“He’s speakin’ the exact truth, Jim,” said Red Blaze, who had come in behind Dick, “an’ I’ve brought him an’ the sergeant here over the mountains to tell about it.”
The boy sprang to his instrument. But he stopped a moment to ask one question.
“Did you really beat ’em off?” he asked as he looked up with shining eye.
“We certainly did,” replied Dick.
“I’ll send it faster than I ever sent anything before,” said the boy. “To think of me, Jim Johnson, sending a dispatch to Abraham Lincoln, telling of a victory!”
“I reckon you’re right, Jim, it’s your chance,” said Red Blaze.
Jim bent over the instrument which now began to click steadily and fast.
“You’re to wait for answers,” said Dick.
The boy nodded, but his shining eyes remained bent over the instrument. Dick went to the door, brushed off the snow, came back and sat down by the stove. Sergeant Whitley, who had tied the horses to hitching posts, came in, pulled up an empty box and sat down by him. Red Blaze slipped away unnoticed. But he came back very soon, and men and women came with him, bringing food and smoking coffee. There was enough for twenty.
Red Blaze had spread among the villagers, every one of whom he knew, the news that the Union arms had won a victory. Nor had it suffered anything in the telling. Colonel Newcomb’s regiment, by the most desperate feats of gallantry, had beaten off at least ten thousand Southerners, and the boy and the man in uniform, who were resting by the fire in the station, had been the greatest two heroes of a battle waged for a whole night.
Curious eyes gazed at Dick and the sergeant as they sat there by the stove. Dick himself, warm, relaxed, and the needs of his body satisfied, felt like going to sleep. But he watched the boy operator, who presently finished his two dispatches and then lifted his head for the first time.
“They’ve gone straight into Washington,” he said. “We ought to get an answer soon.”
“We’ll wait here for it,” said Dick.
The three messengers were now thoroughly warmed at the stove, they had eaten heartily of the best the village could furnish, and a great feeling of comfort pervaded them. While they were waiting for the reply that they hoped would come from Washington, Dick Mason and Sergeant Whitley went outside. No snow was falling in the valley, but off on the mountain crest they still saw the white veil, blown by the wind.
Red Blaze joined them and was everywhere their guide and herald. He ascribed to them such deeds of skill and valor that they were compelled to call him the best romancer they had met in a long time.
“I suppose that if Mr. Warner were here,” said the sergeant, “he would reduce these statements to mathematics, ten per cent fact an’ ninety per cent fancy.”
“Just about that,” said Dick.
Red Blaze came to them presently, bristling with news.
“A farmer from a hollow further to the west,” he said, “has just come in, an’ he says that a band of guerillas is ridin’ through the hills. ‘Bout twenty of them, he said, led by a big dark fellow, his face covered with black beard. They’ve been liftin’ hosses an’ takin’ other things, but they’re strangers in these parts. Tom Sykes, who was held up by them an’ robbed of his hoss, says that the rest of ’em called their leader Skelly. Tom seemed to think that mebbe they came from somewhere in the Kentucky mountains. They called themselves a scoutin’ party of the Southern army.”
Dick started violently.
“Why, I know this man Skelly,” he said. “He lives in the mountains to the eastward of my home in Kentucky. He organized a band at the beginning of the war, but over there he said he was fightin’ for the North.”
“He’ll be fightin’ for his own hand,” said the sergeant sternly. “But he can’t play double all the time. That sort of thing will bring a man to the end of a rope, with clear air under his feet.”
“I’m glad you’ve told me this,” said Red Blaze. “Skelly might have come ridin’ in here, claimin’ that he an’ his men was Northern troops, an’ then when we wasn’t suspectin’ might have held up the whole town. I’ll warn ’em. Thar ain’t a house here that hasn’t got two or three rifles an’ shotguns in it, an’ with the farmers from the valley joinin’ in Hubbard could wipe out the whole gang.”