“Surrender!” A fusillade followed.  Again: 

“Surrender!” and there was a short silence, broken by low curses from the guerillas, and a stern Yankee voice giving short, quick orders.  The guerillas had given up.  Rebel Jerry moved restlessly at Dan’s side and Dan cautioned him.

“Wait!  Let them have time to disarm the prisoners,” he whispered.

“Now,” he added, a little while later—­“creep quietly, boys.”

Forward they went like snakes, creeping to the edge of the brush whence they could see the sullen guerillas grouped on one side of the fire—­their arms stacked, while a tall figure in blue moved here and there, and gave orders in a voice that all at once seemed strangely familiar to Dan.

“Now, boys,” he said, half aloud, “give ’em a volley and charge.”

At his word there was a rattling fusillade, and then the rebels leaped from the bushes and dashed on the astonished Yankees and their prisoners.  It was pistol to pistol at first and then they closed to knife thrust and musket butt, hand to hand—­in a cloud of smoke.  At the first fire from the rebels Chad saw his prisoner, Daws Dillon, leap for the stacked arms and disappear.  A moment later, as he was emptying his pistol at his charging foes, he felt a bullet clip a lock of hair from the back of his head and he turned to see Daws on the farthest edge of the firelight levelling his pistol for another shot before he ran.  Like lightning he wheeled and when his finger pulled the trigger, Daws sank limply, his grinning, malignant face sickening as he fell.

The tall fellow in blue snapped his pistol at Dan, and as Dan, whose pistol, too, was empty, sprang forward and closed with him, he heard a triumphant yell behind him and Rebel Jerry’s huge figure flashed past him.  With the same glance he saw among the Yankees another giant—­who looked like another Jerry—­saw his face grow ghastly with fear when Jerry’s yell rose, and then grow taut with ferocity as he tugged at his sheath to meet the murderous knife flashing toward him.  The terrible Dillon twins were come together at last, and Dan shuddered, but he saw no more, for he was busy with the lithe Yankee in whose arms he was closed.  As they struggled, Dan tried to get his knife and the Yankee tugged for his second pistol each clasping the other’s wrist.  Not a sound did they make nor could either see the other’s face, for Dan had his chin in his opponent’s breast and was striving to bend him backward.  He had clutched the Yankee’s right hand, as it went back for his pistol, just as the Yankee had caught his right in front, feeling for his knife.  The advantage would have been all Dan’s except that the Yankee suddenly loosed his wrist and gripped him tight about the body in an underhold, so that Dan could not whirl him round; but he could twist that wrist and twist it he did, with both hands and all his strength.  Once the Yankee gave a smothered groan of pain and Dan heard him grit his teeth to keep it back.  The smoke had lifted now, and, when they fell, it was in the light of the fire.  The Yankee had thrown him with a knee-trick that Harry used to try on him when they were boys, but something about the Yankee snapped, as they fell, and he groaned aloud.  Clutching him by the throat, Dan threw him oft—­he could get at his knife now.