Meanwhile Morgan was coming on—led by the two videttes in gray—Daniel Dean and Rebel Jerry Dillon—coming on to meet Kirby Smith in Lexington after that general had led the Bluegrass into the Confederate fold. They were taking short cuts through the hills now, and Rebel Jerry was guide, for he had joined Morgan for that purpose. Jerry had long been notorious along the border. He never gave quarter on his expeditions for personal vengeance, and it was said that not even he knew how many men he had killed. Every Morgan's man had heard of him, and was anxious to see him; and see him they did, though they never heard him open his lips except in answer to a question. To Dan he seemed to take a strange fancy right away, but he was as voiceless as the grave, except for an occasional oath, when bush-whackers of Daws Dillon's ilk would pop at the advance guard—sometimes from a rock directly overhead, for chase was useless. It took a roundabout climb of one hundred yards to get to the top of that rock, so there was nothing for videttes and guards to do but pop back, which they did to no purpose. On the third day, however, after a skirmish in which Dan had charged with a little more dare-deviltry than usual, the big Dillon ripped out an oath of protest. An hour later he spoke again:
"I got a brother on t'other side."
Dan started. "Why, so have I," he said. "What's your brother with?"
"Wolford's cavalry."
"That's curious. So was mine—for a while. He's with Grant now." The boy turned his head away suddenly.
"I might meet him, if he were with Wolford now," he said, half to himself, but Jerry heard him and smiled viciously.
"Well, that's what I'm goin' with you fellers fer—to meet mine."
"What!" said Dan, puzzled.
"We've been lookin' fer each other sence the war broke out. I reckon he went on t'other side to keep me from killin' him."
Dan shrank away from the giant with horror; but next day the mountaineer saved the boy's life in a fight in which Dan's chum—gallant little Tom Morgan—lost his; and that night, as Dan lay sleepless and crying in his blanket, Jerry Dillon came in from guard-duty and lay down by him.
"I'm goin' to take keer o' you."
"I don't need you," said Dan, gruffly, and Rebel Jerry grunted, turned over on his side and went to sleep. Night and day thereafter he was by the boy's side.
A thrill ran through the entire command when the column struck the first Bluegrass turnpike, and a cheer rang from front to rear. Near Midway, a little Bluegrass town some fifteen miles from Lexington, a halt was called, and another deafening cheer arose in the extreme rear and came forward like a rushing wind, as a coal-black horse galloped the length of the column—its rider, hat in hand, bowing with a proud smile to the flattering storm—for the idolatry of the man and his men was mutual—with the erect grace of an Indian, the air of a courtier, and the bearing of a soldier in every line of the six feet and more of his tireless frame. No man who ever saw John Morgan on horseback but had the picture stamped forever on his brain, as no man who ever saw that coal-black horse ever forgot Black Bess. Behind him came his staff, and behind them came a wizened little man, whose nickname was "Lightning"—telegraph operator for Morgan's Men. There was need of Lightning now, so Morgan sent him on into town with Dan and Jerry Dillon, while he and Richard Hunt followed leisurely.
The three troopers found the station operator seated on the platform—pipe in mouth, and enjoying himself hugely. He looked lazily at them.
"Call up Lexington," said Lightning, sharply.
"Go to hell!" said the operator, and then he nearly toppled from his chair. Lightning, with a vicious gesture, had swung a pistol on him.
"Here—here!" he gasped, "what'd you mean?"
"Call up Lexington," repeated Lightning. The operator seated himself.
"What do you want in Lexington?" he growled.
"Ask the time of day?" The operator stared, but the instrument clicked.
"What's your name?" asked Lightning.
"Woolums."
"Well, Woolums, you're a 'plug.' I wanted to see how you handled the key. Yes, Woolums, you're a plug."
Then Lightning seated himself, and Woolums' mouth flew open—Lightning copied his style with such exactness. Again the instrument clicked and Lightning listened, smiling:
"Will there be any danger coming to Midway?" asked a railroad conductor in Lexington. Lightning answered, grinning:
"None. Come right on. No sign of rebels here." Again a click from Lexington.
"General Ward orders General Finnell of Frankfort to move his forces. General Ward will move toward Georgetown, to which Morgan with eighteen hundred men is marching."
Lightning caught his breath—this was Morgan's force and his intention exactly. He answered:
"Morgan with upward of two thousand men has taken the road to Frankfort. This is reliable." Ten minutes later, Lightning chuckled.
"Ward orders Finnell to recall his regiment to Frankfort."
Half an hour later another idea struck Lightning. He clicked as though telegraphing from Frankfort:
"Our pickets just driven in. Great excitement. Force of enemy must be two thousand."
Then Lightning laughed. "I've fooled 'em," said Lightning.
There was turmoil in Lexington. The streets thundered with the tramp of cavalry going to catch Morgan. Daylight came and nothing was done—nothing known. The afternoon waned, and still Ward fretted at head-quarters, while his impatient staff sat on the piazza talking, speculating, wondering where the wily raider was. Leaning on the campus-fence near by were Chadwick Buford and Harry Dean.
It had been a sad day for those two. The mutual tolerance that prevailed among their friends in the beginning of the war had given way to intense bitterness now. There was no thrill for them in the flags fluttering a welcome to them from the windows of loyalists, for under those flags old friends passed them in the street with no sign of recognition, but a sullen, averted face, or a stare of open contempt. Elizabeth Morgan had met them, and turned her head when Harry raised his cap, though Chad saw tears spring to her eyes as she passed. Sad as it was for him, Chad knew what the silent torture in Harry's heart must be, for Harry could not bring himself, that day, even to visit his own home. And now Morgan was coming, and they might soon be in a death-fight, Harry with his own blood-brother and both with boyhood friends.
"God grant that you two may never meet!"
That cry from General Dean was beating ceaselessly through Harry's brain now, and he brought one hand down on the fence, hardly noticing the drop of blood that oozed from the force of the blow.
"Oh, I wish I could get away from here!"
"I shall the first chance that comes," said Chad, and he lifted his head sharply, staring down the street. A phaeton was coming slowly toward them and in it were a negro servant and a girl in white. Harry was leaning over the fence with his back toward the street, and Chad, the blood rushing to his face, looked in silence, for the negro was Snowball and the girl was Margaret. He saw her start and flush when she saw him, her hands giving a little convulsive clutch at the reins; but she came on, looking straight ahead. Chad's hand went unconsciously to his cap, and when Harry rose, puzzled to see him bareheaded, the phaeton stopped, and there was a half-broken cry:
"Harry!"
Cap still in hand, Chad strode away as the brother, with an answering cry, sprang toward her.
When he came back, an hour later, at dusk, Harry was seated on the portico, and the long silence between them was broken at last.
"She—they oughtn't to come to town at a time like this," said Chad, roughly.
"I told her that," said Harry, "but it was useless. She will come and go just as she pleases."
Harry rose and leaned for a moment against one of the big pillars, and then he turned impulsively, and put one hand lightly on the other's shoulder.
"I'm sorry, old man," he said, gently.
A pair of heels clicked suddenly together on the grass before them, and an orderly stood at salute.
"General Ward's compliments, and will Lieutenant Buford and Lieutenant Dean report to him at once?"
The two exchanged a swift glance, and the faces of both grew grave with sudden apprehension.
Inside, the General looked worried, and his manner was rather sharp.
"Do you know General Dean?" he asked, looking at Harry.
"He is my father."
The General wheeled in his chair.
"What!" he exclaimed. "Well—um—I suppose one of you will be enough. You can go."
When the door closed behind Harry, he looked at Chad.
"There are two rebels at General Dean's house to-night," he said, quietly. "One of them, I am told—-why, he must be that boy's brother," and again the General mused; then he added, sharply:
"Take six good men out there right away and capture them. And watch out for Daws Dillon and his band of cut-throats. I am told he is in this region. I've sent a company after him. But you capture the two at General Dean's."
"Yes, sir," said Chad, turning quickly, but the General had seen the lad's face grow pale.
"It is very strange down here—they may be his best friends," he thought, and, being a kindhearted man, he reached out his hand toward a bell to summon Chad back, and drew it in again.
"I cannot help that; but that boy must have good stuff in him."
Harry was waiting for him outside. He knew that Dan would go home if it was possible, and what Chad's mission must be.
"Don't hurt him, Chad."
"You don't have to ask that," answered Chad, sadly.
So Chad's old enemy, Daws Dillon, was abroad. There was a big man with the boy at the Deans', General Ward had said, but Chad little guessed that it was another old acquaintance, Rebel Jerry Dillon, who, at that hour, was having his supper brought out to the stable to him, saying that he would sleep there, take care of the horses, and keep on the look-out for Yankees. Jerome Conners's hand must be in this, Chad thought, for he never for a moment doubted that the overseer had brought the news to General Ward. He was playing a fine game of loyalty to both sides, that overseer, and Chad grimly made up his mind that, from one side or the other, his day would come. And this was the fortune of war—to be trotting, at the head of six men, on such a mission, along a road that, at every turn, on every little hill, and almost in every fence-corner, was stored with happy memories for him; to force entrance as an enemy under a roof that had showered courtesy and kindness down on him like rain, that in all the world was most sacred to him; to bring death to an old playmate, the brother of the woman whom he loved, or capture, which might mean a worse death in a loathsome prison. He thought of that dawn when he drove home after the dance at the Hunts' with the old Major asleep at his side and his heart almost bursting with high hope and happiness, and he ran his hand over his eyes to brush the memory away. He must think only of his duty now, and that duty was plain.
Across the fields they went in a noiseless walk, and leaving their horses in the woods, under the care of one soldier, slipped into the yard. Two men were posted at the rear of the house, one was stationed at each end of the long porch to command the windows on either side, and, with a sergeant at his elbow, Chad climbed the long steps noiselessly and knocked at the front door. In a moment it was thrown open by a woman, and the light fell full in Chad's face.
"You—you—YOU!" said a voice that shook with mingled terror and contempt, and Margaret shrank back, step by step. Hearing her, Mrs. Dean hurried into the hallway. Her face paled when she saw the Federal uniform in her doorway, but her chin rose haughtily, and her voice was steady and most courteous:
"What can we do for you?" she asked, and she, too, recognized Chad, and her face grew stern as she waited for him to answer.
"Mrs. Dean," he said, half choking, "word has come to head-quarters that two Confederate soldiers are spending the night here, and I have been ordered to search the house for them. My men have surrounded it, but if you will give me your word that they are not here, not a man shall cross your threshold—not even myself."
Without a word Mrs. Dean stood aside.
"I am sorry," said Chad, motioning to the Sergeant to follow him. As he passed the door of the drawing-room, he saw, under the lamp, a pipe with ashes strewn about its bowl. Chad pointed to it.
"Spare me, Mrs. Dean." But the two women stood with clinched hands, silent. Dan had flashed into the kitchen, and was about to leap from the window when he saw the gleam of a rifle-barrel, not ten feet away. He would be potted like a rat if he sprang out there, and he dashed noiselessly up the back stairs, as Chad started up the front stairway toward the garret, where he had passed many a happy hour playing with Margaret and Harry and the boy whom he was after as an enemy, now. The door was open at the first landing, and the creak of the stairs under Dan's feet, heard plainly, stopped. The Sergeant, pistol in hand, started to push past his superior.
"Keep back," said Chad, sternly, and as he drew his pistol, a terrified whisper rose from below.
"Don't, don't!" And then Dan, with hands up, stepped into sight.
"I'll spare you," he said, quietly. "Not a word, mother. They've got me. You can tell him there is no one else in the house, though."
Mrs. Dean's eyes filled with tears, and a sob broke from Margaret.
"There is no one else," she said, and Chad bowed. "In the house," she added, proudly, scorning the subterfuge.
"Search the barn," said Chad, "quick!" The Sergeant ran down the steps.
"I reckon you are a little too late, my friend," said Dan. "Why, bless me, it's my old friend Chad—and a lieutenant! I congratulate you," he added, but he did not offer to shake hands.
Chad had thought of the barn too late. Snowball had seen the men creeping through the yard, had warned Jerry Dillon, and Jerry had slipped the horses into the woodland, and had crept back to learn what was going on.
"I will wait for you out here," said Chad. "Take your time."
"Thank you," said Dan.
He came out in a moment and Mrs. Dean and Margaret followed him. At a gesture from the Sergeant, a soldier stationed himself on each side of Dan, and, as Chad turned, he took off his cap again. His face was very pale and his voice almost broke:
"You will believe, Mrs. Dean," he said, "that this was something I HAD to do."
Mrs. Dean bent her head slightly.
"Certainly, mother," said Dan. "Don't blame Lieutenant Chad. Morgan will have Lexington in a few days and then I'll be free again. Maybe I'll have Lieutenant Chad a prisoner—no telling!"
Chad smiled faintly, and then, with a flush, he spoke again—warning Mrs. Dean, in the kindliest way, that, henceforth, her house would be under suspicion, and telling her of the severe measures that had been inaugurated against rebel sympathizers.
"Such sympathizers have to take oath of allegiance and give bonds to keep it."
"If they don't?"
"Arrest and imprisonment."
"And if they give the oath and violate it?"
"The penalty is death, Mrs. Dean."
"And if they aid their friends?"
"They are to be dealt with according to military law."
"Anything else?"
"If loyal citizens are hurt or damaged by guerrillas, disloyal citizens of the locality must make compensation."
"Is it true that a Confederate sympathizer will be shot down if on the streets of Lexington?"
"There was such an order, Mrs. Dean."
"And if a loyal citizen is killed by one of these so-called guerillas, for whose acts nobody is responsible, prisoners of war are to be shot in retaliation?"
"Mother!" cried Margaret.
"No, Mrs. Dean—not prisoners of war—guerillas."
"And when will you begin war on women?"
"Never, I hope." His hesitancy brought a scorn into the searching eyes of his pale questioner that Chad could not face, and without daring even to look at Margaret he turned away.
Such retaliatory measures made startling news to Dan. He grew very grave while he listened, but as he followed Chad he chatted and laughed and joked with his captors. Morgan would have Lexington in three days. He was really glad to get a chance to fill his belly with Yankee grub. It hadn't been full more than two or three times in six months.
All the time he was watching for Jerry Dillon, who, he knew, would not leave him if there was the least chance of getting him out of the Yankee's clutches. He did not have to wait long. Two men had gone to get the horses, and as Dan stepped through the yard-gate with his captors, two figures rose out of the ground. One came with head bent like a battering-ram. He heard Snowball's head strike a stomach on one side of him, and with an astonished groan the man went down. He saw the man on his other side drop from some crashing blow, and he saw Chad trying to draw his pistol. His own fist shot out, catching Chad on the point of the chin. At the same instant there was a shot and the Sergeant dropped.
"Come on, boy!" said a hoarse voice, and then he was speeding away after the gigantic figure of Jerry Dillon through the thick darkness, while a harmless volley of shots sped after them. At the edge of the woods they dropped. Jerry Dillon had his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing aloud.
"The hosses ain't fer away," he said. "Oh, Lawd!"
"Did you kill him?"
"I reckon not," whispered Jerry. "I shot him on the wrong side. I'm al'ays a-fergettin' which side a man's heart's on."
"What became of Snowball?"
"He run jes' as soon as he butted the feller on his right. He said he'd git one, but I didn't know what he was doin' when I seed him start like a sheep. Listen!"
There was a tumult at the house—moving lights, excited cries, and a great hurrying. Black Rufus was the first to appear with a lantern, and when he held it high as the fence, Chad saw Margaret in the light, her hands clinched and her eyes burning.
"Have you killed him?" she asked, quietly but fiercely. "You nearly did once before. Have you succeeded this time?" Then she saw the Sergeant writhing on the ground, his right forearm hugging his breast, and her hands relaxed and her face changed.
"Did Dan do that? Did Dan do that?"
"Dan was unarmed," said Chad, quietly.
"Mother," called the girl, as though she had not heard him, "send someone to help. Bring him to the house," she added, turning. As no movement was made, she turned again.
"Bring him up to the house," she said, imperiously, and when the hesitating soldiers stooped to pick up the wounded man, she saw the streak of blood running down Chad's chin and she stared open-eyed. She made one step toward him, and then she shrank back out of the light.
"Oh!" she said. "Are you wounded, too? Oh!"
"No!" said Chad, grimly. "Dan didn't do that"—pointing to the Sergeant—"he did this—with his fist. It's the second time Dan has done this. Easy, men," he added, with low-voiced authority.
Mrs. Dean was holding the door open.
"No," said Chad, quickly. "That wicker lounge will do. He will be cooler on the porch." Then he stooped, and loosening the Sergeant's blouse and shirt examined the wound.
"It's only through the shoulder, Lieutenant," said the man, faintly. But it was under the shoulder, and Chad turned.
"Jake," he said, sharply, "go back and bring a surgeon—and an officer to relieve me. I think he can be moved in the morning, Mrs. Dean. With your permission I will wait here until the Surgeon comes. Please don't disturb yourself further"—Margaret had appeared at the door, with some bandages that she and her mother had been making for Confederates and behind her a servant followed with towels and a pail of water—"I am sorry to trespass."
"Did the bullet pass through?" asked Mrs. Dean, simply.
"No, Mrs. Dean," said Chad.
Margaret turned indoors. Without another word, her mother knelt above the wounded man, cut the shirt away, staunched the trickling blood, and deftly bound the wound with lint and bandages, while Chad stood, helplessly watching her.
"I am sorry," he said again, when she rose, "sorry—"
"It is nothing," said Mrs. Dean, quietly. "If you need anything, you will let me know. I shall be waiting inside."
She turned and a few moments later Chad saw Margaret's white figure swiftly climb the stairs—but the light still burned in the noiseless room below.
Meanwhile Dan and Jerry Dillon were far across the fields on their way to rejoin Morgan. When they were ten miles away, Dan, who was leading, turned.
"Jerry, that Lieutenant was an old friend of mine. General Morgan used to say he was the best scout in the Union Army. He comes from your part of the country, and his name is Chad Buford. Ever heard of him?"
"I've knowed him sence he was a chunk of a boy, but I don't rickollect ever hearin' his last name afore. I naver knowed he had any."
"Well, I heard him call one of his men Jake—and he looked exactly like you." The giant pulled in his horse.
"I'm goin' back."
"No, you aren't," said Dan; "not now—it's too late. That's why I didn't tell you before." Then he added, angrily: "You are a savage and you ought to be ashamed of yourself harboring such hatred against your own blood-brother."
Dan was perhaps the only one of Morgan's Men who would have dared to talk that way to the man, and Jerry Dillon took it only in sullen silence.
A mile farther they struck a pike, and, as they swept along, a brilliant light glared into the sky ahead of them, and they pulled in. A house was in flames on the edge of a woodland, and by its light they could see a body of men dash out of the woods and across the field on horseback, and another body dash after them in pursuit—the pursuers firing and the pursued sending back defiant yells. Daws Dillon was at his work again, and the Yankees were after him.
Long after midnight Chad reported the loss of his prisoner. He was much chagrined—for failure was rare with him—and his jaw and teeth ached from the blow Dan had given him, but in his heart he was glad that the boy had got away When he went to his tent, Harry was awake and waiting for him.
"It's I who have escaped," he said; "escaped again. Four times now we have been in the same fight. Somehow fate seems to be pointing always one way—always one way. Why, night after night, I dream that either he or I—" Harry's voice trembled—he stopped short, and, leaning forward, stared out the door of his tent. A group of figures had halted in front of the Colonel's tent opposite, and a voice called, sharply:
"Two prisoners, sir. We captured 'em with Daws Dillon. They are guerillas, sir."
"It's a lie, Colonel," said an easy voice, that brought both Chad and Harry to their feet, and plain in the moonlight both saw Daniel Dean, pale but cool, and near him, Rebel Jerry Dillon—both with their hands bound behind them.
But the sun sank next day from a sky that was aflame with rebel victories. It rose on a day rosy with rebel hopes, and the prophetic coolness of autumn was in the early morning air when Margaret in her phaeton moved through the front pasture on her way to town—alone. She was in high spirits and her head was lifted proudly. Dan's boast had come true. Kirby Smith had risen swiftly from Tennessee, had struck the Federal Army on the edge of the Bluegrass the day before and sent it helter-skelter to the four winds. Only that morning she had seen a regiment of the hated Yankees move along the turnpike in flight for the Ohio. It was the Fourth Ohio Cavalry, and Harry and one whose name never passed her lips were among those dusty cavalrymen; but she was glad, and she ran down o the stile and, from the fence, waved the Stars and Bars at them as they passed—which was very foolish, but which brought her deep content. Now the rebels did hold Lexington. Morgan's Men were coming that day and she was going into town to see Dan and Colonel Hunt and General Morgan and be fearlessly happy and triumphant. At the Major's gate, whom should she see coming out but the dear old fellow himself, and, when he got off his horse and came to her, she leaned forward and kissed him, because he looked so thin and pale from confinement, and because she was so glad to see him. Morgan's Men were really coming, that very day, the Major said, and he told her much thrilling news. Jackson had obliterated Pope at the second battle of Manassas. Eleven thousand prisoners had been taken at Harper's Ferry and Lee had gone on into Maryland on the flank of Washington. Recruits were coming into the Confederacy by the thousands. Bragg had fifty-five thousand men and an impregnable stronghold in front of Buell, who had but few men more—not enough to count a minute, the Major said.
"Lee has routed 'em out of Virginia," cried the old fellow, "and Buell is doomed. I tell you, little girl, the fight is almost won."
Jerome Conners rode to the gate and called to the Major in a tone that arrested the girl's attention. She hated that man and she had noted a queer change in his bearing since the war began. She looked for a flash of anger from the Major, but none came, and she began to wonder what hold the overseer could have on his old master.
She drove on, puzzled, wondering, and disturbed; but her cheeks were flushed—the South was going to win, the Yankees were gone, and she must get to town in time to see the triumphant coming of Morgan's Men. They were coming in when she reached the Yankee head-quarters, which, she saw, had changed flags—thank God—coming proudly in, amid the waving of the Stars and Bars and frenzied shouts of welcome. Where were the Bluegrass Yankees now? The Stars and Stripes that had fluttered from their windows had been drawn in and they were keeping very quiet, indeed—Oh! it was joy! There was gallant Morgan himself swinging from Black Bess to kiss his mother, who stood waiting for him at her gate, and there was Colonel Hunt, gay, debonair, jesting, shaking hands right and left, and crowding the streets, Morgan's Men—the proudest blood in the land, every gallant trooper getting his welcome from the lips and arms of mother, sister, sweetheart, or cousin of farthest degree. But where was Dan? She had heard nothing of him since the night he had escaped capture, and while she looked right and left for him to dash toward her and swing from his horse, she heard her name called, and turning she saw Richard Hunt at the wheel of her phaeton. He waved his hand toward the happy reunions going on around them.
"The enforced brotherhood, Miss Margaret," he said, his eyes flashing, "I belong to that, you know."
For once the subtle Colonel made a mistake. Perhaps the girl in her trembling happiness and under the excitement of the moment might have welcomed him, as she was waiting to welcome Dan, but she drew back now.
"Oh! no, Colonel—not on that ground."
Her eyes danced, she flushed curiously, as she held out her hand, and the Colonel's brave heart quickened. Straightway he began to wonder—but a quick shadow in Margaret's face checked him.
"But where's Dan? Where is Dan?" she repeated, impatiently.
Richard Hunt looked puzzled. He had just joined his command and something must have gone wrong with Dan. So he lied swiftly.
"Dan is out on a scout. I don't think he has got back yet. I'll find out."
Margaret watched him ride to where Morgan stood with his mother in the midst of a joyous group of neighbors and friends, and, a moment later, the two officers came toward her on foot.
"Don't worry, Miss Margaret," said Morgan, with a smile. "The Yankees have got Dan and have taken him away as prisoner—but don't worry, we'll get him exchanged in a week. I'll give three brigadier-generals for him."
Tears came to the girl's eyes, but she smiled through them bravely.
"I must go back and tell mother," she said, brokenly. "I hoped—"
"Don't worry, little girl," said Morgan again. "I'll have him if I have to capture the whole State of Ohio."
Again Margaret smiled, but her heart was heavy, and Richard Hunt was unhappy. He hung around her phaeton all the while she was in town. He went home with her, cheering her on the way and telling her of the Confederate triumph that was at hand. He comforted Mrs. Dean over Dan's capture, and he rode back to town slowly, with his hands on his saddle-bow—wondering again. Perhaps Margaret had gotten over her feeling for that mountain boy—that Yankee—and there Richard Hunt checked his own thoughts, for that mountain boy, he had discovered, was a brave and chivalrous enemy, and to such, his own high chivalry gave salute always.
He was very thoughtful when he reached camp. He had an unusual desire to be alone, and that night, he looked long at the stars, thinking of the girl whom he had known since her babyhood—knowing that he would never think of her except as a woman again.
So the Confederates waited now in the Union hour of darkness for Bragg to strike his blow. He did strike it, but it was at the heart of the South. He stunned the Confederacy by giving way before Buell. He brought hope back with the bloody battle of Perryville. Again he faced Buell at Harrodsburg, and then he wrought broadcast despair by falling back without battle, dividing his forces and retreating into Tennessee. The dream of a battle-line along the Ohio with a hundred thousand more men behind it was gone and the last and best chance to win the war was lost forever. Morgan, furious with disappointment, left Lexington. Kentucky fell under Federal control once more; and Major Buford, dazed, dismayed, unnerved, hopeless, brought the news out to the Deans.
"They'll get me again, I suppose, and I can't leave home on account of Lucy."
"Please do, Major," said Mrs. Dean. "Send Miss Lucy over here and make your escape. We will take care of her." The Major shook his head sadly and rode away.
Next day Margaret sat on the stile and saw the Yankees coming back to Lexington. On one side of her the Stars and Bars were fixed to the fence from which they had floated since the day she had waved the flag at them as they fled. She saw the advance guard come over the hill and jog down the slope and then the regiment slowly following after. In the rear she could see two men, riding unarmed. Suddenly three cavalrymen spurred forward at a gallop and turned in at her gate. The soldier in advance was an officer, and he pulled out a handkerchief, waved it once, and, with a gesture to his companions, came on alone. She knew the horse even before she recognized the rider, and her cheeks flushed, her lips were set, and her nostrils began to dilate. The horseman reined in and took off his cap.
"I come under a flag of truce," he said, gravely, "to ask this garrison to haul down its colors—and—to save useless effusion of blood," he added, still more gravely.
"Your war on women has begun, then?"
"I am obeying orders—no more, no less."
"I congratulate you on your luck or your good judgment always to be on hand when disagreeable duties are to be done."
Chad flushed.
"Won't you take the flag down?"
"No, make your attack. You will have one of your usual victories—with overwhelming numbers—and it will be safe and bloodless. There are only two negroes defending this garrison. They will not fight, nor will we."
"Won't you take the flag down?"
"No!"
Chad lifted his cap and wheeled. The Colonel was watching at the gate.
"Well, sir" he asked, frowning.
"I shall need help, sir, to take that flag down," said Chad.
"What do you mean, sir?"
"A woman is defending it."
"What!" shouted the Colonel.
"That is my sister, Colonel," said Harry Dean. The Colonel smiled and then grew grave.
"You should warn her not to provoke the authorities. The Government is advising very strict measures now with rebel sympathizers." Then he smiled again.
"Fours! Left wheel! Halt! Present—sabres!"
A line of sabres flashed in the sun, and Margaret, not understanding, snatched the flag from the fence and waved it back in answer. The Colonel laughed aloud. The column moved on, and each captain, following, caught the humor of the situation and each company flashed its sabres as it went by, while Margaret stood motionless.
In the rear rode those two unarmed prisoners. She could see now that their uniforms were gray and she knew that they were prisoners, but she little dreamed that they were her brother Dan and Rebel Jerry Dillon, nor did Chad Buford or Harry Dean dream of the purpose for which, just at that time, they were being brought back to Lexington. Perhaps one man who saw them did know: for Jerome Conners, from the woods opposite, watched the prisoners ride by with a malicious smile that nothing but impending danger to an enemy could ever bring to his face; and with the same smile he watched Margaret go slowly back to the house, while her flag still fluttered from the stile.
The high tide of Confederate hopes was fast receding now. The army of the Potomac, after Antietam, which overthrew the first Confederate aggressive campaign at the East, was retreating into its Southern stronghold, as was the army of the West after Bragg's abandonment of Mumfordsville, and the rebel retirement had given the provost-marshals in Kentucky full sway. Two hundred Southern sympathizers, under arrest, had been sent into exile north of the Ohio, and large sums of money were levied for guerilla outrages here and there—a heavy sum falling on Major Buford for a vicious murder done in his neighborhood by Daws Dillon and his band on the night of the capture of Daniel Dean and Rebel Jerry. The Major paid the levy with the first mortgage he had ever given in his life, and straightway Jerome Conners, who had been dealing in mules and other Government supplies, took an attitude that was little short of insolence toward his old master, whose farm was passing into the overseer's clutches at last. Only two nights before, another band of guerillas had burned a farm-house, killed a Unionist, and fled to the hills before the incoming Yankees, and the Kentucky Commandant had sworn vengeance after the old Mosaic way on victims already within his power.
That night Chad and Harry were summoned before General Ward. They found him seated with his chin in his hand, looking out the window at the moonlit campus. Without moving, he held out a dirty piece of paper to Chad.
"Read that," he said.
"YOU HAVE KETCHED TWO OF MY MEN AND I HEAR AS HOW YOU MEAN TO HANG 'EM. IF YOU HANG THEM TWO MEN, I'M A-GOIN' TO HANG EVERY MAN OF YOURS I CAN GIT MY HANDS ON."DAWS DILLON—Captain."
Chad gave a low laugh and Harry smiled, but the General kept grave.
"You know, of course, that your brother belongs to Morgan's command?"
"I do, sir," said Harry, wonderingly.
"Do you know that his companion—the man Dillon—Jerry Dillon—does?"
"I do not, sir."
"They were captured by a squad that was fighting Daws Dillon. This Jerry Dillon has the same name and you found the two together at General Dean's."
"But they had both just left General Morgan's command," said Harry, indignantly.
"That may be true, but this Daws Dillon has sent a similar message to the Commandant, and he has just been in here again and committed two wanton outrages night before last. The Commandant is enraged and has issued orders for stern retaliation."
"It's a trick of Daws Dillon," said Chad, hotly, "an infamous trick. He hates his Cousin Jerry, he hates me, and he hates the Deans, because they were friends of mine." General Ward looked troubled.
"The Commandant says he has been positively informed that both the men joined Daws Dillon in the fight that night. He has issued orders that not only every guerilla captured shall be hung, but that, whenever a Union citizen has been killed by one of them, four of such marauders are to be taken to the spot and shot in retaliation. It is the only means left, he says."
There was a long silence. The faces of both the lads had turned white as each saw the drift of the General's meaning, and Harry strode forward to his desk.
"Do you mean to say, General Ward—"
The General wheeled in his chair and pointed silently to an order that lay on the desk, and as Harry started to read it, his voice broke. Daniel Dean and Rebel Jerry were to be shot next morning at sunrise.
The General spoke very kindly to Harry.
"I have known this all day, but I did not wish to tell you until I had done everything I could. I did not think it would be necessary to tell you at all, for I thought there would be no trouble. I telegraphed the Commandant, but"—he turned again to the window—"I have not been able to get them a trial by court-martial, or even a stay in the execution. You'd better go see your brother—he knows now—and you'd better send word to your mother and sister."
Harry shook his head. His face was so drawn and ghastly as he stood leaning heavily against the table that Chad moved unconsciously to his side.
"Where is the Commandant?" he asked.
"In Frankfort," said the General. Chad's eyes kindled.
"Will you let me go see him to-night?"
"Certainly, and I will give you a message to him. Perhaps you can yet save the boy, but there is no chance for the man Dillon." The General took up a pen. Harry seemed to sway as he turned to go, and Chad put one arm around him and went with him to the door.
"There have been some surprising desertions from the Confederate ranks," said the General, as he wrote. "That's the trouble." he looked at his watch as he handed the message over his shoulder to Chad. "You have ten hours before sunrise and it is nearly sixty miles there and back If you are not here with a stay of execution both will be shot. Do you think that you can make it? Of course you need not bring the message back yourself. You can get the Commandant to telegraph—" The slam of a door interrupted him—Chad was gone.
Harry was holding Dixie's bridle when he reached the street and Chad swung into the saddle.
"Don't tell them at home," he said. "I'll be back here on time, or I'll be dead."
The two grasped hands. Harry nodded dumbly and Dixie's feet beat the rhythm of her matchless gallop down the quiet street. The sensitive little mare seemed to catch at once the spirit of her rider. Her haunches quivered. She tossed her head and champed her bit, but not a pound did she pull as she settled into an easy lope that told how well she knew that the ride before her was long and hard. Out they went past the old cemetery, past the shaft to Clay rising from it, silvered with moonlight, out where the picket fires gleamed and converging on toward the Capital, unchallenged for the moon showed the blue of Chad's uniform and his face gave sign that no trivial business, that night, was his. Over quiet fields and into the aisles of sleeping woods beat that musical rhythm ceaselessly, awakening drowsy birds by the wayside, making bridges thunder, beating on and on up hill and down until picket fires shone on the hills that guard the Capital. Through them, with but one challenge, Chad went, down the big hill, past the Armory, and into the town—pulling panting Dixie up before a wondering sentinel who guarded the Commandant's sleeping quarters.
"The Commandant is asleep."
"Wake him up," said Chad, sharply. A staff-officer appeared at the door in answer to the sentinel's knock.
"What is your business?"
"A message from General Ward."
"The Commandant gave orders that he was not to be disturbed."
"He must be," said Chad. "It is a matter of life and death."
Above him a window was suddenly raised and the Commandant's own head was thrust out.
"Stop that noise," he thundered. Chad told his mission and the Commandant straightway was furious.
"How dare General Ward broach that matter again? My orders are given and they will not be changed." As he started to pull the window down, Chad cried:
"But, General—" and at the same time a voice called down the street:
"General!" Two men appeared under the gaslight—one was a sergeant and the other a frightened negro.
"Here is a message, General."
The sash went down, a light appeared behind it, and soon the Commandant, in trousers and slippers, was at the door. He read the note with a frown.
"Where did you get this?"
"A sojer come to my house out on the edge o' town, suh, and said he'd kill me to-morrow if I didn't hand dis note to you pussonally."
The Commandant turned to Chad. Somehow his manner seemed suddenly changed.
"Do you know that these men belonged to Morgan's command?"
"I know that Daniel Dean did and that the man Dillon was with him when captured."
Still frowning savagely, the Commandant turned inside to his desk and a moment later the staff-officer brought out a telegram and gave it to Chad.
"You can take this to the telegraph office yourself. It is a stay of execution."
"Thank you."
Chad drew a long breath of relief and gladness and patted Dixie on the neck as he rode slowly toward the low building where he had missed the train on his first trip to the Capital. The telegraph operator dashed to the door as Chad drew up in front of it. He looked pale and excited.
"Send this telegram at once," said Chad.
The operator looked at it.
"Not in that direction to-night," he said, with a strained laugh, "the wires are cut."
Chad almost reeled in his saddle—then the paper was whisked from the astonished operator's hand and horse and rider clattered up the hill.
At head-quarters the Commandant was handing the negro's note to a staff-officer. It read:
"YOU HANG THOSE TWO MEN AT SUNRISE TO-MORROW, AND I'LL HANG YOU AT SUNDOWN."