He, too, dropped at the hole under the broken palings and slid forward face foremost. The wet grass was as slippery as ice, and after he passed through the hole Dick kept going. Moreover, his speed increased. He had not realized that the garden went to the very edge of the ravine, and he was shooting down a steep slope to the depth of thirty feet. He grasped instinctively at weeds and grass as he made his downward plunge and fetched up easily at the bottom.
He sprang to his feet and saw the shadowy fugitive running down the ravine. In an instant he followed headlong, tripped once or twice on the wet grass, but was up every time like lightning, and once more in swift pursuit. The fugitive turned once, raised his pistol and pulled the trigger again, evidently forgetful that it was empty. When the hammer snapped on the trigger he uttered a low cry of anger and hurled the useless weapon into the grass. Then he whirled around and faced Dick, who was coming on, eager and panting.
Dick’s own pistol was empty and he did not carry his small sword. He stopped abruptly when the other turned, and, in the dim light and rain, he saw that his opponent was a young man or rather youth of about his own size and age. When he saw the lad cast the pistol aside Dick, moved by some chivalrous impulse, dropped his own in the grass.
Then the two stared at each other. They were far beyond the line of the pickets, and as they stood in the deep ravine there was no chance that any one would either see or hear them. As Dick gazed intently, the face and figure of his antagonist shaped themselves more distinctly in the dim light. He beheld before him a tall youth, extremely well built, fair of face, his brown hair slightly long. He wore rain-soaked civilian’s garb.
He saw that the youth was panting like himself, but it was not wholly the result of flight. His face expressed savage anger and indignation.
“You dirty Yankee!” he said.
Dick started. No one had ever before addressed him with such venom.
“If by Yankee you mean loyalty to the Union then I’m one,” he said, “and I’m proud of it. What’s more I’m willing to tell who I am. My name is Richard Mason. I’m from Kentucky, and I’m a lieutenant in the regiment of Colonel Arthur Winchester, which occupies the building behind us.”
“From Kentucky and consorting with Yankees! A lot of you are doing it, and you ought to be on our side! We hate you for it more than we do the real Yankees!”
“It’s our right to choose, and we’ve chosen. And now, since you’re talking so much about right and wrong, who may you be, Mr. Firebug?”
Even in the dark Dick saw his opponent’s face flush, and his eyes flash with deadly hostility.
“My name is Victor Woodville,” he replied, “and my father is Colonel John Woodville, C.S.A. He is the owner of the house in which your infamous Yankee regiment is encamped.”
“And which you have tried to burn?”
“I’d rather see it burn than shelter Yankees. You’d burn it anyway later on. Grant’s troops have already begun to use the torch.”
“At any rate you’ll go before our colonel. He’ll want to ask you a lot of questions.”
“I’m not going before your colonel.”
“Oh, yes, you are.”
“Who’s going to take me?”
“I am.”
“Then come on and do it.”
Dick advanced warily. Both had regained their breath and strength now. Dick with two years of active service in the army had the size and muscles of a man. But so had his opponent. Each measured the other, and they were formidable antagonists, well matched.
Dick had learned boxing at the Pendleton Academy, and, as he approached slowly, looking straight into the eyes of his enemy, he suddenly shot his right straight for Woodville’s chin. The Mississippian, as light on his feet as a leopard, leaped away and countered with his left, a blow so quick and hard that Dick, although he threw his head to one side, caught a part of its force just above his ear. But, guarding himself, he sprang back, while Woodville faced him, laughing lightly.