Chapter 1 An Old Soldi（2 / 2）

Davy ran to the road and halted me as I came up on the dead lope, my cocked Colt’s in my hand.He blocked my path, ordering me to halt and flourishing his pistols.On I came straight at him, and would surely have run him down, had he not sprung aside, blazing right and left at me as I went by.I knew he would do this, and ducked to the off-side of my horse, but not quickly enough, for a burning pain told me where his first bullet had plowed across my scalp.

On and away, with Rock Island 28 miles before me, I dashed like the wind.Davy, always well mounted, was hot after me.But our horses were evenly matched.At first he took flying shots at me as we rounded the bends, but he soon gave that up.Mile after mile flew by, and I was just beginning to feel sure of escape, when I met with an accident.Dawn was breaking as I plunged into a stretch of woods where it was yet as black as night.The road was heavy at that place, and the horse’s hoofs made no sound.Suddenly, out of the darkness and from the opposite direction, leaped a horse and rider.Too late to avoid the shock, our horses struck breast on.The strange steed and rider were hurled to the ground, while I was not badly hurt.But father’s stallion was strong.He shook himself, groaned, and sprang away on the gallop.

Still he had been badly hurt, and I saw that he was losing his speed.Davy slowly overhauled me.Soon he was alongside, trying to seize my rein.He had emptied his pistols, so could not shoot.Again and again I drew a bead on him with my loaded Colt’s, but he was a brave man, refusing to be frightened.I did not wish to shoot him, but I think I would have done it rather than have the disgrace of deserter put upon me.You see, instead of running away, I was trying to run back to the army—a funny thing for a real deserter to do.But I did not shoot, not intending to use my revolver unless I had to.

Then we galloped, side by side, for at least 10 or 12 miles.Little by little my horse gave out and the last mile he made, Davy had to hold his horse in to keep him from running away from me.Every time he tried to catch my bridle I struck at his hand with my heavy revolver, and he soon gave that up.I felt that the stallion could not last much longer, and know I must do something to escape unearned disgrace.Now I am and always was a mild man, full of pity for dumb animals, but necessity forced me to do what I did.I played a trick I had learned out west.It is called “creasing,” and is often used on wild horses.They shoot them so the bullet just grazes the top of the neck.But it does not hurt the horse.It just stuns him and in a few minutes he is as good as ever.

Quick as a flash I leaned out of the saddle, placed the muzzle of my revolver on the nape of the neck of Davy’s horse, and pulled the trigger.Down he went with a crash, throwing Davy over his head.Yet Davy was on his feet instantly, and my poor horse could barely keep away from him as he ran after me on foot.

I looked at my watch.I could catch the first train, and Rock Island was only five miles away.My horse could not make those five miles and I did not know what to do.Davy gave me the idea, however.Coming around a turn in the road, I barely missed running into a farmer’s wagon going to town.Not 20 feet away was another, going in the same direction.Davy stopped the first one and began to cut the traces—this was the idea.I halted the second one, which was driven by a woman, and explained as I did likewise.And she was willing for she know all about the provost marshal.We finished and mounted at the same time, with myself 20 feet in the lead.Yet fortune seemed to favor him, for his horse was a little the better of the two.But he had neglected to cut the traces quite short though, and the horse, stepping upon them, was thrown.

This gave me several hundred feet, and I was still leading by several lengths when we entered Rock Island.How we startled the city!Down the main street we thundered, while the people, who all hated the provost marshal, cheered me on.We barely missed a dozen collisions, and galloped into the depot, where the train was just ready to start.I rode through the crowd as far as I dared; then dismounted and made a dash for the steps.You can guess how the people gave room for a wild hatless soldier, flourishing a huge revolver.

Persevering Davy was right behind, and I had to face about and keep him off with my pistol.It was not loaded, but he did not know that.I backed away from him, threatening to pull the trigger if he laid hand on me.The crowd began to take my part, and to hoot and jeer the provost marshal.“Hurrah for the soldier!” they cried.“Down with the provost marshal!”“Shoot him, soldier, shoot him!”“Who arrested poor Tommy Jingles?”“Davy McGregor, the black-hearted provost.”“Hurrah for the boy in blue!”

So they kept it up, getting in his way and pushing and shoving him about.Then they became rough, and as I backed up the steps to the platform, they were stepping on his toes, pulling his coat-tails and twisting him about like a football.The conductor gave the signal, and with a last cheer from the crowd, the train pulled out for Quincy.There I met my recruits later in the day.And when I brought my sturdy lads into the regiment and told all about it, the colonel said, “Well done, Simon, and at this rate I think you have well earned a second leave of absence.”