Chapter I. - Running The Gantlet.

"Halt! who comes there?"

Time: Daybreak on the morning of May 6th, 1864.

Scene: A wild, broken area of country in northern Georgia.

Actors: In the foreground, a horseman and a drowsy sentinel roused to a sense of his duty by the sound of the approaching rider; in the background, a score or more of Confederate cavalry—men springing from their blankets at the warning of danger.

A rifle had sprung to the shoulder of the startled sentry, and the sharp click of a lock followed his ringing challenge.

The foam-flecked steed of the on-comer was hurled back upon its haunches by the iron hold laid upon its bit.

"Who comes there ?" repeated the ominous tone of the man in gray.

"A friend to the loyal," answered the horseman.

"Advance, friend, and give the countersign."

"Freedom!"

As the single word left the stranger's lips, he plunged the rowels deep into his horse's quivering flank, when like an arrow shot from a bow he bounded forward.

The movement was so sudden that before the surprised sentry could discharge his weapon the rider was upon him.

The report of his rifle followed, but the bullet flew wide of its mark, and he was hurled to the earth.

"On, Wildbird, on!" cried the reckless rider, his words drowned by the sounds of his flying steed's iron heel.

The amazed cavalrymen had gained their feet.

"Stop him, boys!" cried their leader. " 'T’is one of Sherman's scouts!"

The valley was narrow here.

Upon the right, looking south, rose abruptly the rugged heights.

On the left, a spur of the mountain range had a more gradual ascent.

The escaping horseman was forced to pause within a short distance of his enemies—so near in fact that his white face shone plainly in the starlight.

" Fire!" rang out the cavalry chief's wild command.

A volley of bullets whistled around the fugitive's head.

He was seen to reel in his saddle, but his flight was unchecked.

"S' death! there he goes!" exclaimed the Confederate leader. " Quick ! follow me!"

As one the twenty men sprang forward to intercept the fugitive's flight?

Owing to a curve in the valley the horseman could not pursue a straight course.

Thus at the moment when his escape seemed certain he found his retreat cut off.

He was hemmed in.

As yet he had not fired a shot.

His assailants were now so close upon him that his rifle was useless save as a club.

If he realized his hopeless situation he did not hesitate in his head long course.

"On, Wildbird, on!"

Like a Centaur he swept into the midst of his foes.

Some were hurled right and left.

The foremost seized the bridle of the plunging horse.

" Hold up there, you Yankee devil!"

"Never!" rang out the sharp retort, and the other was felled to the earth.

" On, Wildbird, on!"

The path was blocked.

In vain the noble brute struggled to free himself.

Three of the sentinels were clinging to its bridle and the plunging steed was stopped.

Others of the assailants were trying to pull the rider from his seat.

A few shots were fired, but the fight had come to such close quarters that firearms were of little use.

The stranger's rifle had been hurled from his grasp.

He felt himself borne down, and for a moment his struggles ceased.

"Will you surrender?" gritted the leader.

"Never!"

"On, Wildbird, on!"

Suddenly, with a Herculean effort, the horseman freed his right arm.

An instant later a knife flashed in his hand.

Descrying a circle in the air it descended with lightning-like rapidity, severing at a single stroke the horse's bridle.

At the same time the assailants staggered back, leaving the wounded and maddened steed free.

With a snort of defiance it bounded forward sending the baffled men right and left.

Before they could rally the dashing scout had cleared them.

A few shots were fired, but none seemed to take effect.

As their yells of rage rang on the air, the fugitive disappeared down the valley.

"That's a pretty go!" muttered the leader of the discomfited gang. " I should rather have lost my right arm than that he should have escaped."

"Did you recognize him, captain?" asked a tall, flaxen-haired soldier.

"He is Cavalry Curt."

"Not Phil Kearney's scout?"

" The same. I heard at headquarters yesterday that he was in 'these regions. His presence means us mischief."

"And his escape something worse".

" But he must not escape."

"Quick, into the saddle. We must follow him."

Three of the party were injured so that they could not join in the pursuit, and were forced to remain behind.

The others vaulted into the saddle and a few minutes later were following as rapidly as the country would permit on the trail of the fugitive.

He had only a slight start of them and they felt confident of quickly overtaking and capturing him.

In the very heart of the enemy's country his escape indeed seemed impossible.