A few minutes later, when he came to his senses, he felt as if he were a boy annexed to a shoulder twice as big as all the rest of his body. It was on his shoulder that the blow of the clubbed musket had gone home. The fall from his horse had stunned him. Bob was standing over him, as Black Auster stood over Herminius, nuzzling at the outstretched hand of this silent, motionless thing that had been his master. They had been together for less than a week, but a day is often long enough for a horse to find out that his master is his friend. Tom had been more careful of his horse's comfort than of his own. Now the good gray had stood by him and over him, perhaps saving him from being trampled to death in that fierce last act of the Drama of Five Forks. Bob whinnied with joy as Tom's eyes slowly opened again. He thrust his muzzle down along the boy's cheek and the boy caught hold of the flowing mane with his right hand and pulled himself upon his feet again. His left arm hung useless by his side. One glance told him the battle was won. The duels were over. The Confederates were in full retreat. A stream of prisoners was already flowing by him. He mounted and followed it to Sheridan's headquarters. There the skillful fingers of a surgeon found that no bones were broken. The swollen shoulder was dressed and bandaged. The healthy blood that filled Tom's veins did much to make a speedy cure. So did the joy of victory. Sheridan had done what Grant had given him to do. He had driven back Lee's right flank and cut the railroad by which Lee must escape from Richmond, if escape he could.