THE gentleman who entered the room from the other side was evidently Mr. Callicot, the father of the lady, and the Union man of whom the guerilla had spoken. He was unarmed, but there was a rifle hanging against the wall, after the manner of the South and West. The old gentleman was out of breath from hurry and excitement, and was hardly in condition to confront the ruffian, who had been bold enough in the presence of a timid woman.

“What do you want here?” demanded Mr. Callicot, in an excited tone.

“Nothin’, squire, but a drink of whiskey,” replied the Texan, glancing first at Somers, and then at the old man.

“There is not a drop of whiskey in my house, and has not been for years,” answered Mr. Callicot.

“I’m a Texican, squire, and yer can’t cheat me. I was born in the woods, and I kin smell whiskey nine mile off.”

“I have told you the truth.”

“No, yer hain’t. Fotch on your whiskey, squire,” added Skinley, taking one of his pistols from his belt.

“I have a safe-conduct from the general of this department,” said the old man. “Here it is.”

“I can’t read it, stranger. Don’t want ter read it, nuther.”

“Perhaps you will read it,” said Mr. Callicot, walking across the room, and handing it to Somers.

“Don’t yer tech it, Somers,” said the Texan, angrily.

Somers took the paper, glanced at it, and handed it back to the owner.

“Are you satisfied?” asked the old man.

“I am.”

“That ain’t handsome, Somers. Bekase you don’t drink whiskey, it’s onreasonable that you should spile my drink. But I’m gwine to hev my liquor. Now, squire, will yer fotch on the whiskey, or won’t yer?”

“I would if I had any.”

“But yer hev,” said Skinley, raising his pistol; and before Somers could realize that he intended to fire, he discharged the piece at Mr. Callicot.

“O, my father!” screamed his daughter, rushing towards him.

“What do you mean, you villain?” cried Somers, elevating his pistol, and instantly firing.

“See here, Somers; that ain’t handsome,” replied Skinley. “I didn’t tech you.”

In the smoke that filled the room Somers had missed his aim, and the Texan was now entirely concealed from him.

“Leave the house!” shouted Somers.

“Not till I git my whiskey, if I knows it. I hain’t killed the old man; didn’t mean to kill him; only skeer him a little. May be you mought be willing to fotch on the whiskey now, squire.”

“I have none, as I told you before,” replied Mr. Callicot, who, finding he was not wounded, had, under cover of smoke, taken down the rifle from the beckets on the wall. “Now you will leave my house.”

“Come, squire, don’t be techy, but fotch on the whiskey,” said Skinley, evidently not pleased with the new aspect of affairs.

“Leave my house!” replied the old man, with dignity.

Skinley, finding that it was of no use to argue the point, slowly backed out at the door by which he had entered.

“Shoot him, Somers,” said he.

“You deserve to be shot yourself for this outrage,” added Somers, indignantly.

“That ain’t handsome, Somers. But we can’t stop no longer,” continued the Texan, as he left the house, and walked towards his horse.

“Begone, or you are a dead man,” said Mr. Callicot to Somers, who still remained in the room.

“You mistake me, sir,” returned Somers; “I am a friend, and not an enemy.”

“Begone, or you shall die!” repeated the old man, now roused to the highest pitch of indignation. “You fired at me as well as the other ruffian.”

“I fired at him.”

At this moment the door by which the owner of the house had first entered was thrown wide open, and Somers discovered Skinley, who had gone round the house, and come in by another entrance. The wretch instantly raised his rifle, and fired. The old man dropped heavily on the floor, and his daughter uttered a scream of agony, as she threw herself on his body.

“That’s the way a Texican settles yer hash!” shouted Skinley.

Somers, who had returned the pistol to his belt, drew it again, and fired in the direction of the door, though the smoke prevented him from seeing the form of Skinley. The guerilla rushed out of the house, and disappeared. Somers followed him, determined not to be balked this time. Unfortunately, he turned to the left, while the Texan went to the right; and when he had passed around the house to the lane, he discovered the scoundrel, already mounted, and spurring his horse away from the scene.

Somers sprang into his saddle, and started in pursuit. The hour had come to avenge the old man, and to discharge the duty imposed upon him, now made easy by the wretch’s crime. He urged forward his good horse to the utmost of his speed, and gained rapidly upon him. Skinley, who could insult a woman, and shoot an old man, had a wholesome fear of his pursuer; but when he found that Somers was gaining upon him, he unslung his rifle, and while his horse was at full speed, turned and fired at his late companion. The bullet did not come near Somers, who still urged on his steed.

Skinley, for some reason of his own, perhaps for the purpose of putting into operation some method of dodging his pursuer which he had learned in fighting Indians, or lassoing cattle, now turned into an open field. Whatever might have been the merits of the scheme under ordinary circumstances, it was fatal to him in the present instance; for, while the Texan was proceeding in a direction at right angles with the road, Somers dashed into the field, and cut him off, by taking the diagonal of the square, while Skinley was following the side. Perhaps he had not noticed a piece of low ground, partially covered with water, which compelled him to give Somers this advantage.

“’Tain’t handsome, Somers; I didn’t tech you!” yelled Skinley, when he perceived that he had lost the game.

Somers elevated his revolver, and, taking careful aim, fired. The wretch threw up his arms, sprang upward in his saddle, and dropped to the ground, while his horse dashed on at increased speed, when relieved of his heavy burden.

“My work is done,” said Somers, as he drew in his panting steed.

Turning his horse, he rode slowly back to the spot where Skinley had fallen. Dismounting, he bent over the body to ascertain the result of his shot. The ball had struck the Texan in the side, and had evidently passed through his heart, for he was entirely dead. The old man was avenged; the plot of the guerillas, so far as it depended upon the arrival of Sweetzer and his force, was defeated.

Somers took from the corpse of the guerilla a rifle, three pistols, and a long knife. There was something projecting from the breast pocket of his coat which looked like a bundle of papers; and the young officer, ever intent upon procuring information, drew it forth. He was not mistaken; it was a bundle of papers, and among others there was a note from Captain Lynchman to Lieutenant Sweetzer; but it was only the order for him to proceed forthwith to Tantallon cross-roads. Inasmuch as Skinley was not “up to print,” much less to writing, the remainder of the papers could have no connection with the bearer; but Somers was too much impressed by the proximity of the dead man, and by the necessity of prudence in his present condition, to examine them, and he put them in his pocket for future inspection.

Slinging the rifle upon his back, and placing the other weapons in his belt, he mounted his horse. As he was about to depart, the animal which had been ridden by Skinley came walking leisurely up the field, as if in search of his lost burden. When he saw Somers, he went up to him, and suffered himself to be captured. He was a docile creature, and had been well trained by his late master. Leading the horse, he returned to the house of Mr. Callicot, to ascertain the fate of that gentleman, and report the result of the pursuit.

He found the house in commotion. The few servants which the Union man had been able to retain were bustling about the house, but, as is apt to be the case in a panic, doing absolutely nothing. Somers gave the horses into the keeping of an old negro man, and having deposited the guerilla’s weapons in the back room, entered the house. He found, by the direction which the servants took, where the dead or wounded man lay; for he had not waited to learn his fate before he went in pursuit of the wretch who had done the deed.

He entered the apartment, and was glad to find that his worst fears had not been realized. Mr. Callicot was not dead, but he appeared to be severely wounded. His eyes were open, and he was gazing, with a languid look of affection, at his daughter, who was bending over the bed.

“There’s one of them,” he faintly articulated, as Somers entered the room.

“I am not one of them, Mr. Callicot; on the contrary, I am an officer of the Union army, on the staff of the major general commanding the eleventh and twelfth corps.”

“Impossible!” groaned the sufferer.

“More than this, I have shot the villain who fired at you,” continued Somers.

“He certainly took no part with the other man, father,” interposed the daughter; “and I heard him order his companion to leave the house.”

“If you are still in doubt, you will find the villain’s horse in your stable, and all his weapons in your back room.”

“Go and see, Sophia,” said the old man; “for we know not whom to trust.”

Somers conducted the lady to the back room, and exhibited the weapons; then to the stable, where the negro had taken the horse.

“If you are not satisfied, Miss Callicot, you may send one of your servants to a field on the left of the road, about half a mile from here, and he will find the body of the guerilla,—for such he was.”

“I am satisfied, sir, for I noticed the horse when the man rode into the yard,” replied the lady. “Why did you not protect us?”

“I fired at the scoundrel a moment after he discharged his pistol at your father the first time; but the smoke in the room spoiled my aim, and I missed him. I also fired at him when your father fell, as you must have noticed.”

“I heard two shots, but I did not know who fired them.”

“I supposed he had gone when he left the house; but it seems he went round, and entered again by another door. I did not think the ruffian was base enough to kill an old man like your father, or I would have shot him in the first place. I did not wish to do so in your presence.”

“I wish you had.”

“Is your father badly wounded?”

“I don’t know how bad it is; he was struck in the shoulder. I have trembled every day for fear of these guerillas; but when they come with an officer, my father’s paper always saves us from harm.”

“Have you sent for a surgeon?” asked Somers.

“We have no horse at home, and the surgeon lives five miles from us.”

“Take the dead man’s horse.”

“Thank you; I will send a man at once,” replied Miss Callicot.

A boy was immediately despatched on Skinley’s horse for a doctor, and Somers went with the lady to the room of her father. The young officer examined the wound, and ventured to assure the sufferer that it was not a dangerous one. When wounded himself, he had seen the surgeons operate, and he had some idea of the methods employed. The old man was bleeding freely; and by changing his position on the bed, and by pressing a napkin around the wound, he checked the flow of blood.

It was three hours before the surgeon arrived. He was a personal friend of the Union man, and came with all haste as soon as the boy found him. The doctor came, but the messenger did not return; and Somers concluded that the horse had been seen and recognized by some of the guerillas. The young officer was greatly perplexed in regard to his future movements; and though Miss Callicot offered, and pressed upon him, the hospitalities of the house, he decided to depart as soon as the doctor had assured him that the wound was not dangerous. Leaving at the house the guerilla’s weapons, which he advised the lady to conceal, he mounted his horse, and rode away; but what to do, or where to go, he was at a loss to determine. All he wanted now was, to find De Banyan, and hasten to the headquarters of his general.

The attack upon the pay-master’s escort was to be made at Tantallon cross-roads, or in that direction; but it was not prudent for him to be seen near that locality, after what had happened, and he decided to return to the nearest military post on the railroad. After riding a couple of miles, as he turned a bend in the road, on the verge of a wood, he suddenly came upon Lynchman’s force, which had halted there.