“Right at de cross-roads here at de school house at mid-night. Dey sont er man atter plenty er licker en dey gwine ter git drunk fust. I was erfeered ter come ter de meetin’ case I see er lot er de boys in de crowd. Fur de Lawd sake, Preacher, do save de ole man. He des es harmless ez er chile. En I’m gwine ter marry his gal, en she des plum crazy. We’se got five men ter fight fur ’im but I spec dey kill ’em all ef you can’t he’p us.” “Are you one of General Worth’s negroes?” “Yassir. I run erway up here, ’bout dat Free’mens Bureau trick dey put me up ter, but I’se larned better sense now.” “Well, Sam, you go to Uncle Rufus and tell him not to be afraid. I’ll stop this business before night.” The negro stepped into the woods and disappeared. “Charlie, we must hurry,” said the Preacher springing in his buggy. He was driving a beautiful bay mare, a gift from a Kentucky friend. Her sleek glistening skin and big round veins showed her fine blood. “Well, Nancy, it’s your life now or a man’s, or maybe a dozen. You must take us to Hambright in fifty minutes over these rough hills!” cried the Preacher. And he gave her the reins. The mare bounded forward with a rush that sent four spinning circles of sand and dust from each wheel. She had seldom felt the lines slacken across her beautiful back except in some great emergency. She swung past buggies and wagons without a pause. The people wondered why the Preacher was in such a hurry. Over long sand stretches of heavy road the mare flew in a cloud of dust. The Preacher’s lips were firmly set, and a scowl on his brow. They had made five miles without slackening up. The mare was now a mass of white foam, her big-veined nostrils wide open and quivering, and her eyes flashing with the fire of proud ancestry. The slackened lines on her back seemed to her an insufferable insult! “Doctor, you’ll kill Nancy!” pleaded Charlie. “Can’t help it, son, there’s a lot of drunken devils, masquerading as Ku Klux, going to kill a man to-night. If we can’t reach Major Dameron’s in time for him to get a lot of men and stop them there’ll be a terrible tragedy.” On the mare flew lifting her proud sensitive head higher and higher, while her heart beat her foaming flanks like a trip hammer. She never slackened her speed for the ten miles, but dashed up to Major Dameron’s gate at sundown, just forty-nine minutes from the time she started. The Preacher patted her dripping neck. “Good, Nancy! good! I believe you’ve got a soul!” She stood with her head still high, pawing the ground. “Major Dameron, I’ve driven my mare here at a killing speed to tell you that young McLeod and Hose Norman have a crowd of desperadoes organised to kill old Rufus Lattimore to-night. You must get enough men together, and get there in time to stop them. Sam Worth overheard their plot, knows every one of them, and there will be a battle if they attempt it.”