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"Deserters, I don't doubt!" was my comment to the ladies. Tongue revenge is poor, but it is something.

"You'll be the first prisoner I ever shot if you get any funnier!"

"Don't interrupt me, Smith. Yes, Clifton. You're not to reach there to-night--"

I was moving briskly along, making my good steed acquainted with me, testing his education, how promptly for instance, he would respond to rein-touch and to leg-pressure, when I saw, in front, coming toward me, three riders. Two of them were very genteel chaps, though a hand of each was on the lock of his carbine. The third was a woman, veiled, and clad in some dark stuff that in the starlight seemed quite black and contrasted strongly with the paleness of her horse. Her hat, in particular, fastened my attention; if that was not the same soft-brimmed Leghorn I had seen yesterday morning, at least it was its twin sister. I halted, revolver in hand, and said, as they drew rein,--"Good-evening."

"Ferry's scouts," I repeated. "F-e-r-r-y-apostrophe s, Ferry's--s-k-o-w-t-s--scouts."

"True; but neither are the enemy, and they're early risers, you know."

Well, you air in a hurry!

"Good-morning, Smith, who is your prisoner?"

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