“Stop him, then!  Stop him!” replied the grayback on the shore.  “Kill him if you can.”

Tom was paddling with all his might to pass the ford before the soldier nearest to him should reach a position in which he could intercept the boat.  The rebel was an enterprising fellow, and the soldier boy’s chances were growing amazingly small.  Secesh had actually reached a place where he could make a dash at the boat.  There he stood with a long bowie-knife between his teeth, and with both hands outstretched, ready to seize upon the unfortunate bark.  He looked grim and ferocious, and Tom saw that he was thoroughly in earnest.

It was a trying situation for a boy of Tom’s years, and he would fain have dodged the issue.  That bowie-knife had a wicked look, though it was mild and tame compared with the savage eye of the rebel who held it.  As it was a case of life and death, the fugitive braced himself up to meet the shock.  Taking his position in the stern of the boat, he held the paddle in his left hand, while his right firmly grasped his revolver.  It was either “kill or be killed,” and Tom was not so sentimental as to choose the latter rather than the former, especially as his intended victim was a secessionist and a rebel.

“Keep off, or you are a dead man,” shouted Tom, as he flourished his pistol so that his assailant could obtain a fair view of its calibre, and in the hope that the fellow would be willing to adopt a politician’s expedient, and compromise the matter by retiring out of range.

“Tew kin play at that game.  This yere tooth-pick will wipe you out,” coolly replied the fellow, as he made a spring at the boat.

“Stand off!” screamed Tom, as he raised the pistol, and fired.

It was a short range, and Tom would have been inexcusable if he had missed his aim.  The rebel struck his chest with his right hand, and the bowie knife dropped from his teeth; but with his left hand he had grasped the gunwale of the boat, and as he sunk down in the shallow water, he pulled the bateau over on one side till the water poured in, and threatened to swamp her.  Fortunately the wounded man relaxed his hold, the boat righted, and Tom commenced paddling again with all his strength and skill.

The other soldier in the water, as soon as he discovered where Tom intended to pass, hastened over to assist his associate.  The shouts of their companion on shore had fully fired their southern hearts, and both of them were ten times as zealous to kill or capture a Yankee, as they had been to save a Virginian.  When the wounded man clutched the boat, the other was not more than ten feet from him, but farther down the stream.  His associate fell, and he sprang forward to engage in the affray.

“Stand off, or you are a dead man!” yelled Tom, with emphasis, as he plied his paddle with renewed energy, for he saw that the man could not reach him.