violent plunges when his rider fired. But tonight, when that terrible roar broke the stillness and that fierce blaze flashed into his eyes---- Immediately after the sound of the gun reached us we heard the anxious, jolting bray of a trotting mule. The disjointed, semi-asinine song came nearer, and presently Ned hurried past the fire to his place by his tethered mate, with a low equine chuckle of satisfaction. In his wake rushed Beverly, panting, wide eyed. It was a full minute before he could speak. “Lord, mahsters, don't ax me nothin'; I don't know nothin' 'bout it. I 'most don't know whether I here or no arter de way dem revengious varmints whoop me through dem woods, a-yelpin' an' a-gnash-in' o' deir teeth. B'fo' Gaud, I thought every minute was gwine to be my next! When Marse Billy shoot, though I beg him not to, seein' dat de whole woods was a-bilin' wid wolves, dat fool of a horse o' hisn jess riz on his hind legs an' splunge right over me an' Ned, jess like we warn't nothin't all. Dem lightwood knots flew right up, same as one o' dem blaze o' glories I see when I got religion. I lit on my head. Ned he went oneway; Marse Billy horse anudder. But seein' as I done knowed Ned de longest, I followed him--an' he fotch me home. Run? No, twarnt runnin', twas flyin'; an' every jump de varmints was a-reachin' for me. I hear deir teeth, jess as plain, clashin' like sheep shears. Umgh-umgh! Beverly hump heself he did. Jess look at my clothes! I left de rest of 'em on de bushes. Whar Marse Billy? Lord a-mussy, I dunno! I mighty 'fraid de wolves done got him, leastwise ef he didn't set hard on dat dere fool gray. “Mahster, couldn't you gimme jess a leetle tetch o' dat whiskey? I'se powerful downhearted. Thank you, mahster. But mahster, don't lemme go no mo' a spotin' along o' Marse Billy; seem like I ain't dat kind. Lemme drive my mules, lemme cook, don't lemme go projickin' about wid Marse Billy Blount no mo'. You laughin', is you, Tom? Nemmind--you go next time!” Presently there came to us from far away a doleful yell, with nothing of the bugle blast in it. “There he is!” and we made response with laughter-choked shouts. About fifteen minutes afterward the sound of hoofs was heard, and presently our mighty hunter appeared, but _quantum mutatus ab illo!_ No hat, no gun, one skirt of his coat and half of the buttons gone; shirt bosom torn out, trousers hanging in ribbons! But though his face was scratched beyond recognition he remained the one, only true Blount in the world; though his eyes were bloodshot they beamed with conscious victory. “Boys,” said he, “which of you will go and help me bring him in?” “Bring what in?” “Why, the buck--I blew his infernal head off, sure!”