“I won’t do it! I won’t put off a lie on ’em! I hev fought an’ fought an’ I’ll take the consekences o’ what I done--all the consekences o’ hevin’ fought. _I_ am Hilary Knox, an’ I be plumb pledged by my word of honor. But I’ll bear ye out in the fac’s, an’ thar’s nuthin’ ter doubt in the fac’s--they air full reasonable.” He had taken the paper out of his ragged breast-pocket to have it in readiness to present to the advance guard, who had perceived them and had quickened the pace for the purpose of halting them. Perhaps Bixby had no intention, save, by sleight-of-hand, to possess himself of the paper. Perhaps he thought that having it in his power the boy would hardly dare to contradict the story he had sketched and the name he intended to claim as the owner of the parole; if Hilary should protest he could say his son was weak-minded, an imbecile, a lunatic. He made a sudden lunge from the saddle and a more sudden snatch at the paper. But the boy’s strong hand held it fast. Jack Bixby hardly noted the surprise, the indignation, the reproach in Hilary’s face--almost an expression of grief--as he turned it toward him. With the determination that had seized him to possess the paper, Bixby struck the boy’s wrist and knuckles a series of sharp, brutal blows with the back of a strong bowie-knife, which had been concealed in his boot-leg at the surrender. They palsied the clutch of the boy’s left hand. But as the quivering fingers opened, Hilary caught the falling paper with his right hand. “Let go, let go!” cried Jack Bixby in a frenzy; “else I’ll let you hev the blade--there, then!--take the aidge--ez keen ez a razor!” The steel descended again and again, and as the boy was half dragged out of the saddle the blood poured down upon the parole. It would have been hard to say then what name was there! A sudden shout rang out from down the road. The approaching men had observed the altercation, and mending their pace, came on at a swift gallop. With not a glance at them, Jack Bixby turned his horse short around and fled as fast as the animal could go, striking out of the road and into the woods as soon as he reached the timbered land. Poor “Baby Bunting,” dragged out of his saddle, fell down in the road beneath his horse’s hoofs, and all covered with white dust and red blood there he lay very still till the cavalrymen came up and found him.