The boy thought once or twice of using his pistol, but could not bring himself to do it.

There was really no war, merely a bristling of hostile forces, and he could not fire upon anybody, especially upon one who had done him no harm.
Shepard led on, passed through a group of negro cabins, crossed an old cotton field, and entered a grove, with his pursuer not fifty yards behind.

The grove was lighted well by the moon, and Harry dashed forward, pistol in hand, resolved at last to call a halt upon the fugitive.

A laugh and the blue barrel of a levelled pistol met him.
Shepard was sitting upon a fallen log facing him.

The moon poured a mass of molten silver directly upon him, showing a face of unusual strength and power, set now with stern resolution.