“Here they come, Mike! In the devil’s name keep quiet or they’ll bag every mother’s son of us,” I said as I turned my face toward him to see what was the matter. A glance explained it all. The old horse, in twisting about, had knocked over a rotten stump and uncovered a yellow jackets’ nest, that held a half bushel, it looked to me, of the maddest jackets I had ever seen. They had sampled the legs of Mike’s horse several times, but when they began to swarm up and pop it to him on his thighs and sides, the old fellow could stand it no longer and bolted straight forward through the brush, kicking, snorting, squealing like a mustang, and inside of fifty yards of where we were standing jumped into the open road. Mike and his steed were about the busiest pair just then I ever saw; the old horse was kicking, squealing, stamping, plunging and biting in his frantic efforts to get rid of his tormentors, while Mike was giving his whole time, and undivided attention, to swearing and sticking on. He made no effort to guide him, but by the luckiest chance on earth the horse turned up the road, instead of down towards the enemy. It was evidently a startling apparition that thus suddenly appeared in the road in front of the Federal cavalry, for they came abruptly to a halt, and for a moment seemed undecided as to what it was, or what to do, for the old horse had his busiest end towards them and they could see, what must have appeared to them, a dozen or more horses’ tails flirting up and down, around and around in the air (for the old brute was swinging it vigorously and with lightning rapidity), and a countless number of heels and legs flying out of this cloud of horse hair in all directions. At the same time a shapeless bundle of something gray, was bouncing about on top, for Mike in his gymnastic exercise in holding on assumed many inconceivable attitudes, all of which were enveloped in a thin yellow cloud that certainly was not dust, and out of which came curses, groans, squeals, and snorts. The old horse did everything but lie down to rid himself of the torture. Finally he made up his mind to run, and such running—a streak of lightning would have been distanced at the rate he went. He looked as if he was literally flying and would only touch the earth at intervals long enough to sling his heels out in vicious kicks, first on one side and then the other. At this part of the performance Mike would bounce up a frightful distance, but always managed to come down on the neck, back, or side of his horse. I never in my life saw such running, and can truthfully say no circus ever gave a greater variety of styles in riding. As soon as the horse stretched out into a run, and the enemy could see what it was in front of them, they unslung their carbines, fired a volley at Mike and a half dozen or them darted out at full speed after him. As they passed I heard one fellow call out: