ON the way out of the house, De Banyan whispered a few words in the ear of Somers, while they were in the darkness of the entry. There was very great danger that things might get a little mixed; that Alick and the other servant might tell wrong stories about their respective masters.

“Tell Alick to say we are rebels,” was the substance of the communication.

When they reached the spot where the horses had been left, Somers told his man what to say. It was fortunate that he did so promptly, for the guerilla leader, apparently suspecting something, suddenly became very officious, and kept close to the recruits. The horses were taken to the stable, where they were placed with the others, after which the party returned to the house, followed by the servants.

“What’s your master’s name?” demanded Captain Lynchman, the leader of the guerillas, of Alick.

“Captain Somers, sar,” replied the faithful fellow.

“What is he captain of?”

“Dunno, sar.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Up above, sar.”

“Is your master a Union man?”

“I reckon he isn’t, sar. He’s a right smart reb’l, sar.”

“Where are you going?”

“Dunno, sar.”

“How long have you been in his service?”

“Much as a monf, sar.”.

The captain asked many other questions, but Alick gave prudent answers; he did not know much, and what he did know, he did not know certainly. De Banyan’s man, taking his cue from his fellow-servant, answered in similar terms, and nothing was made out of either of them.

During the evening Somers learned, from various members of the band, that the guerillas were only a portion of an organized body, duly recognized by the Confederate government, engaged in partisan warfare. The talent and address of Major de Banyan had attracted the attention of the chief, who affected strategy rather than a bold and dashing policy. Captain Lynchman’s perception was creditable to him, and if the major would have engaged in the foul business, he would undoubtedly have been an invaluable assistant.

Our travellers were regarded as members of the band, but really they were prisoners. They found no opportunity to interchange a word of counsel, or to take a single step for their future safety. Both of them were anxious to reach the headquarters of “Fighting Joe;” but the delay was not voluntary on their part. De Banyan had chosen between capture and compromise. He had presented, as he always did, a bold front, and disarmed suspicion in the beginning by his skill and address—had actually won the hearts of his new companions.

Captain Lynchman affected strategy, and while he carefully watched the recruits, he treated them with the utmost consideration. His future movements depended upon the information to be brought by Tippy, the scout. After the horses had been cared for, the guerillas retired for the night, some of them taking the beds, sofas, and divans, others stretching themselves on the floors; but there was no part of the house which was not occupied by them, and there was no opportunity for our travellers to “cut” their unpleasant associates during the night, as they had hoped and expected to do.

Early in the morning, Tippy, the scout, arrived. All the guerillas were at the stables, attending to the horses, when his coming was announced. The men were ordered to be ready to mount at an instant’s notice; while Captain Lynchman hastened to the house, to receive the intelligence brought by the scout, who was eating his breakfast in the kitchen.

“De Banyan, I shall want you,” said the leader; “your work will commence about this time. It will take the greenback train an hour or two to get ready for a start. Come with me.”

“I am ready for anything,” replied the major; and followed by Somers, he repaired to the house with the guerilla chief.

They entered by the front door, and taking possession of the drawing-room, the captain ordered Skinley, who seemed to be the commissary-general of the gang, to send the scout into the room.

“Skinley, you’ll be deaf now,” said Captain Lynchman.

“I reckon they ain’t none so deef as them that won’t hear,” responded the Texan.

“Then you won’t hear what Tippy has to say. Bring him in.”

“Tippy’s half starved, cap’n; they don’t feed ’em much up among the Yanks.”

“Let him eat, but tell him to be quick.”

Skinley left the room; and then, for the first time, the captain noticed the presence of Somers, and told him to leave the room.

“He’s my friend, Captain Lynchman; I have no secrets from him,” interposed the major, with dignity. “If you can’t trust him, you can’t trust me, and we will move on to the headquarters of Wheeler’s cavalry.”

“Just as you please, major,” replied Lynchman; “but it is hardly regular.”

“Nothing is very regular about these partisans. It is just as regular for him as for me. He is my right-hand man, and I can’t do anything without him. I don’t ask your confidence, and I don’t want it. I am just as willing to go about my business as I am to stay with you.”

“I am not willing, after telling you my plans.”

“What did you tell them to me for, then?”

“Because I wanted you; and I did not expect to get you without offering big inducements. We shall divide three or four millions in greenbacks to-day, if we manage well. I believe in strategy in a case like this.”

“So do I; and that is the very reason why I want Somers to know all about the matter.”

While they were talking about it, Tippy, the scout, entered the room. He was a young man, with a bright eye and a manly form, and looked as though he was capable of doing all that had been claimed for him. He had eaten his morning meal very hastily; indeed, he had not finished it when he presented himself in the drawing-room, for his mouth was even now crammed full of corn cake, which he was trying to dispose of so that he could speak.

Tippy looked at Captain Lynchman first, crunching the food in his mouth in the most vigorous manner. From the leader, he glanced at Somers, who stood next to him. De Banyan had walked away to a window on the other side of the room, and as he turned to come back, the scout looked at him. Instantly his jaws ceased their movements, and he started back, apparently filled with astonishment. Somers looked at the major, who stood calmly at his side; but it was evident that he was not wholly unmoved by the appearance of Tippy.

“Well, what does all this mean?” demanded Captain Lynchman.

Somers again glanced at the major, and saw him give the scout a very slight, but energetic shake of the head, accompanied by a look which seemed to penetrate to the very soul of Tippy.

“Why don’t you speak?” demanded Lynchman, impatiently.

Tippy improved this opportunity, still gazing intently on Major de Banyan, to swallow the food in his mouth. He finished this operation, and Lynchman waited for him to explain his singular conduct.

“Have you lost your tongue?” cried he, jumping out of his chair.

“I cannot speak,” replied Tippy, exhibiting a great deal of emotion in his tones.

“Cannot speak! Do you know this man?”

“I do.”

“Who is he?”

“Let him answer for himself. It is not for me to speak in his presence.”

“What does all this mean?” said the guerilla leader, bewildered by the new aspect of affairs. “Who is this man, that you cannot speak in his presence?” he added, turning to the major.

“He is a bigger man than you or me,” answered the scout, mysteriously.

“That may be, but I command here. Is he a traitor, or a Yankee?”

“No!” almost shouted the scout. “He belonged to Winchester once. He is a Tennesseean.”

“Good!” exclaimed the captain, apparently much pleased with this confirmation of what the major had said of himself.

“Give your information, Tippy,” added De Banyan, with an awful exhibition of dignity, as though he were the “big man” whom the scout had represented him to be.

“Not yet,” said Lynchman. “I want to understand this matter a little better.”

“We have been in Nashville together. We have worked together for years,” interposed De Banyan.

“O, that’s the idea—is it?” said the leader of the guerillas. “Then you are a scout yourself, Major de Banyan?”

“I have done a great deal of hard work in Virginia and in Tennessee. I have stood by the flag almost from the beginning,” returned the major.

“Is this so, Tippy?”

“It is, Captain Lynchman. Whatever he says is right.”

“Major, I am satisfied now.” said the chief, extending his hand to De Banyan. “I wanted to repose implicit confidence in you before, but prudence forbade.”

“We are losing time,” said De Banyan.

“Now tell your story, Tippy,” added Lynchman.

Somers was confounded by the events which had just transpired before him. He did not know what to make of them. His friend had a wonderful power over the scout, which he could not explain; but whatever occurred, he knew that De Banyan was a true man; that the recognition and devotion of the rebel scout to him were no evidences of infidelity. He could not understand, but he could trust the major.

“Shall I go on, sir?” said the scout, appealing to the major.

“Certainly; proceed,” replied De Banyan.

Tippy’s story was short and to the point. The pay-master with the greenbacks had arrived, and there was present a force of about a hundred cavalry to convoy him to his place of destination.

“A hundred!” exclaimed the captain, vexed at this information. “I shall want the rest of my men.”

“You bet!” exclaimed a deep voice near the door, in low, emphatic tones, as though they had been used in soliloquy.

“Skinley!” cried the captain, angrily.

There was no reply, and Lynchman repeated the call half a dozen times, as loud as he could yell.

“D’ye call me, cap’n?” said the Texan, coming to the door, which was now discovered to be partially open.

“I did; you have been listening at the door.”

“Fotch ’em as soon as I kin, cap’n,” said the burly fellow, innocently.

“None of that with me,” added Lynchman, angrily.

“Bet yer life they ain’t, cap’n.”

“Silence, you villain!” thundered the captain, taking a pistol from his belt.

“Take keer, cap’n!”

“Can’t you hear, Skinley? If you can’t, I’ll open your ears.”

“You told me to be deef, cap’n.”

“I did; and you have been listening to all that has been said in this room.”

“I was afeered you mought forget some on’t, and mought wan’t me to remound you of it.”

“Come here.”

“Here’m I, cap’n.”

“Do you know where the rest of our men are?”

“If I don’t, nobody don’t.”

“Ride over there as fast as you can, and tell Sweetzer to meet me at Tantallon cross-roads at once, with all his force. Do you understand?”

“I kin hear now, cap’n.”

“It will take you an hour to go, and another hour for Sweetzer to reach the cross-roads.”

“How many men have you?” demanded De Banyan, in business-like tones.

“About a hundred,” replied the captain. “We can make a sure thing of it, for we shall outnumber the Yankees, and choose our own ground besides.”

“Where are they now?”

“At Raybold’s, on the Salem road. I have driven them hard lately, and I gave them a few days to rest.”

“I know the place. It is near the mountains.”

“Just so. I believe in strategy, and I thought I should do better with twenty men than I should with over a hundred; but I calculated to take the greenbacks on the train.”

“Your plans are good; but do you send only one man on such a message? Suppose he should fall from his horse, or be shot by a Yankee?”

“I can’t spare but one, for I may have to do the job before the rest of my force arrives.”

“Send Somers,” suggested the major.

“What good would that do? He couldn’t find my men?”

“Do you know where Raybold’s is, Somers?” asked the major.

“Certainly I do—just by the mountains on the Salem road,” replied Somers, who had given good attention to the conversation.

“Right; you will do,” added the captain.

And Somers went with Skinley.