In hot haste from the south hills she had come to warn Benton's division of the ambuscade preparing for it, riding by highway and byway, her heart in her mouth, taking every perilous chance. And now, at the last moment, here in the West Virginian Mountains, almost within sight of the pass itself, disaster threatened--the human machine was giving out. There were just two chances that Benton might yet be saved--that his leisurely advance had, by some miracle, already occupied the pass, or, if not, that she could get through and meet Benton in time to stop him. She had been told that there was a cabin at the pass, and that the mountaineer who lived there was a Union man. Thinking of these things as she crossed the ridge, she came suddenly into full view of the pass. It lay there just below her; there could be no mistake. A stony road wound along the stream, flanked by forest-clad heights; she recognized the timber bridge over the ravine, which had been described to her, the corduroy way across the swamp, the single, squat cabin crowning a half-cleared hillock. She realized at a glance the awful trap that this silent, deadly place could be turned into; for one rushing moment her widening eyes could almost see blue masses of men in disorder, crushed into that horrible defile; her ears seemed to ring with their death cries, the rippling roar of rifle fire. Then, with a sharp, indrawn breath, she hastened forward, taking the descent at a run. And at the same moment three gray-jacketed cavalrymen cantered into the road below, crossed the timber bridge at a gallop, and disappeared in the pass, carbines poised. She had arrived a minute too late; the pass was closed! Toiling breathlessly up the bushy hillock, crouching, bending, creeping across the stony open where scant grass grew in a meager garden, she reached the cabin. It was empty; a fire smoldered under a kettle in which potatoes were boiling; ash cakes crisped on the hearth, bacon sizzled in a frying pan set close to the embers. But where was the tenant? A shout from the road below brought her to the door; then she dropped flat on her stomach, crawled forward, and looked over the slope. A red-haired old man, in his shirt sleeves, carrying a fishing pole, was running down the road, chased by two gray-jacketed troopers. He ran well, throwing away his pole and the string of slimy fish he had been carrying; but, half way across the stream, they rode him down and caught him, driving their horses straight into the shallow flood; and a few moments later a fresh squad of cavalry trotted up, forced the prisoner to mount a led horse, and, surrounding him, galloped rapidly away southward.