One of the guerrillas sprang from his horse and went to his fallen companion. "Dead as a doornail," he exclaimed. "Shot through the heart. Jack, let's after that boy. I reckon one of us winged him, for I saw him winch. We 'uns can come back and see to poor Collins heah, after we catch him. I reckon that young devil was the famous boy scout of the Merrill Hoss. I've heard Porter say he'd give a thousand dollars for him dead or alive." Without further parley, leaving their dead companion lying in the road, the two guerrillas mounted their horses and started in pursuit. Harry by this time had gained a good lead, but the guerrillas' horses were fresh, and they gained on him rapidly. As dark as it now looked for Harry, his being pursued proved to be his salvation, for he had not gone more than two miles when six guerrillas blocked the road. "Halt and give an account of yo'self!" they cried. Without checking his horse, Harry shouted, "Yanks! Yanks!" The guerrillas saw the cloud of dust raised by Harry's pursuers and wheeling their horses fled with him. Harry now had company he did not relish, but not for long. Coming to a cross road which led into a wood they turned into it crying out to Harry to do the same, but to their amazement he kept right on. "Reckon he's so skeered he didn't notice," said one. "Hold," said another, "thar's only two comin' an' they don't look like Yanks. If they be, we 'uns can tend to them." Drawing their weapons they waited for the two to come up, when they found they were two of their own gang. Explanations were made and there were curses loud and deep. "We 'uns air losing time," cried one of the first two. "The feller's hoss must be badly winded. We 'uns can catch him." The leader of the six shook his head. "No," he exclaimed, with an oath, "it's all off. Thar is a scouting party of Yanks up the road. They chased us. That's the reason we 'uns are down heah. That feller will fall in with them before we 'uns can ketch him." So, much to their chagrin, the guerrillas gave up the chase and went to attend to their dead comrade. About five miles from Monticello Harry overtook the scouting party, now on their way back to that city. Taking Harry for a guerrilla, they ordered him to surrender, which he did very willingly. Harry was white with dust, blood was dripping from his left hand and his horse, white with foam, stood trembling. The lieutenant in charge of the party rode up. "Well, young man," he began, then stopped and gazed in wonder. "Good Heavens!" he exclaimed. "It's Harry Semans. Harry, what's up?" "Porter is on the warpath. He has captured Palmyra," gasped Harry. The news was astounding. "When?" cried the lieutenant. "This morning. But I have no time to talk. Give me a fresh horse. I must see McNeil." "But your hand, my boy. Let me send one of the boys with the news." "No, no!" cried Harry. "I must see McNeil. The wound is nothing. It is nothing but a scratch."