ate found themselves breasting the swiftly flowing waters of
Chickamauga Creek. Evidently the spy knew the creek well, for hardly had
they covered ten yards of the distance than Deck's feet struck on a sand
bar, and he found himself wading along in water not above his waist.

"Take my advice and keep down as low as possible," said the spy, keeping
in his rear. "A head in this creek to-day is like a head at Donnybrook
Fair, anybody will hit it if it is possible to do so."

"I believe you there," answered Deck, and moved along with just his
mouth above the surface. "It's mighty slippery walking," he continued.

"Which means that you will slip and escape if you can, Major. Don't try
it, for it will be your corpse that floats to yonder falls," was the
reply, which made Deck's flesh creep. The spy was certainly the most
cold-blooded fellow for such a proceeding he had ever encountered.

Deck wanted to look back, and as a slight splash announced that his
follower had taken a misstep, he did so, taking in the shore at one
searching glance. Nobody appeared within his range of vision, and again
his heart went down into his boots. Evidently he was booked for a
Confederate prison as fast as the spy could get him there.

About three-quarters of the distance to the opposite shore was passed,
and Deck was losing all hope, when a distant pistol shot rang out,
coming from behind them. Artie had discovered two heads and an arm
bobbing above water, and his field-glasses had apprised him of the true
situation. He had fired on the spy, but the bullet flew several inches
wide of its mark.

"Call to that fellow to stop shooting, or it will mean your death,"
ordered the spy, and Deck now understood why the Confederate had
desired him to bear him company over the stream.

As the major had no desire to be shot, he promptly called to Artie.
Whether or not his brother understood him clearly he could not tell, but
no more shots followed. In a few minutes, both the spy and Deck were in
a safe place, behind a heavy clump of bushes.

"Halt!" came the command, from not far away, and a Confederate picket
appeared, holding his gun ready for use. He was ragged and dusty, but
ready for business, as his determined face showed. "Have you the
countersign?"

"I have that of three days ago," answered the spy, and advancing, he
gave it, and also brought forth a slip of paper which the picket
examined with interest. The corporal of the guard was called,