The scouts went into camp not far from a substantial farmhouse, and the occupants were a little more communicative than common, especially when Harry told them to set up a good meal for them, and he would pay for it, saying they had captured some Yankee money. Their mouths being open, Harry found they had a son with Poindexter, and he had left home only that morning. They had heard the son say Poindexter was preparing to attack some place. They thought it was Columbia, but were not sure. Harry made his camp in the edge of a wood, a field in front. A rough road ran through the wood, a short distance in the rear. If danger came, it would be by that road that Harry calculated to retreat. They were to rest till three o'clock, then up and away. Harry knew that with Bruno on guard there would be no surprise, but he could not rest. He was thinking of Jack Harwood. About eleven o'clock, to Harry's surprise, Harwood made his appearance. "If it hadn't been for Bruno," he said, "I would never have found you. He met me down the road a ways, and guided me here." "Where have you been?" asked Harry. "Where have I been?" he answered, slowly. "On private business. I will tell you about it in the morning." "You must promise never again to leave without permission, or this is your last scout with me," said Harry, sternly. Jack did not answer. He turned to care for his horse. When Jack stopped, under the pretence of fixing the girth of his saddle, it was with the fixed purpose, come what would, of following those guerrillas and killing the men who had helped murder his father. Had he not taken a solemn oath to kill them on sight? He did not stop to think how he could accomplish his purpose--of the danger of the undertaking. He only knew he had seen the men; that was enough. He would track them, if necessary, to the ends of the earth. As it was, fate favored him. The guerrillas, all unconscious that Nemesis was on their track, rode on until dusk, when they stopped at a fine plantation, and roughly ordered supper and feed for their horses. Mr. Rice, the owner of the plantation, was a hot Southern sympathizer, but he did not relish his present company. He felt like kicking them out of doors, but he knew it would not do to refuse them, so he made the best of it, and ordered supper prepared. It was a good supper, and, in the highest of spirits, nine of the guerrillas sat down; the tenth was on guard. But he did not notice a silent figure creeping up to the window of the room in which the rest were dining. Suddenly there was a sharp report, a crash of glass, and one of the diners sprang to his feet and fell backward, shot through the brain. At the same time a voice rang through the room. "Remember Thomas Harwood, Number One. Let the other five beware!"