They were returning late in the afternoon and were still several miles
from home, when, passing through a bit of woods, a sudden turn of the
road brought them face to face with a band of mounted men, some thirty
or forty in number, not disguised but rough and ruffianly in appearance
and armed with clubs, pistols and bowie knives.

The encounter was evidently a surprise to both parties, and reining in
their steeds, they regarded each other for a moment in grim silence.

Then the leader of the band, a profane, drunken wretch, who had been a
surgeon in the Confederate army, scowling fiercely upon our friends and
laying his hand on a pistol in his belt, growled out, "A couple of
scalawags! mean dirty rascals, what mischief have you been at now, eh?"

Disdaining a reply to his insolence, the gentlemen drew their revolvers,
cocked them ready for instant use, and whirling their horses half way
round and backing them out of the road so that they faced it, while
leaving room for the others to pass, politely requested them to do so.

"Not so fast!" returned the leader, pouring out a torrent of oaths and
curses; "we've a little account to settle with you two, and no time's
like the present."

"Yes, shoot 'em down!" cried a voice from the crowd.

"Hang 'em!" yelled another, "the ---- ---- rascals!"

"Yes," roared a third, "pull 'em from their horses and string 'em up to
the limb o' that big oak yonder."