Presently he saw the old man come out and take a path into the woods. He cautiously circled around to where he could follow and watch him. He saw him make his way to a secluded little cove, where there was a corn-crib partially filled and a rude shelter, under which were a buckboard and fairly-good young horse. The old man began putting the clumsy harness of ropes, chains and patched leather on the horse and hitching him to the buckboard. "Good, the old man's goin' to take the grub out to 'em himself," thought the Deacon with relief. "He'll be easy to manage. No need o' shootin' him." He hurried back to his covert, and then shpped unseen down to where he had selected for his ambush. The old man drove the buckboard around to the front of the house, and the negresses, obeying the shrill orders of the old woman, brought out pones of smoking cornbread, and buckets, tin pans and crocks containing the meat, potatoes, turnips and other food, and loaded them on to the buckboard. The fragrance of the food reached the Deacon's nostrils, and made his mouth water and fond anticipations rise as to the good it would do the boys. "I'll have that grub, and the boys shall have it," he determined, "or there'll be an Injianny Deacon pretty badly used up." The old man mounted into the seat, gathered up the rope lines, and chirruped to the horse to start. When he came opposite, the Deacon jumped out, seized the reins, and pointing his revolver at him, commanded sternly: "Git down from there, and git down quick." The old man dropped the lines, and for an instant gazed at him with scared eyes. "Why, yo' robber, what d'yo' mean?" he gasped. "Git down from there, and git down quick!" repeated the Deacon. "Why, this is highway robbery, threats, puttin' in bodily fear, attempted murder, hoss-stealin'." "Hain't no time to argy law with you," said the Deacon impatiently. "This ain't no court-room. You ain't in session now. Git down, and git down quick!" "Help! help! murder! robbery! thieves!" shouted the old man, at the top of his voice. The negresses, who had been watching their master depart, set to screaming, and the old woman rushed back into the house and blew the horn. The Deacon thrust his revolver back into the holster, caught the old man with his sinewy hand, tore him from the seat, and flung him into the fence-corner. He sprang into the seat, turned the horse's head toward Chattanooga, and hit him a sharp cut with a switch that lay in the wagon. "I've got about three miles the start," he said as he rattled off. "This horse's young and fresh, while their's probably run down. The road from here to the main road's tollably good, and I think I kin git there before they kin overtake me."