“Not by a long shot,” said Sergeant Whitley, resting his rifle across the pommel of his saddle.  “They’ve got to follow straight behind.  The ground is too rough for them to ride around an’ flank us.”

Dick said nothing, but his gauntleted hand moved down to the butt of one of his pistols.  His heart throbbed, but he preserved the appearance of coolness.  He was fast becoming inured to danger.  Owing to the slope they could not increase the speed of their horses greatly, but they were beyond the mouth of the path before they were seen by Skelly and his band.  Then the big mountaineer uttered a great shout and began to wave his hand at them.

“The road curves here a little among the rocks,” said the sergeant, who unconsciously took command.  “Suppose we stop, sheltered by the curve, and ask them what they want.”

“The very thing to do,” said Dick.

“Sass ’em, sergeant!  Sass ’em!” said Red Blaze.

They drew their horses back partially in the shadow of the rocky curve, but the sergeant was a little further forward than the others.  Dick saw Skelly and a score of men emerge into the road and come rapidly toward them.  They were a wild-looking crew, mounted on tough mountain ponies, all of them carrying loot, and all armed heavily.

The sergeant threw up his rifle, and with a steady hand aimed straight at Skelly’s heart.

“Halt!” he cried sharply, “and tell me who you are!”

The whole crew seemed to reel back except Skelly, who, though stopping his horse, remained in the center of the road.

“What do you mean?” he cried.  “We’re peaceful travelers.  What business is it of yours who we are?”

“Judgin’ by your looks you’re not peaceful travelers at all.  Besides these ain’t peaceful times an’ we take the right to demand who you are.  If you come on another foot, I shoot.”

The sergeant’s tones were sharp with resolve.

“Your name!” he continued.

“Ramsdell, David Ramsdell,” replied the leader of the band.

“That’s a lie,” said Sergeant Whitley.  “Your name is Bill Skelly, an’ you’re a mountaineer from Eastern Kentucky, claimin’ to belong first to one side and then to the other as suits you.”

“Who says so?” exclaimed Skelly defiantly.

The sergeant beckoned Dick, who rode forward a little.

“I do,” said the boy in a loud, clear voice.  “My name is Dick Mason, and I live at Pendleton in Kentucky.  I saw you more than once before the war, and I know that you tried to burn down the house of Colonel Kenton there, and kill him and his friends.  I’m on the other side, but I’m not for such things as that.”

Skelly distinctly saw Dick sitting on his horse in the pass, and he knew him well.  Rage tore at his heart.  Although on “the other side” this boy, too, was a lowlander and in a way a member of that vile Kenton brood.  He hated him, too, because he belonged to those who had more of prosperity and education than himself.  But Skelly was a man of resource and not a coward.