squirrel rifle, clipping the visor of his forage cap; and from that day the captain began to call with immutable regularity again on Flitter Bill for bacon and meal.  That morning the last straw fell in a demand for a wagon-load of rations to be delivered before noon, and, worn to the edge of his patience, Bill had sent a reckless refusal.  And now he was waiting on the stoop of his store, looking at the mouth of the Gap and waiting for it to give out into the valley Captain Wells and his old gray mare.  And at last, late in the afternoon, there was the captain coming—­coming at a swift gallop—­and Bill steeled himself for the onslaught like a knight in a joust against a charging antagonist.  The captain saluted stiffly—­pulling up sharply and making no move to dismount.

“Purveyor,” he said, “Black Tom has just sent word that he’s a-comin’ over hyeh this week—­have you heerd that, purveyor?” Bill was silent.

“Black Tom says you air responsible for the Army of the Callahan.  Have you heerd that, purveyor?” Still was there silence.

“He says he’s a-goin’ to hang me to that poplar whar floats them Stars and Bars”—­Captain Mayhall Wells chuckled—­“an’ he says he’s a-goin’ to hang you thar fust, though; have you heerd that, purveyor?”

The captain dropped the titular address now, and threw one leg over the pommel of his saddle.

“Flitter Bill Richmond,” he said, with great nonchalance, “I axe you—­do you prefer that I should disband the Army of the Callahan, or do you not?”

“No.”

The captain was silent a full minute, and his face grew stern.  “Flitter Bill Richmond, I had no idee o’ disbandin’ the Army of the Callahan, but do you know what I did aim to do?” Again Bill was silent.

“Well, suh, I’ll tell you whut I aim to do.  If you don’t send them rations I’ll have you cashiered for mutiny, an’ if Black Tom don’t hang you to that air poplar, I’ll hang you thar myself, suh; yes, by ——!  I will.  Dick!” he called sharply to the slave.  “Hitch up that air wagon, fill hit full o’ bacon and meal, and drive it up thar to my tent.  An’ be mighty damn quick about it, or I’ll hang you, too.”

The negro gave a swift glance to his master, and Flitter Bill feebly waved acquiescence.

“Purveyor, I wish you good-day.”

Bill gazed after the great captain in dazed wonder (was this the man who had come cringing to him only a few short weeks ago?) and groaned aloud.

But for lucky or unlucky coincidence, how could the prophet ever have gained name and fame on earth?

Captain Wells rode back to camp chuckling—­chuckling with satisfaction and pride; but the chuckle passed when he caught sight of his tent.  In front of it were his lieutenants and some half a dozen privates, all plainly in great agitation, and in the midst of them stood the lank messenger who had brought the first message from Black Tom, delivering another from the same source.  Black Tom was coming, coming surer and unless that flag, that “Rebel rag,” were hauled down under twenty-four hours, Black Tom would come over and pull it down, and to that same poplar hang “Captain Mayhall an’ his whole damn army.”  Black Tom might do it anyhow—­just for fun.