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The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come

by John Fox, Jr.

February, 2000  [Etext #2059]


Project Gutenberg Etext The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come by Fox
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Etext scanned by Mary Starr.





THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME

by JOHN FOX, JR.




To
CURRIE DUKE
DAUGHTER OF THE CHIEF
AMONG
MORGAN'S MEN

KENTUCKY, APRIL, 1898

CONTENTS

1. TWO RUNAWAYS FROM LONESOME
2. FIGHTING THEIR WAY
3. A "BLAB SCHOOL" ON KINGDOM COME
4. THE COMING OF THE TIDE
5. OUT OF THE WILDERNESS
6. LOST AT THE CAPITAL
7. A FRIEND ON THE ROAD
8. HOME WITH THE MAJOR
9. MARGARET
10. THE BLUEGRASS
11. A TOURNAMENT
12. BACK TO KINGDOM COME
13. ON TRIAL FOR HIS LIFE
14. THE MAJOR IN THE MOUNTAINS
15. TO COLLEGE IN THE BLUEGRASS
16. AGAIN THE BAR SINISTER
17. CHADWICK BUFORD, GENTLEMAN
18. THE SPIRIT OF '76 AND THE SHADOW OF '61
19. THE BLUE OR THE GRAY
20. OFF TO THE WAR
21. MELISSA
22. MORGAN'S MEN
23. CHAD CAPTURES AN OLD FRIEND
24. A RACE BETWEEN DIXIE AND DAWN
25. AFTER DAWS DILLON--GUERILLA
26. BROTHER AGAINST BROTHER AT LAST
27. AT THE HOSPITAL OF MORGAN'S MEN
28. PALL-BEARERS OF THE LOST CAUSE
29. MELISSA AND MARGARET
30. PEACE
31. THE WESTWARD WAY




THE LITTLE SHEPHERD
OF KINGDOM COME



CHAPTER 1

TWO RUNAWAYS FROM LONESOME

The days of that April had been days of mist and rain. Sometimes, for hours,
there would come a miracle of blue sky, white cloud, and yellow light, but
always between dark and dark the rain would fall and the mist creep up the
mountains and steam from the tops--only to roll together from either range,
drip back into the valleys, and lift, straightway, as mist again. So that, all
the while Nature was trying to give lustier life to every living thing in the
lowland Bluegrass, all the while a gaunt skeleton was stalking down the
Cumberland--tapping with fleshless knuckles, now at some unlovely cottage of
faded white and green, and now at a log cabin, stark and gray. Passing the
mouth of Lonesome, he flashed his scythe into its unlifeing shadows and went
stalking on. High up, at the source of the dismal little stream, the point of
the shining blade darted thrice into the open door of a cabin set deep into a
shaggy flank of Black Mountain, and three spirits, within, were quickly loosed
from aching flesh for the long flight into the unknown.

It was the spirit of the plague that passed, taking with it the breath of the
unlucky and the unfit: and in the hut on Lonesome three were dead--a gaunt
mountaineer, a gaunt daughter, and a gaunt son. Later, the mother, too, "jes'
kind o' got tired," as little Chad said, and soon to her worn hands and feet
came the well-earned rest. Nobody was left then but Chad and Jack, and Jack
was a dog with a belly to feed and went for less than nothing with everybody
but his little master and the chance mountaineer who had sheep to guard. So,
for the fourth time, Chad, with Jack at his heels, trudged up to the point of
a wooded spur above the cabin, where, at the foot of a giant poplar and under
a wilderness of shaking June leaves, were three piles of rough boards, loosely
covering three hillocks of rain-beaten earth; and, near them, an open grave.
There was no service sung or spoken over the dead, for the circuit-rider was
then months away; so, unnoticed, Chad stood behind the big poplar, watching
the neighbors gently let down into the shallow trench a home-made coffin,
rudely hollowed from the half of a bee-gum log, and, unnoticed, slipped away
at the first muffled stroke of the dirt--doubling his fists into his eyes and
stumbling against the gnarled bodies of laurel and rhododendron until, out in
a clear sunny space, he dropped on a thick, velvet mat of moss and sobbed
himself to sleep. When he awoke, Jack was licking his face and he sat up,
dazed and yawning. The sun was dropping fast, the ravines were filling with
blue shadows, luminous and misty, and a far drowsy tinkling from the valley
told him that cows were starting homeward. From habit, he sprang quickly to
his feet, but, sharply conscious on a sudden, dropped slowly back to the moss
again, while Jack, who had started down the spur, circled back to see what the
matter was, and stood with uplifted foot, much puzzled.

There had been a consultation about Chad early that morning among the
neighbors, and old Nathan Cherry, who lived over on Stone Creek, in the next
cove but one, said that he would take charge of the boy. Nathan did not wait
for the burial, but went back home for his wagon, leaving word that Chad was
to stay all night with a neighbor and meet him at the death-stricken cabin an
hour by sun. The old man meant to have Chad bound to him for seven years by
law--the boy had been told that--and Nathan hated dogs as much as Chad hated
Nathan. So the lad did not lie long. He did not mean to be bound out, nor to
have Jack mistreated, and he rose quickly and Jack sprang before him down the
rocky path and toward the hut that had been a home to both. Under the poplar,
Jack sniffed curiously at the new-made grave, and Chad called him away so
sharply that Jack's tail drooped and he crept toward his master, as though to
ask pardon for a fault of which he was not conscious. For one moment, Chad
stood looking. Again the stroke of the falling earth smote his ears and his
eyes filled; a curious pain caught him by the throat and he passed on,
whistling--down into the shadows below to the open door of the cabin.

It was deathly still. The homespun bedclothes and hand-made quilts of
brilliant colors had been thrown in a heap on one of the two beds of hickory
withes; the kitchen utensils--a crane and a few pots and pans--had been piled
on the hearth, along with strings of herbs and beans and red pepper-pods--all
ready for old Nathan when he should come over for them, next morning, with his
wagon. Not a living thing was to be heard or seen that suggested human life,
and Chad sat down in the deepening loneliness, watching the shadows rise up
the green walls that bound him in, and wondering what he should do, and where
he should go, if he was not to go to old Nathan; while Jack, who seemed to
know that some crisis was come, settled on his haunches a little way off, to
wait, with perfect faith and patience, for the boy to make up his mind.

It was the first time, perhaps, that Chad had ever thought very seriously
about himself, or wondered who he was, or whence he had come. Digging back
into his memory as far as he could, it seemed to him that what had just
happened now had happened to him once before, and that he had simply wandered
away. He could not recollect where he had started from first, but he could
recall many of the places where he had lived, and why he had left
them--usually because somebody, like old Nathan, had wanted to have him bound
out, or had misused Jack, or would not let the two stray off into the woods
together, when there was nothing else to be done. He had stayed longest where
he was now, because the old man and his son and his girl had all taken a great
fancy to Jack, and had let the two guard cattle in the mountains and drive
sheep and, if they stayed out in the woods over night, struck neither a stroke
of hand nor tongue. The old mother had been his mother and, once more, Chad
leaned his head against the worn lintel and wept silently. So far, nobody had
seemed to care particularly who he was, or was not--nor had Chad. Most people
were very kind to him, looking upon him as one of the wandering waifs that one
finds throughout the Cumberland, upon whom the good folks of the mountains do
not visit the father's sin. He knew what he was thought to be, and it mattered
so little, since it made no discrimination against him, that he had accepted
it without question. It did not matter now, except as it bore on the question
as to where he should start his feet. It was a long time for him to have
stayed in one place, and the roving memories, stirred within him now, took
root, doubtless, in the restless spirit that had led his unknown ancestor into
those mountain wilds after the Revolution.

All this while he had been sitting on the low threshold, with his elbows in
the hollows of his thighs and his left hand across his mouth. Once more, he
meant to be bound to no man's service and, at the final thought of losing
Jack, the liberty loving little tramp spat over his hand with sharp decision
and rose.

Just above him and across the buck antlers over the door, lay a long
flint-lock rifle; a bullet-pouch, a powder-horn, and a small raccoon-skin
haversack hung from one of the prongs: and on them the boy's eyes rested
longingly. Old Nathan, he knew, claimed that the dead man had owed him money;
and he further knew that old Nathan meant to take all he could lay his hands
on in payment: but he climbed resolutely upon a chair and took the things
down, arguing the question, meanwhile:

"Uncle Jim said once he aimed to give this rifle gun to me. Mebbe he was
foolin', but I don t believe he owed ole Nathan so much, an', anyways, he
muttered grimly, "I reckon Uncle Jim ud kind o' like fer me to git the better
of that ole devil--jes a LEETLE, anyways."

The rifle, he knew, was always loaded, there was not much powder in the horn
and there were not more than a dozen bullets in the pouch, but they would last
him until he could get far away. No more would he take, however, than what he
thought he could get along with--one blanket from the bed and, from the
fireplace, a little bacon and a pone of corn-bread

"An' I KNOW Aunt Jane wouldn't 'a' keered about these leetle fixin's, fer I
have to have 'em, an' I know I've earned 'em anyways."

Then he closed the door softly on the spirits on the dead within, and caught
the short, deer skin latch-string to the wooden pin outside. With his Barlow
knife, he swiftly stripped a bark string from a pawpaw bush near by, folded
and tied his blanket, and was swinging the little pack to his shoulder, when
the tinkle of a cow-bell came through the bushes, close at hand. Old Nance,
lean and pied, was coming home; he had forgotten her, it was getting late, and
he was anxious to leave for fear some neighbor might come; but there was no
one to milk and, when she drew near with a low moo, he saw that her udders
were full and dripping. It would hurt her to go unmilked, so Chad put his
things down and took up a cedar piggin from a shelf outside the cabin and did
the task thoroughly--putting the strippings in a cup and, so strong was the
habit in him, hurrying with both to the rude spring-house and setting them in
cool running water. A moment more and he had his pack and his rifle on one
shoulder and was climbing the fence at the wood-pile. There he stopped once
more with a sudden thought, and wrenching loose a short axe from the face of a
hickory log, staggered under the weight of his weapons up the mountain. The
sun was yet an hour high and, on the spur, he leaned his rifle against the big
poplar and set to work with his axe on a sapling close by--talking frankly now
to the God who made him:

"I reckon You know it, but I'm a-goin' to run away now. I hain't got no daddy
an' no mammy, an' I hain't never had none as I knows--but Aunt Jane
hyeh--she's been jes' like a mother to me an' I'm a-doin' fer her jes' whut I
wish You'd have somebody do fer my mother, ef You know whar she's a-layin'."

Eight round sticks he cut swiftly--four long and four short--and with these he
built a low pen, as is the custom of the mountaineers, close about the fresh
mound, and, borrowing a board or two from each of the other mounds, covered
the grave from the rain. Then he sunk the axe into the trunk of the great
poplar as high up as he could reach--so that it could easily be seen--and
brushing the sweat from his face, he knelt down:

"God!" he said, simply, "I hain't nothin' but a boy, but I got to ack like a
man now. I'm a-goin' now. I don't believe You keer much and seems like I bring
ever'body bad luck: an' I'm a-goin' to live up hyeh on the mountain jes' as
long as I can. I don t want you to think I'm a-complainin'--fer I ain't. Only
hit does seem sort o' curious that You'd let me be down hych--with me
a-keerint fer nobody now, an' nobody a-keerin' fer me. But Thy ways is
inscrutable--leastwise, that's whut the circuit-rider says--an' I ain't got a
word more to say--Amen."

Chad rose then and Jack, who had sat perfectly still, with his head cocked to
one side, and his ears straight forward in wonder over this strange
proceeding, sprang into the air, when Chad picked up his gun, and, with a
joyful bark, circled a clump of bushes and sped back, leaping as high as the
little fellow's head and trying to lick his face--for Jack was a rover, too.

The sun was low when the two waifs turned their backs upon it, and the blue
shadows in valley and ravine were darkening fast. Down the spur they went
swiftly--across the river and up the slope of Pine Mountain. As they climbed,
Chad heard the last faint sound of a cow-bell far below him and he stopped
short, with a lump in his throat that hurt. Soon darkness fell, and, on the
very top, the boy made a fire with his flint and steel, cooked a little bacon,
warmed his corn-pone, munched them and, wrapping his blanket around him and
letting Jack curl into the hollow of his legs and stomach, turned his face to
the kindly stars and went to sleep.


CHAPTER 2

FIGHTING THEIR WAY

Twice, during the night, Jack roused him by trying to push himself farther
under the blanket and Chad rose to rebuild the fire. The third time he was
awakened by the subtle prescience of dawn and his eyes opened on a flaming
radiance in the east. Again from habit he started to spring hurriedly to his
feet and, again sharply conscious, he lay down again. There was no wood to
cut, no fire to rekindle, no water to carry from the spring, no cow to milk,
no corn to hoe; there was nothing to do--nothing. Morning after morning, with
a day's hard toil at a man's task before him, what would he not have given,
when old Jim called him, to have stretched his aching little legs down the
folds of the thick feather-bed and slipped back into the delicious rest of
sleep and dreams? Now he was his own master and, with a happy sense of
freedom, he brushed the dew from his face and, shifting the chunk under his
head, pulled his old cap down a little more on one side and closed his eyes.
But sleep would not come and Chad had his first wonder over the perverse
result of the full choice to do, or not to do. At once, the first keen savor
of freedom grew less sweet to his nostrils and, straightway, he began to feel
the first pressure of the chain of duties that was to be forged for him out of
his perfect liberty, link by link, and he lay vaguely wondering.

Meanwhile, the lake of dull red behind the jagged lines of rose and crimson
that streaked the east began to glow and look angry. A sheen of fiery vapor
shot upward and spread swiftly over the miracle of mist that had been wrought
in the night. An ocean of it and, white and thick as snowdust, it filled
valley, chasm, and ravine with mystery and silence up to the dark jutting
points and dark waving lines of range after range that looked like breakers,
surged up by some strange new law from an under-sea of foam; motionless, it
swept down the valleys, poured swift torrents through high gaps in the hills
and one long noiseless cataract over a lesser range--all silent, all
motionless, like a great white sea stilled in the fury of a storm. Morning
after morning, the boy had looked upon just such glory, calmly watching the
mist part, like the waters, for the land, and the day break, with one phrase,
"Let there be light," ever in his mind--for Chad knew his Bible. And, most
often, in soft splendor, trailing cloud-mist, and yellow light leaping from
crest to crest, and in the singing of birds and the shining of leaves and
dew--there was light.

But that morning there was a hush in the woods that Chad understood. On a
sudden, a light wind scurried through the trees and showered the mistdrops
down. The smoke from his fire shot through the low undergrowth, without
rising, and the starting mists seemed to clutch with long, white fingers at
the tree-tops, as though loath to leave the safe, warm earth for the upper
air. A little later, he felt some great shadow behind him, and he turned his
face to see black clouds marshalling on either flank of the heavens and
fitting their black wings together, as though the retreating forces of the
night were gathering for a last sweep against the east. A sword flashed
blindingly from the dome high above them and, after it, came one shaking peal
that might have been the command to charge, for Chad saw the black hosts start
fiercely. Afar off, the wind was coming; the trees began to sway above him,
and the level sea of mist below began to swell, and the wooded breakers seemed
to pitch angrily.

Challenging tongues ran quivering up the east, and the lake of red coals under
them began to heave fiercely in answer. On either side the lightning leaped
upward and forward, striking straight and low, sometimes, as though it were
ripping up the horizon to let into the conflict the host of dropping stars.
Then the artillery of the thunder crashed in earnest through the shaking
heavens, and the mists below pitched like smoke belched from gigantic unseen
cannon. The coming sun answered with upleaping swords of fire and, as the
black thunder hosts swept overhead, Chad saw, for one moment, the whole east
in a writhing storm of fire. A thick darkness rose from the first crash of
battle and, with the rush of wind and rain, the mighty conflict went on
unseen.

Chad had seen other storms at sunrise, but something happened now and he could
never recall the others nor ever forget this. All it meant to him, young as he
was then, was unrolled slowly as the years came on--more than the first great
rebellion of the powers of darkness when, in the beginning, the Master gave
the first command that the seven days' work of His hand should float through
space, smitten with the welcoming rays of a million suns; more than the
beginning thus of light--of life; more even than the first birth of a spirit
in a living thing: for, long afterward, he knew that it meant the dawn of a
new consciousness to him--the birth of a new spirit within him, and the
foreshadowed pain of its slow mastery over his passion-racked body and heart.
Never was there a crisis, bodily or spiritual, on the battle-field or alone
under the stars, that this storm did not come back to him. And, always,
through all doubt, and, indeed, in the end when it came to him for the last
time on his bed of death, the slow and sullen dispersion of wind and rain on
the mountain that morning far, far back in his memory, and the quick coming of
the Sun-king's victorious light over the glad hills and trees held out to him
the promise of a final victory to the Sun-king's King over the darkness of all
death and the final coming to his own brave spirit of peace and rest.

So Chad, with Jack drawn close to him, lay back, awe-stricken and with his
face wet from mysterious tears. The comfort of the childish self-pity that
came with every thought of himself, wandering, a lost spirit along the
mountain-tops, was gone like a dream and ready in his heart was the strong new
purpose to strike into the world for himself. He even took it as a good omen,
when he rose, to find his fire quenched, the stopper of his powder-horn out,
and the precious black grains scattered hopelessly on the wet earth. There
were barely more than three charges left, and something had to be done at
once. First, he must get farther away from old Nathan: the neighbors might
search for him and find him and take him back.

So he started out, brisk and shivering, along the ridge path with Jack
bouncing before him. An hour later, he came upon a hollow tree, filled with
doty wood which he could tear out with his hands and he built a fire and
broiled a little more bacon.

Jack got only a bit this time and barked reproachfully for more; but Chad
shook his head and the dog started out, with both eyes open, to look for his
own food. The sun was high enough now to make the drenched world flash like an
emerald and its warmth felt good, as Chad tramped the topmost edge of Pine
Mountain, where the brush was not thick and where, indeed, he often found a
path running a short way and turning into some ravine--the trail of cattle and
sheep and the pathway between one little valley settlement and another. He
must have made ten miles and more by noon--for he was a sturdy walker and as
tireless almost as Jack--and ten miles is a long way in the mountains, even
now. So, already, Chad was far enough away to have no fear of pursuit, even if
old Nathan wanted him back, which was doubtful. On the top of the next point,
Jack treed a squirrel and Chad took a rest and brought him down, shot through
the head and, then and there, skinned and cooked him and divided with Jack
squarely.

"Jack," he said, as he reloaded his gun, "we can't keep this up much longer. I
hain't got more'n two more loads o' powder here."

And, thereupon, Jack leaped suddenly in the air and, turning quite around,
lighted with his nose pointed, as it was before he sprang. Chad cocked the old
gun and stepped forward. A low hissing whir rose a few feet to one side of the
path and, very carefully, the boy climbed a fallen trunk and edged his way,
very carefully, toward the sound: and there, by a dead limb and with his ugly
head reared three inches above his coil of springs, was a rattlesnake. The
sudden hate in the boy's face was curious--it was instinctive, primitive,
deadly. He must shoot off-hand now and he looked down the long barrel, shaded
with tin, until the sight caught on one of the beady, unblinking eyes and
pulled the trigger. Jack leaped with the sound, in spite of Chad's yell of
warning, which was useless, for the ball had gone true and the poison was set
loose in the black, crushed head.

"Jack," said Chad, "we just GOT to go down now."

So they went on swiftly through the heat of the early afternoon. It was very
silent up there. Now and then, a brilliant blue-jay would lilt from a stunted
oak with the flute-like love-notes of spring; or a lonely little brown fellow
would hop with a low chirp from one bush to another as though he had been lost
up there for years and had grown quite hopeless about seeing his kind again.
When there was a gap in the mountains, he could hear the querulous, senseless
love-quarrel of flickers going on below him; passing a deep ravine, the note
of the wood-thrush--that shy lyrist of the hills--might rise to him from a
dense covert of maple and beech: or, with a startling call, a red-crested cock
of the woods would beat his white-striped wings from spur to spur, as though
he were keeping close to the long swells of an unseen sea. Several times, a
pert flicker squatting like a knot to a dead limb or the crimson plume of a
cock of the woods, as plain as a splash of blood on a wall of vivid green,
tempted him to let loose his last load, but he withstood them. A little later,
he saw a fresh bear-track near a spring below the head of a ravine; and, later
still, he heard the far-away barking of a hound and a deer leaped lightly into
an open sunny spot and stood with uplifted hoof and pointed ears. This was too
much and the boy's gun followed his heart to his throat, but the buck sprang
lightly into the bush and vanished noiselessly.

The sun had dropped midway between the zenith and the blue bulks rolling
westward and, at the next gap, a broader path ran through it and down the
mountain. This, Chad knew, led to a settlement and, with a last look of
choking farewell to his own world, he turned down. At once, the sense of
possible human companionship was curiously potent: at once, the boy's
half-wild manner changed and, though alert and still watchful, he whistled
cheerily to Jack, threw his gun over his shoulder, and walked erect and
confident. His pace slackened. Carelessly now his feet tramped beds of soft
exquisite moss and lone little settlements of forget-me-nots, and his long
riflebarrel brushed laurel blossoms down in a shower behind him. Once even, he
picked up one of the pretty bells and looked idly at it, turning it bottom
upward. The waxen cup might have blossomed from a tiny waxen star. There was a
little green star for a calyx; above this, a little white star with its prongs
outstretched--tiny arms to hold up the pink-flecked chalice for the rain and
dew. There came a time when he thought of it as a star-blossom; but now his
greedy tongue swept the honey from it and he dropped it without another
thought to the ground. At the first spur down which the road turned, he could
see smoke in the valley. The laurel blooms and rhododendron bells hung in
thicker clusters and of a deeper pink. Here and there was a blossoming wild
cucumber and an umbrella-tree with huger flowers and leaves; and, sometimes, a
giant magnolia with a thick creamy flower that the boy could not have spanned
with both hands and big, thin oval leaves, a man's stride from tip to stem.
Soon, he was below the sunlight and in the cool shadows where the water ran
noisily and the air hummed with the wings of bees On the last spur, he came
upon a cow browsing on sassafras-bushes right in the path and the last shadow
of his loneliness straightway left him. She was old, mild, and unfearing, and
she started down the road in front of him as though she thought he had come to
drive her home, or as though she knew he was homeless and was leading him to
shelter. A little farther on, the river flashed up a welcome to him through
the trees and at the edge of the water, her mellow bell led him down stream
and he followed. In the next hollow, he stooped to drink from a branch that
ran across the road and, when he rose to start again, his bare feet stopped as
though riven suddenly to the ground; for, half way up the next low slope, was
another figure as motionless as his--with a bare head, bare feet, a startled
face and wide eyes--but motionless only until the eyes met his: then there was
a flash of bright hair and scarlet homespun, and the little feet, that had
trod down the centuries to meet his, left the earth as though they had wings
and Chad saw them, in swift flight, pass silently over the hill. The next
moment, Jack came too near the old brindle and, with a sweep of her horns at
him and a toss of tail and heels in the air, she, too, swept over the slope
and on, until the sound of her bell passed out of hearing. Even to-day, in
lonely parts of the Cumberland, the sudden coming of a stranger may put women
and children to flight-- something like this had happened before to Chad--but
the sudden desertion and the sudden silence drew him in a flash back to the
lonely cabin he had left and the lonely graves under the big poplar and, with
a quivering lip, he sat down. Jack, too, dropped to his haunches and sat
hopeless, but not for long. The chill of night was coming on and Jack was
getting hungry. So he rose presently and trotted ahead and squatted again,
looking back and waiting. But still Chad sat irresolute and in a moment, Jack
heard something that disturbed him, for he threw his ears toward the top of
the hill and, with a growl, trotted back to Chad and sat close to him, looking
up the slope. Chad rose then with his thumb on the lock of his gun and over
the hill came a tall figure and a short one, about Chad's size and a dog, with
white feet and white face, that was bigger than Jack: and behind them, three
more figures, one of which was the tallest of the group. All stopped when they
saw Chad, who dropped the butt of his gun at once to the ground. At once the
strange dog, with a low snarl, started down toward the two little strangers
with his yellow ears pointed, the hair bristling along his back, and his teeth
in sight. Jack answered the challenge with an eager whimper, but dropped his
tail, at Chad's sharp command--for Chad did not care to meet the world as an
enemy, when he was looking for a friend. The group stood dumb with
astonishment for a moment and the small boy's mouth was wide-open with
surprise, but the strange dog came on with his tail rigid, and lifting his
feet high.

"Begone!" said Chad, sharply, but the dog would not begone; he still came on
as though bent on a fight.

"Call yo' dog off," Chad called aloud. "My dog'll kill him. You better call
him off," he called again, in some concern, but the tall boy in front laughed
scornfully.

"Let's see him," he said, and the small one laughed, too.

Chad's eyes flashed--no boy can stand an insult to his dog--and the curves of
his open lips snapped together in a straight red line. "All right," he said,
placidly, and, being tired, he dropped back on a stone by the wayside to await
results. The very tone of his voice struck all shackles of restraint from
Jack, who, with a springy trot, went forward slowly, as though he were making
up a definite plan of action; for Jack had a fighting way of his own, which
Chad knew.

"Sick him, Whizzer!" shouted the tall boy, and the group of five hurried
eagerly down the hill and halted in a half circle about Jack and Chad; so that
it looked an uneven conflict, indeed, for the two waifs from over Pine
Mountain.

The strange dog was game and wasted no time. With a bound he caught Jack by
the throat, tossed him several feet away, and sprang for him again. Jack
seemed helpless against such strength and fury, but Chad's face was as placid
as though it had been Jack who was playing the winning game.

Jack himself seemed little disturbed; he took his punishment without an outcry
of rage or pain. You would have thought he had quietly come to the conclusion
that all he could hope to do was to stand the strain until his opponent had
worn himself out. But that was not Jack's game, and Chad knew it. The tall boy
was chuckling, and his brother of Chad's age was bent almost double with
delight.

"Kill my dawg, will he?" he cried, shrilly.

"Oh, Lawdy!" groaned the tall one.

Jack was much bitten and chewed by this time, and, while his pluck and purpose
seemed unchanged, Chad had risen to his feet and was beginning to look
anxious. The three silent spectators behind pressed forward and, for the first
time, one of these--the tallest of the group--spoke:

"Take yo' dawg off, Daws Dillon," he said, with quiet authority; but Daws
shook his head, and the little brother looked indignant.

"He said he'd kill him," said Daws, tauntingly.

"Yo' dawg's bigger and hit ain't fair," said the other again and, seeing
Chad's worried look, he pressed suddenly forward; but Chad had begun to smile,
and was sitting down on his stone again. Jack had leaped this time, with his
first growl during the fight, and Whizzer gave a sharp cry of surprise and
pain. Jack had caught him by the throat, close behind the jaws, and the big
dog shook and growled and shook again. Sometimes Jack was lifted quite from
the ground, but he seemed clamped to his enemy to stay. Indeed he shut his
eyes, finally, and seemed to go quite to sleep. The big dog threshed madly and
swung and twisted, howling with increasing pain and terror and increasing
weakness, while Jack's face was as peaceful as though he were a puppy once
more and hanging to his mother's neck instead of her breast, asleep. By and
by, Whizzer ceased to shake and began to pant; and, thereupon, Jack took his
turn at shaking, gently at first, but with maddening regularity and without at
all loosening his hold. The big dog was too weak to resist soon and, when Jack
began to jerk savagely, Whizzer began to gasp.

"You take YO' dawg off," called Daws, sharply.

Chad never moved.

"Will you say 'nough for him?" he asked, quietly; and the tall one of the
silent three laughed.

"Call him off, I tell ye," repeated Daws, savagely; but again Chad never
moved, and Daws started for a club. Chad's new friend came forward.

"Hol'on, now, hol'on," he said, easily. "None o' that, I reckon."

Daws stopped with an oath. "Whut you got to do with this, Tom Turner?"

"You started this fight," said Tom.

"I don't keer ef I did--take him off," Daws answered, savagely.

"Will you say 'nough fer him?" said Chad again, and again Tall Tom chuckled.
The little brother clinched his fists and turned white with fear for Whizzer
and fury for Chad, while Daws looked at the tall Turner, shook his head from
side to side, like a balking steer, and dropped his eyes.

"Y-e-s," he said, sullenly.

"Say it, then," said Chad, and this time Tall Tom roared aloud, and even his
two silent brothers laughed. Again Daws, with a furious oath, started for the
dogs with his club, but Chad's ally stepped between.

"You say 'nough, Daws Dillon," he said, and Daws looked into the quiet
half-smiling face and at the stalwart two grinning behind.

"Takin' up agin yo' neighbors fer a wood-colt' airye?"

"I'm a-takin' up fer what's right and fair. How do you know he's a
wood-colt--an' suppose he is? You say 'nough now, or--"

Again Daws looked at the dogs. Jack had taken a fresh grip and was shaking
savagely and steadily. Whizzer's tongue was out--once his throat rattled.

"Nough!" growled Daws, angrily, and the word was hardly jerked from his lips
before Chad was on his feet and prying Jack's jaws apart. "He ain't much
hurt," he said, looking at the bloody hold which Jack had clamped on his
enemy's throat, "but he'd a-killed him though, he al'ays does. Thar ain't no
chance fer NO dog, when Jack gits THAT hold."

Then he raised his eyes and looked into the quivering face of the owner of the
dog--the little fellow--who, with the bellow of a yearling bull, sprang at
him. Again Chad's lips took a straight red line and being on one knee was an
advantage, for, as he sprang up, he got both underholds and there was a mighty
tussle, the spectators yelling with frantic delight.

"Trip him, Tad," shouted Daws, fiercely.

"Stick to him, little un," shouted Tom, and his brothers, stoical Dolph and
Rube, danced about madly. Even with underholds, Chad, being much the shorter
of the two, had no advantage that he did not need, and, with a sharp thud, the
two fierce little bodies struck the road side by side, spurting up a cloud of
dust.

"Dawg--fall!" cried Rube, and Dolph rushed forward to pull the combatants
apart.

"He don't fight fair," said Chad, panting, and rubbing his right eye which his
enemy had tried to "gouge"; "but lemme at him--I can fight thataway, too."
Tall Tom held them apart.

"You're too little, and he don't fight fair. I reckon you better go on
home--you two--an' yo' mean dawg," he said to Daws; and the two Dillons--the
one sullen and the other crying with rage--moved away with Whizzer slinking
close to the ground after them. But at the top of the hill both turned with
bantering yells, derisive wriggling of their fingers at their noses, and with
other rude gestures. And, thereupon, Dolph and Rube wanted to go after them,
but the tall brother stopped them with a word.

"That's about all they're fit fer," he said, contemptuously, and he turned to
Chad.

"Whar you from, little man, an' whar you goin', an' what mought yo' name be?"

Chad told his name, and where he was from, and stopped.

"Whar you goin'?" said Tom again, without a word or look of comment.

Chad knew the disgrace and the suspicion that his answer was likely to
generate, but he looked his questioner in the face fearlessly.

"I don't know whar I'm goin'."

The big fellow looked at him keenly, but kindly.

"You ain't lyin' an' I reckon you better come with us." He turned for the
first time to his brothers and the two nodded.

"You an' yo' dawg, though Mammy don't like dawgs much; but you air a stranger
an' you ain't afeerd, an' you can fight--you an' yo' dawg--an' I know Dad'll
take ye both in."

So Chad and Jack followed the long strides of the three Turners over the hill
and to the bend of the river, where were three long cane fishing-poles with
their butts stuck in the mud--the brothers had been fishing, when the flying
figure of the little girl told them of the coming of a stranger into those
lonely wilds. Taking these up, they strode on--Chad after them and Jack
trotting, in cheerful confidence, behind. It is probable that Jack noticed, as
soon as Chad, the swirl of smoke rising from a broad ravine that spread into
broad fields, skirted by the great sweep of the river, for he sniffed the air
sharply, and trotted suddenly ahead. It was a cheering sight for Chad. Two
negro slaves were coming from work in a corn-field close by, and Jack's hair
rose when he saw them, and, with a growl, he slunk behind his master. Dazed,
Chad looked at them.

"Whut've them fellers got on their faces?" he asked. Tom laughed.

"Hain't you nuver seed a nigger afore?" he asked.

Chad shook his head.

"Lots o' folks from yo' side o' the mountains nuver have seed a nigger," said
Tom. "Sometimes hit skeers 'em."

"Hit don't skeer me," said Chad.

At the gate of the barn-yard, in which was a long stable with a deeply sloping
roof, stood the old brindle cow, who turned to look at Jack, and, as Chad
followed the three brothers through the yard gate, he saw a slim scarlet
figure vanish swiftly from the porch into the house.

In a few minutes, Chad was inside the big log cabin and before a big log-fire,
with Jack between his knees and turning his soft human eyes keenly from one to
another of the group about his little master, telling how the mountain cholera
had carried off the man and the woman who had been father and mother to him,
and their children; at which the old mother nodded her head in growing
sympathy, for there were two fresh mounds in her own graveyard on the point of
a low hill not far away; how old Nathan Cherry, whom he hated, had wanted to
bind him out, and how, rather than have Jack mistreated and himself be
ill-used, he had run away along the mountain-top; how he had slept one night
under a log with Jack to keep him warm; how he had eaten sassafras and birch
back and had gotten drink from the green water-bulbs of the wild honeysuckle;
and how, on the second day, being hungry, and without powder for his gun, he
had started, when the sun sank, for the shadows of the valley at the mouth of
Kingdom Come. Before he was done, the old mother knocked the ashes from her
clay pipe and quietly went into the kitchen, and Jack, for all his good
manners, could not restrain a whine of eagerness when he heard the crackle of
bacon in a frying-pan and the delicious smell of it struck his quivering
nostrils. After dark, old Joel, the father of the house, came in--a giant in
size and a mighty hunter--and he slapped his big thighs and roared until the
rafters seemed to shake when Tall Tom told him about the dog-fight and the
boy-fight with the family in the next cove: for already the clanship was
forming that was to add the last horror to the coming great war and prolong
that horror for nearly half a century after its close.

By and by, the scarlet figure of little Melissa came shyly out of the dark
shadows behind and drew shyly closer and closer, until she was crouched in the
chimney corner with her face shaded from the fire by one hand and a tangle of
yellow hair, listening and watching him with her big, solemn eyes, quite
fearlessly. Already the house was full of children and dependents, but no word
passed between old Joel and the old mother, for no word was necessary. Two
waifs who had so suffered and who could so fight could have a home under that
roof if they pleased, forever. And Chad's sturdy little body lay deep in a
feather-bed, and the friendly shadows from a big fireplace flickered hardly
thrice over him before he was asleep. And Jack, for that night at least, was
allowed to curl up by the covered coals, or stretch out his tired feet, if he
pleased, to a warmth that in all the nights of his life, perhaps, he had never
known before.



CHAPTER 3. A "BLAB SCHOOL" ON KINGDOM COME

Chad was awakened by the touch of a cold nose at his ear, the rasp of a warm
tongue across his face, and the tug of two paws at his cover. Git down, Jack!"
he said, and Jack, with a whimper of satisfaction, went back to the fire that
was roaring up the chimney, and a deep voice laughed and called:

"I reckon you better git UP, little man!"

Old Joel was seated at the fire with his huge legs crossed and a pipe in his
mouth. It was before busily astir. There was the sound of tramping in the
frosty air outside and the noise of getting breakfast ready in the kitchen. As
Chad sprang up, he saw Melissa's yellow hair drop out of sight behind the foot
of the bed in the next corner, and he turned his face quickly, and, slipping
behind the foot of his own bed and into his coat and trousers, was soon at the
fire himself, with old Joel looking him over with shrewd kindliness.

"Yo' dawg's got a heap o' sense," said the old hunter, and Chad told him how
old Jack was, and how a cattle-buyer from the "settlements" of the Bluegrass
had given him to Chad when Jack was badly hurt and his owner thought he was
going to die. And how Chad had nursed him and how the two had always been
together ever since. Through the door of the kitchen, Chad could see the old
mother with her crane and pots and cooking-pans; outside, he could hear the
moo of the old brindle, the bleat of her calf, the nicker of a horse, one
lusty sheep-call, and the hungry bellow of young cattle at the barn, where
Tall Tom was feeding the stock. Presently Rube stamped in with a back log and
Dolph came through with a milk-pail.

"I can milk," said Chad, eagerly, and Dolph laughed.

"All right, I'll give ye a chance," he said, and old Joel looked pleased, for
it was plain that the little stranger was not going to be a drone in the
household, and, taking his pipe from his mouth but without turning his head,
he called out:

"Git up thar, Melissy."

Getting no answer, he looked around to find Melissa standing at the foot of
the bed.

"Come here to the fire, little gal, nobody's agoin to eat ye."

Melissa came forward, twisting her hands in front of her, and stood, rubbing
one bare foot over the other on the hearth-stones. She turned her face with a
blush when Chad suddenly looked at her, and, thereafter, the little man gazed
steadily into the fire in order to embarrass her no more.

With the breaking of light over the mountain, breakfast was over and the work
of the day began. Tom was off to help a neighbor "snake" logs down the
mountain and into Kingdom Come, where they would be "rafted" and floated on
down the river to the capital--if a summer tide should come--to be turned into
fine houses for the people of the Bluegrass. Dolph and Rube disappeared at old
Joel's order to "go meet them sheep." Melissa helped her mother clear away the
table and wash the dishes; and Chad, out of the tail of his eye, saw her
surreptitiously feeding greedy Jack, while old Joel still sat by the fire,
smoking silently. Chad stepped outside. The air was chill, but the mists were
rising and a long band of rich, warm light lay over a sloping spur up the
river, and where this met the blue morning shadows, the dew was beginning to
drip and to sparkle. Chad could nor stand inaction long, and his eye lighted
up when he heard a great bleating at the foot of the spur and the shouts of
men and boys. Just then the old mother called from the rear of the cabin.

"Joel, them sheep air comin'!"

The big form of the old hunter filled the doorway and Jack bounded out between
his legs? while little Melissa appeared with two books, ready for school. Down
the road came the flock of lean mountain-sheep, Dolph and Rube driving them.
Behind, slouched the Dillon tribe--Daws and Whizzer and little Tad; Daws's
father, old Tad, long, lean! stooping, crafty: and two new ones cousins to
Daws--Jake and Jerry, the giant twins. "Joel Turner," said old Tad, sourly,
"here's yo' sheep! "

Joel had bought the Dillons' sheep and meant to drive them to the county-seat
ten miles down the river. There had evidently been a disagreement between the
two when the trade was made, for Joel pulled out a gray pouch of coonskin,
took from it a roll of bills, and, without counting them, held them out.

"Tad Dillon," he said, shortly, "here's yo' money!

The Dillon father gave possession with a gesture and the Dillon faction,
including Whizzer and the giant twins, drew aside together--the father morose;
Daws watching Dolph and Rube with a look of much meanness; little Tad behind
him, watching Chad, his face screwed up with hate; and Whizzer, pretending not
to see Jack, but darting a surreptitious glance at him now and then, for then
and there was starting a feud that was to run fiercely on, long after the war
was done.

"Git my hoss, Rube," said old Joel, and Rube turned to the stable, while Dolph
kept an eye on the sheep, which were lying on the road or straggling down the
river. As Rube opened the stable-door, a dirty white object bounded out, and
Rube, with a loud curse, tumbled over backward into the mud, while a fierce
old ram dashed with a triumphant bleat for the open gate. Beelzebub, as the
Turner mother had christened the mischievous brute, had been placed in the
wrong stall and Beelzebub was making for freedom. He gave another triumphant
baa as he swept between Dolph's legs and through the gate, and, with an
answering chorus, the silly sheep sprang to their feet and followed. A sheep
hates water, but not more than he loves a leader, and Beelzebub feared
nothing. Straight for the water of the low ford the old conqueror made and, in
the wake of his masterful summons, the flock swept, like a Mormon household,
after him. Then was there a commotion indeed. Old Joel shouted and swore;
Dolph shouted and swore and Rube shouted and swore. Old Dillon smiled grimly,
Daws and little Tad shouted with derisive laughter, and the big twins grinned.
The mother came to the door, broom in hand, and, with a frowning face, watched
the sheep splash through the water and into the woods across the river. Little
Melissa looked frightened. Whizzer, losing his head, had run down after the
sheep, barking and hastening their flight, until called back with a mighty
curse from old Joel, while Jack sat on his haunches looking at Chad and
waiting for orders.

"Goddlemighty!" said Joel, "how air we goin' to git them sheep back?" Up and
up rose the bleating and baaing, for Beelzebub, like the prince of devils that
he was, seemed bent on making all the mischief possible.

"How AIR we goin' to git 'em back?"

Chad nodded then, and Jack with an eager yelp made for the river--Whizzer at
his heels. Again old Joel yelled furiously, as did Dolph and Rube, and Whizzer
stopped and turned back with a drooping tail, but Jack plunged in. He knew but
one voice behind him and Chad's was not in the chorus.

"Call yo' dawg back, boy," said Joel, sternly, and Chad opened his lips with
anything but a call for Jack to come back--it was instead a fine high yell of
encouragement and old Joel was speechless.

"That dawg'll kill them sheep," said Daws Dillon aloud.

Joel's face was red and his eyes rolled.

"Call that damned feist back, I tell ye," he shouted at last. "Hyeh, Rube, git
my gun, git my gun!"

Rube started for the house, but Chad laughed. Jack had reached the other bank
now, and was flashing like a ball of gray light through the weeds and up into
the woods; and Chad slipped down the bank and into the river, hieing him on
excitedly.

Joel was beside himself and he, too, lumbered down to the river, followed by
Dolph, while the Dillons roared from the road.

"Boy!" he roared. "Eh, boy, eh! what's his name, Dolph? Call him back, Dolph,
call the little devil back. If I don't wear him out with a hickory; holler fer
'em, damn 'em! Heh-o-oo-ee!" The old hunter's bellow rang through the woods
like a dinner-horn. Dolph was shouting, too, but Jack and Chad seemed to have
gone stone-deaf; and Rube, who had run down with the gun, started with an oath
into the river himself, but Joel halted him.

"Hol'on, hol'on!" he said, listening. "By the eternal, he's a-roundin' 'em
up!" The sheep were evidently much scattered, to judge from the bleating, but
here, there, and everywhere, they could hear Jack's bark, while Chad seemed to
have stopped in the woods and, from one place, was shouting orders to his dog.
Plainly, Jack was no sheep-killer and by and by Dolph and Rube left off
shouting, and old Joel's face became placid and all of them from swearing
helplessly fell to waiting quietly. Soon the bleating became less and less,
and began to concentrate on the mountain-side. Not far below, they could hear
Chad:

Coo-oo-sheep! Coo-oo-sh'p-cooshy-cooshy-coo-oo-sheep!"

The sheep were answering. They were coming down a ravine, and Chad's voice
rang out above:

"Somebody come across, an' stand on each side o' the holler."

Dolph and Rube waded across then, and soon the sheep came crowding down the
narrow ravine with Jack barking behind them and Chad shooing them down. But
for Dolph and Rube, Beelzebub would have led them up or down the river, and it
was hard work to get him into the water until Jack, who seemed to know what
the matter was, sharply nipped several sheep near him. These sprang violently
forward, the whole flock in front pushed forward, too, and Beelzebub was
thrust from the bank. Nothing else being possible, the old ram settled himself
with a snort into the water and made for the other shore. Chad and Jack
followed and, when they reached the road, Beelzebub was again a prisoner; the
sheep, swollen like sponges, were straggling down the river, and Dillons and
Turners were standing around in silence. Jack shook himself and dropped
panting in the dust at his master's feet, without so much as an upward glance
or a lift of his head for a pat of praise. As old Joel raised one foot heavily
to his stirrup, he grunted, quietly:

"Well, I be damned." And when he was comfortably in his saddle he said again,
with unction:

"I DO be damned. I'll just take that dawg to help drive them sheep down to
town. Come on, boy."

Chad started joyfully, but the old mother called from the door: "Who's a-goin'
to take this gal to school, I'd like to know?"

Old Joel pulled in his horse' straightened one leg, and looked all
around--first at the Dillons, who had started away, then at Dolph and Rube,
who were moving determinedly after the sheep (it was Court Day in town and
they could not miss Court Day), and then at Chad, who halted.

"Boy," he said, "don't you want to go to school--you ought to go to school?"

"Yes," said Chad, obediently, though the trip to town--and Chad had never been
to a town--was a sore temptation.

"Go on, then, an' tell the teacher I sent ye. Here, Mammy--eh, what's yo'
name, boy? Oh, Mammy--Chad, here 'll take her. Take good keer o' that gal,
boy, an' learn yo' a-b-abs like a man now."

Melissa came shyly forward from the door and Joel whistled to Jack and called
him, but Jack though he liked nothing better than to drive sheep lay still,
looking at Chad.

"Go 'long, Jack," said Chad, and Jack sprang up and was off, though he stopped
again and looked back, and Chad had to tell him again to go on. In a moment
dog, men, and sheep were moving in a cloud of dust around a bend in the road
and little Melissa was at the gate.

"Take good keer of 'Lissy," said the mother from the porch, kindly; and Chad,
curiously touched all at once by the trust shown him, stalked ahead like a
little savage, while Melissa with her basket followed silently behind. The boy
never thought of taking the basket himself that is not the way of men with
women in the hills and not once did he look around or speak on the way up the
river and past the blacksmith's shop and the grist-mill just beyond the mouth
of Kingdom Come; but when they arrived at the log school-house it was his turn
to be shy and he hung back to let Melissa go in first. Within, there was no
floor but the bare earth, no window but the cracks between the logs, and no
desks but the flat sides of slabs, held up by wobbling pegs. On one side were
girls in linsey and homespun some thin, undersized, underfed, and with weak,
dispirited eyes and yellow tousled hair; others, round-faced, round-eyed,
dark, and sturdy; most of them large-waisted and round-shouldered--especially
the older ones--from work in the fields; but, now and then, one like Melissa,
the daughter of a valley farmer, erect, agile, spirited, intelligent. On the
other side were the boys, in physical characteristics the same and suggesting
the same social divisions: at the top the farmer--now and then a slave-holder
and perhaps of gentle blood--who had dropped by the way on the westward march
of civilization and had cleared some rich river bottom and a neighboring
summit of the mountains, where he sent his sheep and cattle to graze; where a
creek opened into this valley some free-settler, whose grandfather had fought
at King's Mountain--usually of Scotch-Irish descent, often English, but
sometimes German or sometimes even Huguenot--would have his rude home of logs;
under him, and in wretched cabins at the head of the creek or on the washed
spur of the mountain above, or in some "deadenin"' still higher up and swept
by mists and low-trailing clouds, the poor white trash--worthless descendants
of the servile and sometimes criminal class who might have traced their origin
back to the slums of London hand-to-mouth tenants of the valley-aristocrat,
hewers of wood for him in the lowlands and upland guardians of his cattle and
sheep. And finally, walking up and down the earth floor--stern and smooth of
face and of a preternatural dignity hardly to be found elsewhere--the mountain
school-master.

It was a "blab school," as the mountaineers characterize a school in which the
pupils study aloud, and the droning chorus as shrill as locust cries ceased
suddenly when Chad came in, and every eye was turned on him with a sexless
gaze of curiosity that made his face redden and his heart throb. But he forgot
them when the school-master pierced him with eyes that seemed to shoot from
under his heavy brows like a strong light from deep darkness. Chad met them,
nor did his chin droop, and Caleb Hazel saw that the boy's face was frank and
honest, and that his eye was fearless and kind, and, without question, he
motioned to a seat--with one wave of his hand setting Chad on the corner of a
slab and the studious drone to vibrating again. When the boy ventured to
glance around, he saw Daws Dillon in one corner, making a face at him, and
little Tad scowling from behind a book: and on the other side, among the
girls, he saw another hostile face--next little Melissa which had the pointed
chin and the narrow eyes of the "Dillon breed," as old Joel called the family,
whose farm was at the mouth of Kingdom Come and whose boundary touched his
own. When the first morning recess came "little recess," as it was called--the
master kept Chad in and asked him his name; if he had ever been to school, and
whether he knew his A B C's; and he showed no surprise when Chad, without
shame, told him no. So the master got Melissa's spelling-book and pointed out
the first seven letters of the alphabet, and made Chad repeat them three
times--watching the boy's earnest, wrinkling brow closely and with growing
interest. When school "took up" again, Chad was told to say them aloud in
concert with the others--which he did, until he could repeat them without
looking at his book, and the master saw him thus saying them while his eyes
roved around the room, and he nodded to himself with satisfaction--for he was
accustomed to visible communion with himself, in school and out. At noon--"big
recess" Melissa gave Chad some corn-bread and bacon, and the boys gathered
around him, while the girls looked at him curiously, merely because he was a
stranger, and some of them--especially the Dillon girl--whispered, and Chad
blushed and was uncomfortable, for once the Dillon girl laughed unkindly. The
boys had no games, but they jumped and threw "rocks" with great accuracy at a
little birch-tree, and Daws and Tad always spat on their stones and pointed
with he forefinger of the left hand first at what they were going to throw at,
while Chad sat to one side and took no part, though he longed to show them
what he could do. By and by they fell to wrestling, and finally Tad bantered
him for a trial. Chad hesitated, and his late enemy misunderstood.

"I'll give ye both underholts agin," he said, loftily, "you're afeerd!"

This was too much, and Chad sprang to his feet and grappled, disdaining the
proffered advantage, and got hurled to the ground, his head striking the earth
violently, and making him so dizzy that the brave smile with which he took his
fall looked rather sickly and pathetic.

"Yes, an' Whizzer can whoop yo' dawg, too," said Tad, and Chad saw that he was
going to have trouble with those Dillons, for Daws winked at the other boys,
and the Dillon girl laughed again scornfully--at which Chad saw Melissa's eyes
flash and her hands clinch as, quite unconsciously, she moved toward him to
take his part; and all at once he was glad that he had nobody else to champion
him.

"You wouldn' dare tech him if one of my brothers was here," she said,
indignantly, "an' don t you dare tech him again, Tad Dillon. An you--she said,
witheringly, "you--" she repeated and stopped helpless for the want of words
but her eyes spoke with the fierce authority of the Turner clan, and its
dominant power for half a century, and Nancy Dillon shrank, though she turned
and made a spiteful face, when Melissa walked toward the school-house alone.

That afternoon was the longest of Chad's life--it seemed as though it would
never come to an end; for Chad had never sat so still for so long. His throat
got dry repeating the dreary round of letters over and over and his head ached
and he fidgeted in his chair while the slow hours passed and the sun went down
behind the mountain and left the school-house in rapidly cooling shadow. His
heart leaped when the last class was heard and the signal was given that meant
freedom for the little prisoners; but Melissa sat pouting in her seat-- she
had missed her lesson and must be kept in for a while. So Chad, too, kept his
seat and the master heard him say his letters, without the book, and nodded
his head as though to say to himself that such quickness was exactly what he
had looked for. By the time Chad had learned down to the letter 0, Melissa was
ready, for she was quick, too, and it was her anger that made her miss--and
the two started home, Chad stalking ahead once more. To save him, he could not
say a word of thanks, but how he wished that a bear or a wild-cat would spring
into the road! He would fight it with teeth and naked hands to show her how he
felt and to save her from harm.

The sunlight still lay warm and yellow far under the crest of Pine Mountain,
and they had not gone far when Caleb Hazel overtook them and with long strides
forged ahead. The school-master "boarded around" and it was his week with the
Turners, and Chad was glad, for he already loved the tall, gaunt, awkward man
who asked him question after question so kindly--loved him as much as he
revered and feared him--and the boy's artless, sturdy answers in turn pleased
Caleb Hazel. And when Chad told who had given him Jack, the master began to
talk about the faraway, curious country of which the cattle-dealer had told
Chad so much: where the land was level and there were no mountains at all;
where on one farm might be more sheep, cattle, and slaves than Chad had seen
in all his life; where the people lived in big houses of stone and brick--what
brick was Chad could not imagine--and rode along hard, white roads in shiny
covered wagons, with two "niggers" on a high seat in front and one little
"nigger" behind to open gates, and were proud and very high-heeled indeed;
where there were towns that had more people than a whole county in the
mountains, with rock roads running through them in every direction and narrow
rock paths along these roads--like rows of hearth-stones--for the people to
walk on--the land of the bluegrass--the "settlemints of old Kaintuck."

And there were churches everywhere as tall as trees and school-houses
a-plenty; and big schools, called colleges, to which the boys went when they
were through with the little schools. The master had gone to one of these
colleges for a year, and he was trying to make enough money to go again. And
Chad must go some day, too; there was no reason why he shouldn't, since any
boy could do anything he pleased if he only made up his mind and worked hard
and never gave up. The master was an orphan, too, he said with a slow smile;
he had been an orphan for a long while, and indeed the lonely struggle of his
own boyhood was what was helping to draw him to Chad. This college, he said,
was a huge brown house as big as a cliff that the master pointed out, that,
gray and solemn, towered high above the river; and with a rock porch bigger
than a great bowlder that hung just under the cliff, with twenty long, long
stone steps to climb before one came to the big double front door

"How do you git thar?" Chad asked so breathlessly that Melissa looked quickly
up with a sudden foreboding that she might lose her little playfellow some
day. The master had walked, and it took him a week. A good horse could make
the trip in four days, and the river-men floated logs down the river to the
capital in eight or ten days, according to the "tide." "When did they go? In
the spring, when the 'tides' came. The Turners went down, didn't they,
Melissa?" And Melissa said that her brother Tom had made one trip, and that
Dolph and Rube were "might' nigh crazy" to go that coming spring; and,
thereupon, a mighty resolution filled Chad's heart to the brim and steadied
his eyes, but he did not open his lips then.

Dusk was settling when the Turner cabin came in sight. None of the men-folks
had come home yet, and the mother was worried; there was wood to cut and the
cows to milk, and Chad's friend, old Betsey the brindle, had strayed off
again; but she was glad to see Caleb Hazel, who, without a word, went out to
the wood-pile, took off his coat, and swung the axe with mighty arms, while
Chad carried in the wood and piled it in the kitchen and then the two went
after the old brindle together.

When they got back there was a great tumult at the cabin. Tom had brought some
friends from over the mountain, and had told the neighbors as he came along
that there was going to be a party at his house that night.

So there was a great bustle about the barn where Rube was getting the stock
fed and the milking done; and around the kitchen, where Dolph was cutting more
wood and piling it up at the door. Inside, the mother was hurrying up supper
with Sintha, an older daughter, who had just come home from a visit, and
Melissa helping her, while old Joel sat by the fire in the sleeping-room and
smoked, with Jack lying on the hearth, or anywhere he pleased, for Jack, with
his gentle ways, was winning the household one by one. He sprang up when he
heard Chad's voice, and flew at him, jumping up and pawing him affectionately
and licking his face while Chad hugged him and talked to him as though he were
human and a brother; never before had the two been separated for a day. So,
while the master helped Rube at the barn and Chad helped Dolph at the
wood-pile, Jack hung about his master--tired and hungry as he was and much as
he wanted to be by the fire or waiting in the kitchen for a sly bit from
Melissa, whom he knew at once as the best of his new friends.

After supper, Dolph got out his banjo and played "Shady Grove," and "Blind
Coon Dog," and "Sugar Hill," and "Gamblin' Man," while Chad's eyes glistened
and his feet shuffled under his chair. And when Dolph put the rude thing down
on the bed and went into the kitchen, Chad edged toward it and, while old Joel
was bragging about Jack to the school-master, he took hold of it with
trembling fingers and touched the strings timidly. Then he looked around
cautiously: nobody was paying any attention to him and he took it up into his
lap and began to pick, ever so softly. Nobody saw him but Melissa, who slipped
quietly to the back of the room and drew near him. Softly and swiftly Chad's
fingers worked and Melissa could scarcely hear the sound of the banjo under
her father's loud voice, but she could make out that he was playing a tune
that still vibrates unceasingly from the Pennsylvania border to the
pine-covered hills of Georgia-- "Sourwood Mountain." Melissa held her breath
while she listened--Dolph could not play like that--and by and by she slipped
quietly to her father and pulled his sleeve and pointed to Chad. Old Joel
stopped talking, but Chad never noticed; his head was bent over the neck of
the banjo, his body was swaying rhythmically, his chubby fingers were going
like lightning, and his eyes were closed--the boy was fairly lost to the
world. The tune came out in the sudden silence, clean-cut and swinging;

Heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedle-dahdee-deet

rang the strings and old Joel's eyes danced.

"Sing it, boy!" he roared, "sing it!" And Chad sprang from the bed, on fire
with confusion and twisting his fingers helplessly. He looked almost
frightened when Dolph ran back into the room and cried:

"Who was that a-pickin' that banjer?"

It was not often that Dolph showed such excitement, but he had good cause,
and, when he saw Chad standing, shamefaced and bashful, in the middle of the
floor, and Melissa joyously pointing her finger at him, he caught up the banjo
from the bed and put it into the boy's hands. "Here, you just play that tune
agin!"

Chad shrank back, half distressed and half happy, and only a hail outside from
the first of the coming guests saved him from utter confusion. Once started,
they came swiftly, and in half an hour all were there. Each got a hearty
welcome from old Joel, who, with a wink and a laugh and a nod to the old
mother, gave a hearty squeeze to some buxom girl, while the fire roared a
heartier welcome still. Then was there a dance indeed--no soft swish of lace
and muslin, but the active swing of linsey and simple homespun; no French
fiddler's bows and scrapings, no intricate lancers, no languid waltz; but neat
shuffling forward and back, with every note of the music beat; floor-thumping
"cuttings of the pigeon's wing," and jolly jigs, two by two, and a great
"swinging of corners," and "caging the bird," and "fust lady to the right
CHEAT an' swing"; no flirting from behind fans and under stairways and little
nooks, but honest, open courtship--strong arms about healthy waists, and a
kiss taken now and then, with everybody to see and nobody to care who saw. If
a chair was lacking, a pair of brawny knees made one chair serve for two, but
never, if you please, for two men. Rude, rough, semi-barbarous, if you will,
but simple, natural, honest, sane, earthy--and of the earth whence springs the
oak and in time, maybe, the flower of civilization.

At the first pause in the dance, old Joel called loudly for Chad. The boy
tried to slip out of the door, but Dolph seized him and pulled him to a chair
in the corner and put the banjo in his hands. Everybody looked on with
curiosity at first, and for a little while Chad suffered; but when the dance
turned attention from him, he forgot himself again and made the old thing hum
with all the rousing tunes that had ever swept its string. When he stopped at
last, to wipe the perspiration from his face, he noticed for the first time
the school-master, who was yet divided between the church and the law,
standing at the door, silent, grave, disapproving. And he was not alone in his
condemnation; in many a cabin up and down the river, stern talk was going on
against the ungodly 'carryings on,' under the Turner roof, and, far from
accepting them as proofs of a better birth and broader social ideas, these
Calvinists of the hills set the merry-makers down as the special prey of the
devil, and the dance and the banjo as sly plots of the same to draw their
souls to hell.

Chad felt the master's look, and he did not begin playing again, but put the
banjo down by his chair and the dance came to an end. Once more Chad saw the
master look, this time at Sintha, who was leaning against the wall with a
sturdy youth in a fringed hunting-shirt bending over her--his elbow against a
log directly over her shoulder, Sintha saw the look, too, and she answered
with a little toss of her head, but when Caleb Hazel turned to go out the
door, Chad saw that the girl's eyes followed him. A little later, Chad went
out too, and found the master at the corner of the fence and looking at a low
red star whose rich, peaceful light came through a gap in the hills. Chad
shyly drew near him, hoping in some way to get a kindly word, but the master
was so absorbed that he did not see or hear the boy and Chad, awed by the
stern, solemn face, withdrew and, without a word to anybody, climbed into the
loft and went to bed. He could hear every stroke on the floor below, every
call of the prompter, and the rude laughter and banter, but he gave little
heed to it all. For he lay thinking of Caleb Hazel and listening again to the
stories he and the cattle-dealer had told him about the wonderful settlements.
"God's Country," the dealer always called it, and such it must be, if what he
and the master said was true. By and by the steady beat of feet under him, the
swift notes of the banjo' the calls of the prompter and the laughter fused,
became inarticulate, distant-- ceased. And Chad, as he was wont to do,
journeyed on to "God's Country" in his dreams.



CHAPTER 4. THE COMING OF THE TIDE

While the corn grew, school went on and, like the corn, Chad's schooling put
forth leaves and bore fruit rapidly. The boy's mind was as clear as his eye
and, like a mountain-pool, gave back every image that passed before it. Not a
word dropped from the master's lips that he failed to hear and couldn't
repeat, and, in a month, he had put Dolph and Rube, who, big as they were, had
little more than learned the alphabet, to open shame; and he won immunity with
his fists from gibe and insult from every boy within his inches in
school--including Tad Dillon, who came in time to know that it was good to let
the boy alone. He worked like a little slave about the house, and, like Jack,
won his way into the hearts of old Joel and his wife, and even of Dolph and
Rube, in spite of their soreness over Chad's having spelled them both down
before the whole school. As for Tall Tom, he took as much pride as the school-
master in the boy, and in town, at the grist-mill, the cross-roads, or
blacksmith shop, never failed to tell the story of the dog and the boy,
whenever there was a soul to listen. And as for Melissa, while she ruled him
like a queen and Chad paid sturdy and uncomplaining homage, she would have
scratched out the eyes of one of her own brothers had he dared to lay a finger
on the boy. For Chad had God's own gift--to win love from all but enemies and
nothing but respect and fear from them. Every morning, soon after daybreak, he
stalked ahead of the little girl to school, with Dolph and Rube lounging along
behind, and, an hour before sunset, stalked back in the same way home again.
When not at school, the two fished and played together--inseparable.

Corn was ripe now, and school closed and Chad went with the men into the
fields and did his part, stripping the gray blades from the yellow stalks,
binding them into sheaves, stowing them away under the low roof of the big
barn, or stacking them tent-like in the fields--leaving each ear perched like
a big roosting bird on each lone stalk. And when the autumn came, there were
husking parties and dances and much merriment; and, night after night, Chad
saw Sintha and the school-master in front of the fire--"settin' up"--close
together with their arms about each other's necks and whispering. And there
were quilting parties and housewarmings and house-raisings--one that was of
great importance to Caleb Hazel and to Chad. For, one morning, Sintha
disappeared and came back with the tall young hunter in the deerskin
leggings--blushing furiously--a bride. At once old Joel gave them some cleared
land at the head of a creek; the neighbors came in to build them a cabin, and
among them all, none worked harder than the school-master; and no one but Chad
guessed how sorely hit he was.

Meanwhile, the woods high and low were ringing with the mellow echoes of axes,
and the thundering crash of big trees along the mountain-side; for already the
hillsmen were felling trees while the sap was in the roots, so that they could
lie all winter, dry better and float better in the spring, when the rafts were
taken down the river to the little capital in the Bluegrass. And Caleb Hazel
said that he would go down on a raft in the spring and perhaps Chad could go
with him who knew? For the school-master had now made up his mind finally--he
would go out into the world and make his way out there; and nobody but Chad
noticed that his decision came only after, and only a little while after, the
house-raising at the head of the creek.

When winter came, school opened again, and on Saturdays and Sundays and cold
snowy nights, Chad and the school-master--for he too lived at the Turners'
now--sat before the fire in the kitchen, and the school-master read to him
from "Ivanhoe" and "The Talisman," which he had brought from the Bluegrass,
and from the Bible which had been his own since he was a child. And the boy
drank in the tales until he was drunk with them and learned the conscious
scorn of a lie, the conscious love of truth and pride in courage, and the
conscious reverence for women that make the essence of chivalry as
distinguished from the unthinking code of brave, simple people. He adopted the
master's dignified phraseology as best he could; he watched him, as the master
stood before the fire with his hands under his coat-tails, his chin raised,
and his eyes dreamily upward, and Tall Tom caught the boy in just this
attitude one day and made fun of him before all the others. He tried some
high-sounding phrases on Melissa, and Melissa told him he must be crazy. Once,
even, he tried to kiss her hand gallantly and she slapped his face. Undaunted,
he made a lance of white ash, threaded some loose yarn into Melissa's colors,
as he told himself, sneaked into the barn, where Beelzebub was tied, got on
the sheep's back and, as the old ram sprang forward, couched his lance at the
trough and shattered it with a thrill that left him trembling for half an
hour. It was too good to give up that secret joust and he made another lance
and essayed another tournament, but this time Beelzebub butted the door open
and sprang with a loud ba-a-a into the yard and charged for the gate--in full
view of old Joel, the three brothers, and the school-master, who were standing
in the road. Instinctively, Chad swung on in spite of the roar of laughter and
astonishment that greeted him and, as Tom banged the gate, the ram swerved and
Chad shot off sidewise as from a catapult and dropped, a most unheroic little
knight, in the mire. That ended Chad's chivalry in the hills, for in the roars
of laughter that greeted him, Chad recognized Caleb Hazel's as the loudest. If
HE laughed, chivalry could never thrive there, and Chad gave it up; but the
seeds were sown.

The winter passed, and what a time Chad and Jack had, snaking logs out of the
mountains with two, four, six--yes, even eight yoke of oxen, when the log was
the heart of a monarch oak or poplar--snaking them to the chute; watching them
roll and whirl and leap like jack-straws from end to end down the steep
incline and, with one last shoot in the air, roll, shaking, quivering, into a
mighty heap on the bank of Kingdom Come. And then the "rafting" of those
logs--dragging them into the pool of the creek, lashing them together with
saplings driven to the logs with wooden pins in auger-holes--wading about,
meanwhile, waist deep in the cold water: and the final lashing of the raft to
a near-by tree with a grape-vine cable--to await the coming of a "tide."

Would that tide never come? It seemed not. The spring ploughing was over, the
corn planted; there had been rain after rain, but gentle rains only. There had
been prayers for rain:

"O Lord," said the circuit-rider, "we do not presume to dictate to Thee, but
we need rain, an' need it mighty bad. We do not presume to dictate, but, if it
pleases Thee, send us, not a gentle sizzle-sizzle, but a sod-soaker, O Lord, a
gullywasher. Give us a tide, O Lord!" Sunrise and sunset, old Joel turned his
eye to the east and the west and shook his head. Tall Tom did the same, and
Dolph and Rube studied the heavens for a sign. The school-master grew visibly
impatient and Chad was in a fever of restless expectancy. The old mother had
made him a suit of clothes--mountain-clothes--for the trip. Old Joel gave him
a five-dollar bill for his winter's work. Even Jack seemed to know that
something unusual was on hand and hung closer about the house, for fear he
might be left behind.

Softly at last, one night, came the patter of little feet on the roof and
passed--came again and paused; and then there was a rush and a steady roar
that wakened Chad and thrilled him as he lay listening. It did not last long,
but the river was muddy enough and high enough for the Turner brothers to
float the raft slowly out from the mouth of Kingdom Come and down in front of
the house, where it was anchored to a huge sycamore in plain sight. At noon
the clouds gathered and old Joel gave up his trip to town.

"Hit'll begin in about an hour, boys," he said, and in an hour it did begin.
There was to be no doubt about this flood. At dusk, the river had risen two
feet and the raft was pulling at its cable like an awakening sea-monster.
Meanwhile, the mother had cooked a great pone of corn-bread, three feet in
diameter, and had ground coffee and got sides of bacon ready. All night it
poured and the dawn came clear, only to darken into gray again. But the
river--the river! The roar of it filled the woods. The frothing hem of it
swished through the tops of the trees and through the underbrush, high on the
mountain-side. Arched slightly in the middle, for the river was still rising,
it leaped and surged, tossing tawny mane and fleck and foam as it thundered
along--a mad, molten mass of yellow struck into gold by the light of the sun.
And there the raft, no longer the awkward monster it was the day before,
floated like a lily-pad, straining at the cable as lightly as a greyhound
leaping against its leash.

The neighbors were gathered to watch the departure--old Jerry Budd, blacksmith
and "yarb doctor," and his folks; the Cultons and Middletons, and even the
Dillons--little Tad and Whizzer--and all. And a bright picture of Arcadia the
simple folk made, the men in homespun and the women with their brilliant
shawls, as they stood on the bank laughing, calling to one another, and
jesting like children. All were aboard now and there was no kissing nor
shaking hands in the farewell. The good old mother stood on the bank, with
Melissa holding to her apron and looking at Chad gravely.

"Take good keer o' yo'self, Chad," she said kindly, and then she looked down
at the little girl. "He's a-comin' back, honey--Chad's a-comin' back." And
Chad nodded brightly, but Melissa drew her apron across her mouth, dropped her
eyes to the old rifle in the boy's lap, and did not smile.

All were aboard now--Dolph and Rube, old Squire Middleton, and the
school-master, all except Tall Tom, who stood by the tree to unwind the cable.

"Hold on!" shouted the Squire.

A raft shot suddenly around the bend above them and swept past with the Dillon
brothers Jake and Jerry, nephews of old Tad Dillon, at bow and stern--passed
with a sullen wave from Jerry and a good-natured smile from stupid Jake.

"All right," Tom shouted, and he unwound the great brown pliant vine from the
sycamore and leaped aboard. Just then there was a mad howl behind the house
and a gray streak of light flashed over the bank and Jack, with a wisp of rope
armored his neck, sprang through the air from a rock ten feet high and landed
lightly on the last log as the raft shot forward. Chad gulped once and his
heart leaped with joy, for he had agreed to leave Jack with old Joel, and old
Joel had tied the dog in the barn.

"Hi!" shouted the old hunter. "Throw that dawg off, Chad--throw him off."

But Chad shook his head and smiled.

"He won't go back," he shouted, and, indeed, there was Jack squatted on his
haunches close by his little master and looking gravely back as though he were
looking a last good-by.

"Hi there!" shouted old Joel again. "How am I goin to git along without that
dawg? Throw him off, Boy--throw him off, I tell ye!" Chad seized the dog by
the shoulders, but Jack braced himself and, like a child, looked up in his
master's face. Chad let go and shook his head.

A frantic yell from Tall Tom at the bow oar drew every eye to him. The current
was stronger than anyone guessed and the raft was being swept by an eddy
straight for the point of the opposite shore where there was a sharp turn in
the river.

"Watch out thar," shouted old Joel, "you're goin to 'bow'!" Dolph and Rube
were slashing the stern oar forward and back through the swift water, but
straight the huge craft made for that deadly point. Every man had hold of an
oar and was tussling in silence for life. Every man on shore was yelling
directions and warning, while the women shrank back with frightened faces.
Chad scarcely knew what the matter was, but he gripped his rifle and squeezed
Jack closer to him. He heard Tom roar a last warning as the craft struck,
quivered a moment, and the stern swept around. The craft had "bowed."

"Watch out--jump, boys, jump! Watch when she humps! Watch yo' legs!" These
were the cries from the shore, and still Chad did not understand. He saw Tom
leap from the bow, and, as the stern swung to the other shore, Dolph, too,
leaped. Then the stern struck. The raft humped in the middle like a bucking
horse--the logs ground savagely together. Chad heard a cry of pain from Jack
and saw the dog fly up in the air and drop in the water. He and his gun had
gone up, too, but he came back on the raft with one leg in between two logs
and he drew it up in time to keep the limb from being smashed to a pulp as the
logs crashed together again, but not quickly enough to save the foot from a
painful squeeze. Then he saw Tom and Dolph leap back again, the raft whirled
on and steadied in its course, and behind him he saw Jack swimming feebly for
the shore--fighting the waves for his life, for the dog was hurt. Twice he
turned his eyes despairingly toward Chad, and the boy would have leaped in the
water to save him if Tom had not caught him by the arm.

"Tell him to git to shore," he said quickly, and Chad motioned, when Jack
looked again, and the dog obediently made for land. Old Joel was calling
tenderly:

"Come on, Jack; come on, ole feller!"

Chad watched with a thumping heart. Once Jack went under, but gave no sound.
Again he disappeared, and when he came up he gave a cry for help, but when he
heard Chad's answering cry he fought on stroke by stroke until Chad saw old
Joel reach out from the bushes and pull him in. And Chad could see that one of
his hind legs hung limp. Then the raft swung around the curve out of sight.

Behind, the whole crowd rushed down to the water's edge. Jack tried to get
away from old Joel and scramble after Chad on his broken leg, but old Joel
held him, soothing him, and carried him back to the house, where the old "yarb
doctor" put splints on the leg and bound it up tightly, just as though it had
been the leg of a child. Melissa was crying and the old man put his hand on
her head.

"He'll be all right, honey. That leg'll be as good as the other one in two or
three weeks. It's all right, little gal."

Melissa stopped weeping with a sudden gulp. But when Jack was lying in the
kitchen by the fire alone, she slipped in and put her arm around the dog's
head, and, when Jack began to lick her face, she bent her own head down and
sobbed.



CHAPTER 5. OUT OF THE WILDERNESS

On the way to God's Country at last! Already Chad had schooled himself for the
parting with Jack, and but for this he must--little man that he was--have
burst into tears. As it was, the lump in his throat stayed there a long while,
but it passed in the excitement of that mad race down the river. The old
Squire had never known such a tide.

"Boys," he said, gleefully, "we're goin' to make a REcord on this trip--you
jus' see if we don't. That is, if we ever git thar alive."

All the time the old man stood in the middle of the raft yelling orders. Ahead
was the Dillon raft, and the twin brothers--the giants, one mild, the other
sour-faced--were gesticulating angrily at each other from bow and stern. As
usual, they were quarrelling. On the Turner raft, Dolph was at the bow, the
school-master at the stern, while Rube--who was cook--and Chad, in spite of a
stinging pain in one foot, built an oven of stones, where coffee could be
boiled and bacon broiled, and started a fire, for the air was chill on the
river, especially when they were running between the hills and no sun could
strike them.

When the fire blazed up, Chad sat by it watching Tall Tom and the
school-master at the stern oar and Rube at the bow. When the turn was sharp,
how they lashed the huge white blades through the yellow water--with the
handle across their broad chests, catching with their toes in the little
notches that had been chipped along the logs and tossing the oars down and up
with a mighty swing that made the blades quiver and bend like the tops of
pliant saplings! Then, on a run, they would rush back to start the stroke
again, while the old Squire yelled:

"Hit her up thar now--easy--easy! NOW! Hit her up! Hit her up--NOW!"

Now they passed between upright, wooded, gray mountain-sides, threaded with
faint lines of the coming green; now between gray walls of rock streaked white
with water-falls, and now past narrow little valleys which were just beginning
to sprout with corn. At the mouth of the creeks they saw other rafts making
ready and, now and then, a raft would shoot out in the river from some creek
ahead or behind them. In an hour, they struck a smooth run of several hundred
yards where the men at the oars could sit still and rest, while the raft shot
lightly forward in the middle of the stream; and down the river they could see
the big Dillons making the next sharp turn and, even that far away, they could
hear Jerry yelling and swearing at his patient brother.

"Some o' these days," said the old Squire, "that fool Jake's a-goin' to pick
up somethin' an' knock that mean Jerry's head off. I wonder he hain't done it
afore. Hit's funny how brothers can hate when they do git to hatin'."

That night, they tied up at Jackson--to be famous long after the war as the
seat of a bitter mountain-feud. At noon the next day, they struck "the
Nahrrers" (Narrows), where the river ran like a torrent between high steep
walls of rock, and where the men stood to the oars watchfully and the old
squire stood upright, watching every movement of the raft; for "bowing" there
would have meant destruction to the raft and the death of them all. That night
they were in Beattyville, whence they floated next day, along lower hills and,
now and then, past a broad valley. Once Chad looked at the school-master--he
wondered if they were approaching the Bluegrass--but Caleb Hazel smiled and
shook his head. And had Chad waited another half hour, he would not have asked
the question, even with his eyes, for they swept between high cliffs
again--higher than he had yet seen.

That night they ran from dark to dawn, for the river was broader and a
brilliant moon was high; and, all night, Chad could hear the swish of the
oars, as they floated in mysterious silence past the trees and the hills and
the moonlit cliffs, and he lay on his back, looking up at the moon and the
stars, and thinking about the land to which he was going and of Jack back in
the land he had left; and of little Melissa. She had behaved very strangely
during the last few days before the boy had left She had not been sharp with
him, even in play. She had been very quiet--indeed, she scarcely spoke a word
to him, but she did little things for him that she had never done before, and
she was unusually kind to Jack. Once, Chad found her crying behind the barn,
and then she was very sharp with him, and told him to go away and cried more
than ever. Her little face looked very white, as she stood on the bank, and,
somehow, Chad saw it all that night in the river and among the trees and up
among the stars, but he little knew what it all meant to him or to her. He
thought of the Turners back at home, and he could see them sitting around the
big fire--Joel with his pipe, the old mother spinning flax, Jack asleep on the
hearth, and Melissa's big solemn eyes shining from the dark corner where she
lay wide-awake in bed and, when he went to sleep, her eyes followed him in his
dreams.

When he awoke, the day was just glimmering over the hills, and the chill air
made him shiver, as he built up the fire and began to get breakfast ready. At
noon, that day, though the cliffs were still high, the raft swung out into a
broader current, where the water ran smoothly and, once, the hills parted and,
looking past a log-cabin on the bank of the river, Chad saw a stone
house--relic of pioneer days--and, farther out, through a gap in the hills, a
huge house with great pillars around it and, on the hill-side, many sheep and
fat cattle and a great barn. There dwelt one of the lords of the Bluegrass
land, and again Chad looked to the school-master and, this time, the
school-master smiled and nodded as though to say:

"We're getting close now, Chad." So Chad rose to his feet thrilled, and
watched the scene until the hills shut it off again. One more night and one
more dawn, and, before the sun rose, the hills had grown smaller and smaller
and the glimpses between them more frequent and, at last, far down the river,
Chad saw a column of smoke and all the men on the raft took off their hats and
shouted. The end of the trip was near, for that black column meant the
capital!

Chad trembled on his feet and his heart rose into his throat, while Caleb
Hazel seemed hardly less moved. His hat was off and he stood motionless, with
his face uplifted, and his grave eyes fastened on that dark column as though
it rose from the pillar of fire that was leading him to some promised land.

As they rounded the next curve, some monster swept out of the low hills on the
right, with a shriek that startled the boy almost into terror and, with a
mighty puffing and rumbling, shot out of sight again. The school-master
shouted to Chad, and the Turner brothers grinned at him delightedly:

"Steam-cars!" they cried, and Chad nodded back gravely, trying to hold in his
wonder.

Sweeping around the next curve, another monster hove in sight with the same
puffing and a long "h-o-o-ot!" A monster on the river and moving up stream
steadily, with no oar and no man in sight, and the Turners and the
school-master shouted again. Chad's eyes grew big with wonder and he ran
forward to see the rickety little steamboat approach and, with wide eyes,
devoured it, as it wheezed and labored up-stream past them--watched the
thundering stern-wheel threshing the water into a wake of foam far behind it
and flashing its blades, water-dripping in the sun--watched it till it puffed
and wheezed and labored on out of sight. Great Heavens! to think that
he--Chad--was seeing all that!

About the next bend, more but thinner columns of smoke were visible. Soon the
very hills over the capital could be seen, with little green wheat-fields
dotting them and, as the raft drew a little closer, Chad could see houses on
the hills--more strange houses of wood and stone, and porches, and queer
towers on them from which glistened shining points.

"What's them?" he asked.

"Lightnin'-rods," said Tom, and Chad understood, for the school-master had
told him about them back in the mountains. Was there anything that Caleb Hazel
had not told him? The haze over the town was now visible, and soon they swept
past tall chimneys puffing out smoke, great warehouses covered on the outside
with weather-brown tin, and, straight ahead--Heavens, what a bridge!--arching
clear over the river and covered like a house, from which people were looking
down on them as they swept under. There were the houses, in two rows on the
streets, jammed up against each other and without any yards. And people! Where
had so many people come from? Close to the river and beyond the bridge was
another great mansion, with tall pillars, about it was a green yard, as smooth
as a floor, and negroes and children were standing on the outskirting stone
wall and looking down at them as they floated by. And another great house
still, and a big garden with little paths running through it and more patches
of that strange green grass. Was that bluegrass? It was, but it didn't look
blue and it didn't look like any other grass Chad had ever seen. Below this
bridge was another bridge, but not so high, and, while Chad looked, another
black monster on wheels were crashing over it.

Tom and the school-master were working the raft slowly to the shore now, and,
a little farther down, Chad could see more rafts tied up--rafts, rafts,
nothing but rafts on the river, everywhere! Up the bank a mighty buzzing was
going on, amid a cloud of dust, and little cars with logs on them were
shooting about amid the gleamings of many saws, and, now and then, a log would
leap from the river and start up toward that dust-cloud with two glistening
iron teeth sunk in one end and a long iron chain stretching up along a groove
built of boards--and Heaven only knew what was pulling it up. On the bank was
a stout, jolly-looking man, whose red, kind face looked familiar to Chad, as
he ran down shouting a welcome to the Squire. Then the raft slipped along
another raft, Tom sprang aboard it with the grape-vine cable, and the
school-master leaped aboard with another cable from the stern.

"Why, boy," cried the stout man. "Where's yo' dog?" Then Chad recognized him,
for he was none other than the cattle-dealer who had given him Jack.

"I left him at home."

"Is he all right?"

"Yes--I reckon."

"Then I'd like to have him back again."

Chad smiled and shook his head.

"Not much."

"Well, he's the best sheep-dog on earth."

The raft slowed up, creaking--slower--straining and creaking, and stopped. The
trip was over, and the Squire had made his "record," for the red-faced man
whistled incredulously when the old man told him what day he had left Kingdom
Come.

An hour later the big Dillon twins hove in sight, just as the Turner party was
climbing the sawdust hill into the town, where Dolph and Rube were for taking
the middle of the street like other mountaineers, who were marching thus ahead
of them, single file, but Tom and the school-master laughed at them and drew
them over to the sidewalk. Bricks and stones laid down for people to walk
on--how wonderful. And all the houses were of brick or were
weather-boarded--all built together wall against wall. And the stores with the
big glass windows all filled with wonderful things! Then a pair of swinging
green shutters through which, while Chad and the school-master waited outside,
Tom insisted on taking Dolph and Rube and giving them their first drink of
Bluegrass whiskey--red liquor, as the hill-men call it. A little farther on,
they all stopped still on a corner of the street, while the school-master
pointed out to Chad and Dolph and Rube the Capitol--a mighty structure of
massive stone, with majestic stone columns, where people went to the
Legislature. How they looked with wondering eyes at the great flag floating
lazily over it, and at the wonderful fountain tossing water in the air, and
with the water three white balls which leaped and danced in the jet of shining
spray and never flew away from it. How did they stay there? The school-master
laughed--Chad had asked him a question at last that he couldn't answer. And
the tall spiked iron fence that ran all the way around the yard, which was
full of trees--how wonderful that was, too! As they stood looking, law-makers
and visitors poured out through the doors--a brave array--some of them in
tight trousers, high hats, and blue coats with brass buttons, and, as they
passed, Caleb Hazel reverently whispered the names of those he
knew--distinguished lawyers, statesmen, and Mexican veterans: witty Tom
Marshall; Roger Hanson, bulky, brilliant; stately Preston, eagle-eyed Buckner,
and Breckenridge, the magnificent, forensic in bearing. Chad was thrilled.

A little farther on, they turned to the left, and the school-master pointed
out the Governor's mansion, and there, close by, was a high gray wall--a wall
as high as a house, with a wooden box taller than a man on each corner, and,
inside, another big gray building in which, visible above the walls, were
grated windows--the penitentiary! Every mountaineer has heard that word, and
another--the Legislator.

Chad shivered as he looked, for he could recall that sometimes down in the
mountains a man would disappear for years and turn up again at home? whitened
by confinement; and, during his absence, when anyone asked about him, the
answer was penitentiary. He wondered what those boxes on the walls were for,
and he was about to ask, when a guard stepped from one of them with a musket
and started to patrol the wall, and he had no need to ask. Tom wanted to go up
on the hill and look at the Armory and the graveyard, but the school-master
said they did not have time, and, on the moment, the air was startled with
whistles far and near--six o'clock! At once Caleb Hazel led the way to supper
in the boarding-house, where a kind-faced old lady spoke to Chad in a motherly
way, and where the boy saw his first hot biscuit and was almost afraid to eat
anything at the table for fear he might do something wrong. For the first time
in his life, too, he slept on a mattress without any feather-bed, and Chad lay
wondering, but unsatisfied still. Not yet had he been out of sight of the
hills, but the master had told him that they would see the Bluegrass next day,
when they were to start back to the mountains by train as far as Lexington.
And Chad went to sleep, dreaming his old dream.






CHAPTER 6

LOST AT THE CAPITAL

It had been arranged by the school-master that they should all meet at the
railway station to go home, next day at noon, and, as the Turner boys had to
help the Squire with the logs at the river, and the school-master had to
attend to some business of his own, Chad roamed all morning around the town.
So engrossed was he with the people and the sights and sounds of the little
village that he came to himself with a start and trotted back to the
boarding-house for fear that he might not be able to find the station alone.
The old lady was standing in the sunshine at the gate.

Chad panted--"Where's--?"

"They're gone."

"Gone!" echoed Chad, with a sinking heart.

"Yes, they've been gone--" But Chad did not wait to listen; he whirled into
the hall-way, caught up his rifle, and, forgetting his injured foot, fled at
full speed down the street. He turned the corner, but could not see the
station, and he ran on about another corner and still another, and, just when
he was about to burst into tears, he saw the low roof that he was looking for,
and hot, panting, and tired, he rushed to it, hardly able to speak.

"Has that enJINE gone?" he asked breathlessly. The man who was whirling trunks
on their corners into the baggage-room did not answer. Chad's eyes flashed and
he caught the man by the coat-tail.

"Has that enJINE gone?" he cried.

The man looked over his shoulder.

"Leggo my coat, you little devil. Yes, that enJINE'S gone," he added,
mimicking. Then he saw the boy's unhappy face and he dropped the trunk and
turned to him.

"What's the matter?" he asked, kindly.

Chad had turned away with a sob.

"They've lef' me--they've lef' me," he said, and then, controlling himself:

"Is thar another goin'?"

"Not till to-morrow mornin'."

Another sob came, and Chad turned away--he did not want anybody to see him
cry. And this was no time for crying, for Chad's prayer back at the grave
under the poplar flashed suddenly back to him.

"I got to ack like a man now." And, sobered at once, he walked on up the
hill--thinking. He could not know that the school-master was back in the town,
looking for him. If he waited until the next morning, the Turners would
probably have gone on; whereas, if he started out now on foot, and walked all
night, he might catch them before they left Lexington next morning. And if he
missed the Squire and the Turner boys, he could certainly find the
school-master there. And if not, he could go on to the mountains alone. Or he
might stay in the "settlemints"--what had he come for? He might--he would--oh,
he'd get along somehow, he said to himself, wagging his head--he always had
and he always would. He could always go back to the mountains. If he only had
Jack--if he only had Jack! Nothing would make any difference then, and he
would never be lonely, if he only had Jack. But, cheered with his
determination, he rubbed the tears from his eyes with his coat-sleeve and
climbed the long hill. There was the Armory, which, years later, was to harbor
Union troops in the great war, and beyond it was the little city of the dead
that sits on top of the hill far above the shining river. At the great iron
gates he stopped a moment, peering through. He saw a wilderness of white slabs
and, not until he made his way across the thick green turf and spelled out the
names carved on them, could he make out what they were for. How he wondered
when he saw the innumerable green mounds, for he hardly knew there were as
many people in the world living as he saw there must be in that place, dead.
But he had no time to spare and he turned quickly back to the
pike--saddened--for his heart went back, as his faithful heart was always
doing, to the lonely graves under the big poplar back in the mountains.

When he reached the top of the slope, he saw a rolling country of low hills
stretching out before him, greening with spring; with far stretches of thick
grass and many woodlands under a long, low sky, and he wondered if this was
the Bluegrass. But he "reckoned" not--not yet. And yet he looked in wonder at
the green slopes, and the woods, and the flashing creek, and nowhere in front
of him--wonder of all--could he see a mountain. It was as Caleb Hazel had told
him, only Chad was not looking for any such mysterious joy as thrilled his
sensitive soul. There had been a light sprinkle of snow--such a fall as may
come even in early April--but the noon sun had let the wheat-fields and the
pastures blossom through it, and had swept it from the gray moist pike until
now there were patches of white only in gully and along north hill-sides under
little groups of pines and in the woods, where the sunlight could not reach;
and Chad trudged sturdily on in spite of his heavy rifle and his lame foot,
keenly alive to the new sights and sounds and smells of the new world--on
until the shadows lengthened and the air chilled again; on, until the sun
began to sink close to the far-away haze of the horizon. Never had the horizon
looked so far away. His foot began to hurt, and on the top of a hill he had to
stop and sit down for a while in the road, the pain was so keen. The sun was
setting now in a glory of gold, rose, pink, and crimson over him, the still
clouds caught the divine light which swept swiftly through the heavens until
the little pink clouds over the east, too, turned golden pink and the whole
heavens were suffused with green and gold. In the west, cloud was piled on
cloud like vast cathedrals that must have been built for worship on the way
straight to the very throne of God. And Chad sat thrilled, as he had been at
the sunrise on the mountains the morning after he ran away. There was no
storm, but the same loneliness came to him now and he wondered what he should
do. He could not get much farther that night--his foot hurt too badly. He
looked up--the clouds had turned to ashes and the air was growing chill--and
he got to his feet and started on. At the bottom of the hill and down a little
creek he saw a light and he turned toward it. The house was small, and he
could hear the crying of a child inside and could see a tall man cutting wood,
so he stopped at the bars and shouted

"Hello!"

The man stopped his axe in mid-air and turned. A woman, with a baby in her
arms, appeared in the light of the door with children crowding about her.

"Hello!" answered the man.

"I want to git to stay all night." The man hesitated.

"We don't keep people all night."

"Not keep people all night," thought Chad with wonder.

"Oh, I reckon you will," he said. Was there anybody in the world who wouldn't
take in a stranger for the night? From the doorway the woman saw that it was a
boy who was asking shelter and the trust in his voice appealed vaguely to her.

"Come in!" she called, in a patient, whining tone. "You can stay, I reckon."

But Chad changed his mind suddenly. If they were in doubt about wanting
him--he was in no doubt as to what he would do.

"No, I reckon I'd better git on," he said sturdily. and he turned and limped
back up the hill to the road--still wondering, and he remembered that, in the
mountains, when people wanted to stay all night, they usually stopped before
sundown. Travelling after dark was suspicious in the mountains, and perhaps it
was in this land, too. So, with this thought, he had half a mind to go back
and explain, but he pushed on. Half a mile farther, his foot was so bad that
he stopped with a cry of pain in the road and, seeing a barn close by, he
climbed the fence and into the loft and burrowed himself under the hay. From
under the shed he could see the stars rising. It was very still and very
lonely and he was hungry--hungrier and lonelier than he had ever been in his
life, and a sob of helplessness rose to his lips--if he only had Jack--but he
held it back.

"I got to ack like a man now." And, saying this over and over to himself, he
went to sleep.



CHAPTER 7. A FRIEND ON THE ROAD

Rain fell that night--gentle rain and warm, for the south wind rose at
midnight. At four o clock a shower made the shingles over Chad rattle sharply,
but without wakening the lad, and then the rain ceased; and when Chad climbed
stiffly from his loft--the world was drenched and still, and the dawn was
warm, for spring had come that morning, and Chad trudged along the
road--unchilled. Every now and then he had to stop to rest his foot. Now and
then he would see people getting breakfast ready in the farm-houses that he
passed, and, though his little belly was drawn with pain, he would not stop
and ask for something to eat--for he did not want to risk another rebuff. The
sun rose and the light leaped from every wet blade of grass and bursting leaf
to meet it--leaped as though flashing back gladness that the spring was come.
For a little while Chad forgot his hunger and forgot his foot--like the leaf
and grass-blade his stout heart answered with gladness, too, and he trudged
on.

Meanwhile, far behind him, an old carriage rolled out of a big yard and
started toward him and toward Lexington. In the driver's seat was an old
gray-haired, gray-bearded negro with knotty hands and a kindly face; while, on
the oval shaped seat behind the lumbering old vehicle, sat a little darky with
his bare legs dangling down. In the carriage sat a man who might have been a
stout squire straight from merry England, except that there was a little tilt
to the brim of his slouch hat that one never sees except on the head of a
Southerner, and in his strong, but easy, good-natured mouth was a pipe of
corn-cob with a long cane stem. The horses that drew him were a handsome pair
of half thoroughbreds, and the old driver, with his eyes half closed, looked
as though, even that early in the morning, he were dozing. An hour later, the
pike ran through an old wooden-covered bridge, to one side of which a road led
down to the water, and the old negro turned the carriage to the creek to let
his horses drink. The carriage stood still in the middle of the stream and
presently the old driver turned his head: "Mars Cal!" he called in a low
voice. The Major raised his head. The old negro was pointing with his whip
ahead and the Major saw something sitting on the stone fence, some twenty
yards beyond, which stirred him sharply from his mood of contemplation.

"Shades of Dan'l Boone!" he said, softly. It was a miniature pioneer--the
little still figure watching him solemnly and silently. Across the boy's lap
lay a long rifle--the Major could see that it had a flintlock--and on his
tangled hair was a coonskin cap--the scalp above his steady dark eyes and the
tail hanging down the lad's neck. And on his feet were--moccasins! The
carriage moved out of the stream and the old driver got down to hook the
check-reins over the shining bit of metal that curved back over the little
saddles to which the boy's eyes had swiftly strayed. Then they came back to
the Major.

"Howdye!" said Chad.

"Good-mornin', little man," said the Major pleasantly, and Chad knew
straightway that he had found a friend. But there was silence. Chad scanned
the horses and the strange vehicle and the old driver and the little
pickaninny who, hearing the boy's voice, had stood up on his seat and was
grinning over one of the hind wheels, and then his eyes rested on the Major
with a simple confidence and unconscious appeal that touched the Major at
once.

"Are you goin' my way?" The Major's nature was too mellow and easy-going to
pay any attention to final g's. Chad lifted his old gun and pointed up the
road.

"I'm a-goin' thataway."

"Well, don't you want to ride?"

"Yes," he said, simply.

"Climb right in, my boy."

So Chad climbed in, and, holding the old rifle upright between his knees, he
looked straight forward, in silence, while the Major studied him with a quiet
smile.

"Where are you from, little man?"

"I come from the mountains."

"The mountains?" said the Major.

The Major had fished and hunted in the mountains, and somewhere in that
unknown region he owned a kingdom of wild mountain-land, but he knew as little
about the people as he knew about the Hottentots, and cared hardly more.

"What are you doin' up here?"

"I'm goin' home," said Chad.

"How did you happen to come away?"

"Oh, I been wantin' to see the settleMINTS."

"The settleMINTS," echoed the Major, and then he understood. He recalled
having heard the mountaineers call the Bluegrass region the "settlemints"
before.

"I come down on a raft with Dolph and Tom and Rube and the Squire and the
school-teacher, an' I got lost in Frankfort. They've gone on, I reckon, an'
I'm tryin' to ketch 'em."

"What will you do if you don't?"

"Foller'em," said Chad, sturdily.

"Does your father live down in the mountains?"

"No," said Chad, shortly.

The Major looked at the lad gravely.

"Don't little boys down in the mountains ever say sir to their elders?"

"No," said Chad. "No, sir," he added gravely and the Major broke into a
pleased laugh--the boy was quick as lightning.

"I ain't got no daddy. An' no mammy--I ain't got--nothin'." It was said quite
simply, as though his purpose merely was not to sail under false colors, and
the Major's answer was quick and apologetic:

"Oh!" he said, and for a moment there was silence again. Chad watched the
woods, the fields, and the cattle, the strange grain growing about him, and
the birds and the trees. Not a thing escaped his keen eye, and, now and then,
he would ask a question which the Major would answer with some surprise and
wonder. His artless ways pleased the old fellow. You haven't told me your
name.

"You hain't axed me."

"Well, I axe you now," laughed the Major, but Chad saw nothing to laugh at.

"Chad," he said.

"Chad what?"

Now it had always been enough in the mountains, when anybody asked his name,
for him to answer simply--Chad. He hesitated now and his brow wrinkled as
though he were thinking hard.

"I don't know," said Chad.

"What? Don't know your own name?" The boy looked up into the Major's face with
eyes that were so frank and unashamed and at the same time so vaguely troubled
that the Major was abashed.

"Of course not," he said kindly, as though it were the most natural thing in
the world that a boy should not know his own name. Presently the Major said,
reflectively:

"Chadwick."

"Chad," corrected the boy.

"Yes, I know"; and the Major went on thinking that Chadwick happened to be an
ancestral name in his own family.

Chad's brow was still wrinkled--he was trying to think what old Nathan Cherry
used to call him.

"I reckon I hain't thought o' my name since I left old Nathan," he said. Then
he told briefly about the old man, and lifting his lame foot suddenly, he
said: "Ouch!" The Major looked around and Chad explained:

"I hurt my foot comin' down the river an' hit got wuss walkin' so much." The
Major noticed then that the boy's face was pale, and that there were dark
hollows under his eyes, but it never occurred to him that the lad was hungry,
for, in the Major's land, nobody ever went hungry for long. But Chad was
suffering now and he leaned back in his seat and neither talked nor looked at
the passing fields. By and by, he spied a crossroads store.

"I wonder if I can't git somethin' to eat in that store."

The Major laughed: "You ain't gettin' hungry so soon, are you? You must have
eaten breakfast pretty early."

"I ain't had no breakfast--an' I didn't hev no supper last night."

"What?" shouted the Major.

Chad stated the fact with brave unconcern, but his lip quivered slightly--he
was weak

"Well, I reckon we'll get something to eat there whether they've got anything
or not."

And then Chad explained, telling the story of his walk from Frankfort. The
Major was amazed that anybody could have denied the boy food and lodging.

"Who were they, Tom?" he asked

The old driver turned:

"They was some po' white trash down on Cane Creek, I reckon, suh. Must'a'
been." There was a slight contempt in the negro's words that made Chad think
of hearing the Turners call the Dillons white trash--though they never said
"po' white trash."

"Oh!" said the Major. So the carriage stopped, and when a man in a black
slouch hat came out, the Major called:

"Jim, here's a boy who ain't had anything to eat for twenty-four hours. Get
him a cup of coffee right away, and I reckon you've got some cold ham handy."

"Yes, indeed, Major," said Jim, and he yelled to a negro girl who was standing
on the porch of his house behind the store.

Chad ate ravenously and the Major watched him with genuine pleasure. When the
boy was through, he reached in his pocket and brought out his old five-dollar
bill, and the Major laughed aloud and patted him on the head.

"You can't pay for anything while you are with me, Chad."

The whole earth wore a smile when they started out again. The swelling hills
had stretched out into gentler slopes. The sun was warm, the clouds were
still, and the air was almost drowsy. The Major's eyes closed and everything
lapsed into silence. That was a wonderful ride for Chad. It was all true, just
as the school-master had told him; the big, beautiful houses he saw now and
then up avenues of blossoming locusts; the endless stone fences, the
whitewashed barns, the woodlands and pastures; the meadow-larks flitting in
the sunlight and singing everywhere; fluting, chattering blackbirds, and a
strange new black bird with red wings, at which Chad wondered very much, as he
watched it balancing itself against the wind and singing as it poised.
Everything seemed to sing in that wonderful land. And the seas of bluegrass
stretching away on every side, with the shadows of clouds passing in rapid
succession over them, like mystic floating islands--and never a mountain in
sight. What a strange country it was.

"Maybe some of your friends are looking for you in Frankfort," said the Major.

"No, sir, I reckon not," said Chad--for the man at the station had told him
that the men who had asked about him were gone.

"All of them?" asked the Major.

Of course, the man at the station could not tell whether all of them had gone,
and perhaps the school-master had stayed behind--it was Calebazel if anybody.

"Well, now, I wonder," said Chad--"the school-teacher might'a' stayed."

Again the two lapsed into silence--Chad thinking very hard. He might yet catch
the school-master in Lexington, and he grew very cheerful at the thought.

"You ain't told me yo' name," he said, presently. The Major's lips smiled
under the brim of his hat.

"You hain't axed me." 

"Well, I axe you now." Chad, too, was smiling.

"Cal," said the Major. "Cal what?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, yes, you do, now--you foolin' me"--the boy lifted one finger at the
Major.

"Buford, Calvin Buford."

"Buford--Buford--Buford," repeated the boy, each time with his forehead
wrinkled as though he were trying to recall something.

"What is it, Chad?"

"Nothin'--nothin'."

And then he looked up with bewildered face at the Major and broke into the
quavering voice of an old man.

"Chad Buford, you little devil, come hyeh this minute or I'll beat the life
outen you!"

"What--what!" said the Major excitedly. The boy's face was as honest as the
sky above him. "Well, that's funny--very funny."

"Well, that's it," said Chad, "that's what ole Nathan used to call me. I
reckon I hain't naver thought o' my name agin tell you axed me." The Major
looked at the lad keenly and then dropped back in his seat ruminating.

Away back in 1778 a linchpin had slipped in a wagon on the Wilderness Road and
his grandfather's only brother, Chadwick Buford, had concluded to stop there
for a while and hunt and come on later--thus ran an old letter that the Major
had in his strong box at home--and that brother had never turned up again and
the supposition was that he had been killed by Indians. Now it would be
strange if he had wandered up in the mountains and settled there and if this
boy were a descendant of his. It would be very, very strange, and then the
Major almost laughed at the absurdity of the idea. The name Buford was all
over the State. The boy had said, with amazing frankness and without a
particle of shame, that he was a waif--a "woodscolt," he said, with paralyzing
candor. And so the Major dropped the matter out of his mind, except in so far
that it was a peculiar coincidence--again saying, half to himself--

"It certainly is very odd!"



CHAPTER 8. HOME WITH THE MAJOR

Ahead of them, it was Court Day in Lexington. From the town, as a centre,
white turnpikes radiated in every direction like the strands of a spider's
web. Along them, on the day before, cattle sheep, and hogs had made their slow
way. Since dawn, that morning, the fine dust had been rising under hoof and
wheel on every one of them, for Court Day is yet the great day of every month
throughout the Bluegrass. The crowd had gone ahead of the Major and Chad. Only
now and then would a laggard buggy or carriage turn into the pike from a
pasture-road or locust-bordered avenue. Only men were occupants, for the
ladies rarely go to town on court days--and probably none would go on that
day. Trouble was expected. An abolitionist, one Brutus Dean--not from the
North, but a Kentuckian, a slave-holder and a gentleman--would probably start
a paper in Lexington to exploit his views in the heart of the Bluegrass; and
his quondam friends would shatter his press and tear his office to pieces. So
the Major told Chad, and he pointed out some "hands" at work in a field.

"An', mark my words, some day there's goin' to be the damnedest fight the
world ever saw over these very niggers. An' the day ain't so far away."

It was noon before they reached the big cemetery on the edge of Lexington.
Through a rift in the trees the Major pointed out the grave of Henry Clay, and
told him about the big monument that was to be reared above his remains. The
grave of Henry Clay! Chad knew all about him. He had heard Caleb Hazel read
the great man's speeches aloud by the hour--had heard him intoning them to
himself as he walked the woods to and fro from school. Would wonders never
cease.

There seemed to be no end to the houses and streets and people in this big
town, and Chad wondered why everybody turned to look at him and smiled, and,
later in the day, he came near getting into a fight with another boy who
seemed to be making fun of him to his companions. He wondered at that, too,
until it suddenly struck him that he saw nobody else carrying a rifle and
wearing a coonskin cap--perhaps it was his cap and his gun. The Major was
amused and pleased, and he took a certain pride in the boy's calm indifference
to the attention he was drawing to himself. And he enjoyed the little mystery
which he and his queer little companion seemed to create as they drove through
the streets.

On one corner was a great hemp factory.

Through the windows Chad could see negroes, dusty as millers, bustling about,
singing as they worked. Before the door were two men--one on horseback. The
Major drew up a moment.

"How are you, John? Howdye, Dick?" Both men answered heartily, and both looked
at Chad--who looked intently at them--the graceful, powerful man on foot and
the slender, wiry man with wonderful dark eyes on horseback.

"Pioneering, Major?" asked John Morgan.

"This is a namesake of mine from the mountains. He's come up to see the
settlements."

Richard Hunt turned on his horse. "How do you like 'em?"

"Never seed nothin' like 'em in my life," said Chad, gravely. Morgan laughed
and Richard Hunt rode on with them down the street.

"Was that Captin Morgan?" asked Chad.

"Yes," said the Major. "Have you heard of him before?"

"Yes, sir. A feller on the road tol' me, if I was lookin' fer somethin' to do
hyeh in Lexington to go to Captin Morgan."

The Major laughed: "That's what everybody does."

At once, the Major took the boy to an old inn and gave him a hearty meal; and
while the Major attended to some business, Chad roamed the streets.

"Don't get into trouble, my boy," said the Major, an come back here an hour or
two by sun.

Naturally, the lad drifted where the crowd was thickest--to Cheapside.
Cheapside--at once the market-place and the forum of the Bluegrass from
pioneer days to the present hour--the platform that knew Clay, Crittenden,
Marshall, Breckenridge, as it knows the lesser men of to-day, who resemble
those giants of old as the woodlands of the Bluegrass to-day resemble the
primeval forests from which they sprang.

Cheapside was thronged that morning with cattle, sheep, hogs, horses, farmers,
aristocrats, negroes, poor whites. The air was a babel of cries from
auctioneers--head, shoulders, and waistband above the crowd--and the cries of
animals that were changing owners that day--one of which might now and then be
a human being. The Major was busy, and Chad wandered where he pleased--keeping
a sharp lookout everywhere for the school-master, but though he asked right
and left he could find nobody, to his great wonder, who knew even the master's
name. In the middle of the afternoon the country people began to leave town
and Cheapside was cleared, but, as Chad walked past the old inn, he saw a
crowd gathered within and about the wide doors of a livery-stable, and in a
circle outside that lapped half the street. The auctioneer was in plain sight
above the heads of the crowd, and the horses were led out one by one from the
stable. It was evidently a sale of considerable moment, and there were
horse-raisers, horse-trainers, jockeys, stable-boys, gentlemen--all eager
spectators or bidders. Chad edged his way through the outer rim of the crowd
and to the edge of the sidewalk, and, when a spectator stepped down from a
dry-goods box from which he had been looking on, Chad stepped up and took his
place. Straightway, he began to wish he could buy a horse and ride back to the
mountains. What fun that would be, and how he would astonish the folks on
Kingdom Come. He had his five dollars still in his pocket, and when the first
horse was brought out, the auctioneer raised his hammer and shouted in loud
tones:

"How much am I offered for this horse?"

There was no answer, and the silence lasted so long that before he knew it
Chad called out in a voice that frightened him:

"Five dollars!" Nobody heard the bid, and nobody paid any attention to him.

"One hundred dollars," said a voice.

"One hundred and twenty-five," said another, and the horse was knocked down
for two hundred dollars.

A black stallion with curving neck and red nostrils and two white feet walked
proudly in.

"How much am I offered?"

"Five dollars," said Chad, promptly. A man who sat near heard the boy and
turned to look at the little fellow, and was hardly able to believe his ears.
And so it went on. Each time a horse was put up Chad shouted out:

"Five dollars," and the crowd around him began to smile and laugh and
encourage him and wait for his bid. The auctioneer, too, saw him, and entered
into the fun himself, addressing himself to Chad at every opening bid.

"Keep it up, little man," said a voice behind him. "You'll get one by and by."
Chad looked around. Richard Hunt was smiling to him from his horse on the edge
of the crowd.

The last horse was a brown mare--led in by a halter. She was old and a trifle
lame, and Chad, still undispirited, called out this time louder than ever:

"Five dollars!"

He shouted out this time loudly enough to be heard by everybody, and a
universal laugh rose; then came silence, and, in that silence, an imperious
voice shouted back:

"Let him have her!" It was the owner of the horse who spoke--a tall man with a
noble face and long iron-gray hair. The crowd caught his mood, and as nobody
wanted the old mare very much, and the owner would be the sole loser, nobody
bid against him, and Chad's heart thumped when the auctioneer raised his
hammer and said:

"Five dollars, five dollars--what am I offered? Five dollars, five dollars,
going at five dollars, five dollars--going at five dollars--going--going, last
bid, gentlemen!" The hammer came down with a blow that made Chad's heart jump
and brought a roar of laughter from the crowd.

"What is the name, please?" said the auctioneer, bending forward with great
respect and dignity toward the diminutive purchaser.

"Chad."

The auctioneer put his hand to one ear.

"I beg your pardon--Dan'l Boone did you say?

"No!" shouted Chad indignantly--he began to feel that fun was going on at his
expense. "You heerd me--CHAD."

"Ah, Mr. Chad."

Not a soul knew the boy, but they liked his spirit, and several followed him
when he went up and handed his five dollars and took the halter of his new
treasure trembling so that he could scarcely stand. The owner of the horse
placed his hand on the little fellow's head.

"Wait a minute," he said, and, turning to a negro boy: "Jim, go bring a
bridle." The boy brought out a bridle, and the tall man slipped it on the old
mare's head, and Chad led her away--the crowd watching him. Just outside he
saw the Major, whose eyes opened wide:

"Where'd you get that old horse, Chad?"

"Bought her," said Chad.

"What? What'd you give for her?"

"Five dollars."

The Major looked pained, for he thought the boy was lying, but Richard Hunt
called him aside and told the story of the purchase; and then how the Major
did laugh--laughed until the tears rolled down his face.

And then and there he got out of his carriage and went into a saddler's shop
and bought a brand new saddle with a red blanket, and put it on the old mare
and hoisted the boy to his seat. Chad was to have no little honor in his day,
but he never knew a prouder moment than when he clutched the reins in his left
hand and squeezed his short legs against the fat sides of that old brown mare.

He rode down the street and back again, and then the Major told him he had
better put the black boy on the mare, to ride her home ahead of him, and Chad
reluctantly got off and saw the little darky on his new saddle and his new
horse.

"Take good keer o' that hoss, boy," he said, with a warning shake of his head,
and again the Major roared.

First, the Major said, he would go by the old University and leave word with
the faculty for the school-master when he should come there to matriculate;
and so, at a turnstile that led into a mighty green yard in the middle of
which stood a huge gray mass of stone, the carriage stopped, and the Major got
out and walked through the campus and up the great flight of stone steps and
disappeared. The mighty columns, the stone steps--where had Chad heard of
them? And then the truth flashed. This was the college of which the
school-master had told him down in the mountains, and, looking, Chad wanted to
get closer.

"I wonder if it'll make any difference if I go up thar?" he said to the old
driver.

"No," the old man hesitated--"no, suh, co'se not." And Chad climbed out and
the old negro followed him with his eyes. He did not wholly approve of his
master's picking up an unknown boy on the road. It was all right to let him
ride, but to be taking him home--old Tom shook his head.

"Jess wait till Miss Lucy sees that piece o' white trash," he said, shaking
his head. Chad was walking slowly with his eyes raised. It must be the college
where the school-master had gone to school--for the building was as big as the
cliff that he had pointed out down in the mountains, and the porch was as big
as the black rock that he pointed out at the same time--the college where
Caleb Hazel said Chad, too, must go some day. The Major was coming out when
the boy reached the foot of the steps, and with him was a tall, gray man with
spectacles and a white tie and very white nails, and the Major said:

"There he is now, Professor." And the Professor looked at Chad curiously, and
smiled and smiled again kindly when he saw the boy's grave, unsmiling eyes
fastened on him.

Then, out of the town and through the late radiant afternoon they went until
the sun sank and the carriage stopped before a gate. While the pickaninny was
opening it, another carriage went swiftly behind them, and the Major called
out cleanly to the occupants--a quiet, sombre, dignified-looking man and two
handsome boys and a little girl. "They're my neighbors, Chad," said the Major.

Not a sound did the wheels make on the thick turf as they drove toward the
old-fashioned brick house (it had no pillars), with its windows shining
through the firs and cedars that filled the yard. The Major put his hand on
the boy's shoulder:

"Well, here we are, little man."

At the yard gate there was a great barking of dogs, and a great shout of
welcome from the negroes who came forward to take the horses. To each of them
the Major gave a little package, which each darky took with shining teeth and
a laugh of delight--all looking with wonder at the curious little stranger
with his rifle and coonskin cap, until a scowl from the Major checked the
smile that started on each black face. Then the Major led Chad up a flight of
steps and into a big hall and on into a big drawing-room, where there was a
huge fireplace and a great fire that gave Chad a pang of homesickness at once.
Chad was not accustomed to taking off his hat when he entered a house in the
mountains, but he saw the Major take off his, and he dropped his own cap
quickly. The Major sank into a chair.

"Here we are, little man," he said, kindly.

Chad sat down and looked at the books, and the portraits and prints, and the
big mirrors and the carpets on the floor, none of which he had ever seen
before, and he wondered at it all and what it all might mean. A few minutes
later, a tall lady in black, with a curl down each side of her pale face, came
in. Like old Tom, the driver, the Major, too, had been wondering what his
sister, Miss Lucy, would think of his bringing so strange a waif home, and
now, with sudden humor, he saw himself fortified.

"Sister," he said, solemnly, "here's a little kinsman of yours. He's a
great-great-grandson of your great-great-uncle--Chadwick Buford. That's his
name. What kin does that make us?"

"Hush, brother," said Miss Lucy, for she saw the boy reddening with
embarrassment and she went across and shook hands with him, taking in with a
glance his coarse strange clothes and his soiled hands and face and his
tangled hair, but pleased at once with his shyness and his dark eyes. She was
really never surprised at any caprice of her brother, and she did not show
much interest when the Major went on to tell where he had found the lad--for
she would have thought it quite possible that he might have taken the boy out
of a circus. As for Chad, he was in awe of her at once --which the Major
noticed with an inward chuckle, for the boy had shown no awe of him. Chad
could hardly eat for shyness at supper and because everything was so strange
and beautiful, and he scarcely opened his lips when they sat around the great
fire, until Miss Lucy was gone to bed. Then he told the Major all about
himself and old Nathan and the Turners and the school. master, and how he
hoped to come back to the Bluegrass, and go to that big college himself, and
he amazed the Major when, glancing at the books, he spelled out the titles of
two of Scott's novels, "The Talisman" and "Ivanhoe," and told how the
school-master had read them to him. And the Major, who had a passion for Sir
Walter, tested Chad's knowledge, and he could mention hardly a character or a
scene in the two books that did not draw an excited response from the boy.

"Wouldn't you like to stay here in the Bluegrass now and go to school?"

Chad's eyes lighted up.

"I reckon I would; but how am I goin' to school, now, I'd like to know? I
ain't got no money to buy books, and the school-teacher said you have to pay
to go to school, up here."

"Well, we'll see about that," said the Major, and Chad wondered what he meant.
Presently the Major got up and went to the sideboard and poured out a drink of
whiskey and, raising it to his lips, stopped:

"Will you join me?" he asked, humorously, though it was hard for the Major to
omit that formula even with a boy.

"I don't keer if I do," said Chad, gravely. The Major was astounded and
amused, and thought that the boy was not in earnest, but he handed him the
bottle and Chad poured out a drink that staggered his host, and drank it down
without winking. At the fire, the Major pulled out his chewing tobacco. This,
too, he offered and Chad accepted, equalling the Major in the accuracy with
which he reached the fireplace thereafter with the juice, carrying off his
accomplishment, too, with perfect and unconscious gravity. The Major was nigh
to splitting with silent laughter for a few minutes, and then he grew grave.

"Does everybody drink and chew down in the mountains?"

"Yes, sir," said Chad. "Everybody makes his own licker where I come from."

"Don't you know it's very bad for little boys to drink and chew?"

"No, sir."

"Did nobody ever tell you it was very bad for little boys to drink and chew?"

"No, sir"--not once had Chad forgotten that.

"Well, it is."

Chad thought for a minute. "Will it keep me from gittin' to be a BIG man?"

"Yes."

Chad quietly threw his quid into the fire.

"Well, I be damned," said the Major under his breath. "Are you goin' to quit?"

"Yes, sir."

Meanwhile, the old driver, whose wife lived on the next farm, was telling the
servants over there about the queer little stranger whom his master had picked
up on the road that day, and after Chad was gone to bed, the Major got out
some old letters from a chest and read them over again. Chadwick Buford was
his great-grandfather's twin brother, and not a word had been heard of him
since the two had parted that morning on the old Wilderness Road, away back in
the earliest pioneer days. So, the Major thought and thought
suppose--suppose?" And at last he got up and with an uplifted candle, looked a
long while at the portrait of his grandfather that hung on the southern wall.
Then, with a sudden humor, he carried the light to the room where the boy was
in sound sleep, with his head on one sturdy arm, his hair loose on the pillow,
and his lips slightly parted and showing his white, even teeth; he looked at
the boy a long time and fancied he could see some resemblance to the portrait
in the set of the mouth and the nose and the brow, and he went back smiling at
his fancies and thinking--for the Major was sensitive to the claim of any drop
of the blood in his own veins--no matter how diluted. He was a handsome little
chap.

"How strange! How strange!"

And he smiled when he thought of the boy's last question.

"Where's YO' mammy?"

It had stirred the Major.

"I am like you, Chad," he had said. "I've got no mammy--no nothin', except
Miss Lucy, and she don't live here. I'm afraid she won't be on this earth
long. Nobody lives here but me, Chad."



CHAPTER 9. MARGARET

The Major was in town and Miss Lucy had gone to spend the day with a neighbor;
so Chad was left alone.

"Look aroun', Chad, and see how you like things," said the Major. "Go anywhere
you please."

And Chad looked around. He went to the barn to see his old mare and the
Major's horses, and to the kennels, where the fox-hounds reared against the
palings and sniffed at him curiously; he strolled about the quarters, where
the little pickaninnies were playing, and out to the fields, where the
servants were at work under the overseer, Jerome Conners, a tall, thin man
with shrewd eyes, a sour, sullen face, and protruding upper teeth. One of the
few smiles that ever came to that face came now when the overseer saw the
little mountaineer. By and by Chad got one of the "hands" to let him take hold
of the plough and go once around the field, and the boy handled the plough
like a veteran, so that the others watched him, and the negro grinned, when he
came back, and said

"You sutinly can plough fer a fac'!"

He was lonesome by noon and had a lonely dinner, during which he could
scarcely realize that it was really he--Chad--Chad sitting up at the table
alone and being respectfully waited on by a kinky-headed little negro
girl--called Thanky-ma'am because she was born on Thanksgiving day--and he
wondered what the Turners would think if they could see him now--and the
school-master. Where was the school-master? He began to be sorry that he
hadn't gone to town to try to find him. Perhaps the Major would see him--but
how would the Major know the school-master? He was sorry he hadn't gone. After
dinner he started out-doors again. Earth and sky were radiant with light.
Great white tumbling clouds were piled high all around the horizon--and what a
long length of sky it was in every direction down in the mountains, he had to
look straight up, sometimes, to see the sky at all. Blackbirds chattered in
the cedars as he went to the yard gate. The field outside was full of singing
meadow-larks, and crows were cawing in the woods beyond. There had been a
light shower, and on the dead top of a tall tree he saw a buzzard stretching
his wings out to the sun. Past the edge of the woods, ran a little stream with
banks that were green to the very water's edge, and Chad followed it on
through the woods, over a worn rail-fence, along a sprouting wheat-field, out
into a pasture in which sheep and cattle were grazing, and on, past a little
hill, where, on the next low slope, sat a great white house with big white
pillars, and Chad climbed on top of the stone fence--and sat, looking. On the
portico stood a tall man in a slouch hat and a lady in black. At the foot of
the steps a boy--a head taller than Chad perhaps--was rigging up a
fishing-pole. A negro boy was leading a black pony toward the porch, and, to
his dying day, Chad never forgot the scene that followed. For, the next
moment, a little figure in a long riding-skirt stood in the big doorway and
then ran down the steps, while a laugh, as joyous as the water running at his
feet, floated down the slope to his ears. He saw the negro stoop, the little
girl bound lightly to her saddle; he saw her black curls shake in the
sunlight, again the merry laugh tinkled in his ears, and then, with a white
plume nodding from her black cap, she galloped off and disappeared among the
trees; and Chad sat looking after her--thrilled, mysteriously
thrilled--mysteriously saddened, straightway. Would he ever see her again?

The tall man and the lady in black went in-doors, the negro disappeared, and
the boy at the foot of the steps kept on rigging his pole. Several times
voices sounded under the high creek bank below him, but, quick as his ears
were, Chad did not hear them. Suddenly there was a cry that startled him, and
something flashed in the sun over the edge of the bank and flopped in the
grass.

"Snowball!" an imperious young voice called below the bank, "get that fish!"

On the moment Chad was alert again--somebody was fishing down there--and he
sprang from his perch and ran toward the fish just as a woolly head and a
jet-black face peeped over the bank.

The pickaninny's eyes were stretched wide when he saw the strange figure in
coonskin cap and moccasins running down on him, his face almost blanched with
terror, and he loosed his hold and, with a cry of fright, rolled back out of
sight. Chad looked over the bank. A boy of his own age was holding another
pole, and, hearing the little darky slide down, he said, sharply:

"Get that fish, I tell you!"

"Look dar, Mars' Dan, look dar!"

The boy looked around and up and stared with as much wonder as his little
body-servant, but with no fear.

"Howdye!" said Chad; but the white boy stared on silently.

"Fishin'?" said Chad.

"Yes," said Dan, shortly--he had shown enough curiosity and he turned his eyes
to his cork. "Get that fish, Snowball," he said again.

"I'll git him fer ye," Chad said; and he went to the fish and unhooked it and
came down the bank with the perch in one hand and the pole in the other.

"Whar's yo' string?" he asked, handing the pole to the still trembling little
darky.

"I'll take it," said Dan, sticking the butt of his cane-pole in the mud. The
fish slipped through his wet fingers, when Chad passed it to him, dropped on
the bank, flopped to the edge of the creek, and the three boys, with the same
cry, scrambled for it--Snowball falling down on it and clutching it in both
his black little paws.

"Dar now!" he shrieked. "I got him!"

"Give him to me," said Dan.

"Lemme string him," said the black boy.

"Give him to me, I tell you!" And, stringing the fish, Dan took the other pole
and turned his eyes to his corks, while the pickaninny squatted behind him and
Chad climbed up and sat on the bank letting his legs dangle over. When Dan
caught a fish he would fling it with a whoop high over the bank. After the
third fish, the lad was mollified and got over his ill-temper. He turned to
Chad.

"Want to fish?"

Chad sprang down the bank quickly.

"Yes," he said, and he took the other pole out of the bank, put on a fresh
wriggling worm, and moved a little farther down the creek where there was an
eddy.

"Ketchin' any?" said a voice above the bank, and Chad looked up to see still
another lad, taller by a head than either he or Dan--evidently the boy whom he
had seen rigging a pole up at the big house on the hill.

"Oh, 'bout'leven," said Dan, carelessly.

"Howdye!" said Chad.

"Howdye!" said the other boy, and he, too, stared curiously, but Chad had got
used to people staring at him.

"I'm goin' over the big rock," added the new arrival, and he went down the
creek and climbed around a steep little cliff, and out on a huge rock that
hung over the creek, where he dropped his hook. He had no cork, and Chad knew
that he was trying to catch catfish. Presently he jerked, and a yellow mudcat
rose to the surface, fighting desperately for his life, and Dan and Snowball
yelled crazily. Then Dan pulled out a perch.

"I got another one," he shouted. And Chad fished silently. They were making "a
mighty big fuss," he thought, "over mighty little fish. If he just had a
minnow an' had 'em down in the mountains,' I Gonnies, he'd show'em what
fishin' was!" But he began to have good luck as it was. Perch after perch he
pulled out quietly, and he kept Snowball busy stringing them until he had five
on the string. The boy on the rock was watching him and so was the boy near
him--furtively--while Snowball's admiration was won completely. and he grinned
and gurgled his delight, until Dan lost his temper again and spoke to him
sharply. Dan did not like to be beatin at anything. Pretty soon there was a
light thunder of hoofs on the turf above the bank. A black pony shot around
the bank and was pulled in at the edge of the ford, and Chad was looking into
the dancing black eyes of a little girl with a black velvet cap on her dark
curls and a white plume waving from it.

"Howdye!" said Chad, and his heart leaped curiously, but the little girl did
not answer. She, too, stared at him as all the others had done and started to
ride into the creek, but Dan stopped her sharply:

"Now, Margaret, don't you ride into that water. You'll skeer the fish."

"No, you won't," said Chad, promptly. "Fish don't keer nothin' about a hoss."
But the little girl stood still, and her brother's face flushed. He resented
the stranger's interference and his assumption of a better knowledge of fish.

"Mind your own business," trembled on his tongue, and the fact that he held
the words back only served to increase his ill-humor and make a worse outbreak
possible. But, if Chad did not understand, Snowball did, and his black face
grew suddenly grave as he sprang more alertly than ever at any word from his
little master. Meanwhile, all unconscious, Chad fished on, catching perch
after perch, but he could not keep his eyes on his cork while the little girl
was so near, and more than once he was warned by a suppressed cry from the
pickaninny when to pull. Once, when he was putting on a worm, he saw the
little girl watching the process with great disgust, and he remembered that
Melissa would never bait her own hook. All girls were alike, he "reckoned" to
himself, and when he caught a fish that was unusually big, he walked over to
her.

"I'll give this un to you," he said, but she shrank from it.

"Go 'way!" she said, and she turned her pony. Dan was red in the face by this
time. How did this piece of poor white trash dare to offer a fish to his
sister. And this time the words came out like the crack of a whip:

"S'pose you mind your own business!"

Chad started as though he had been struck and looked around quickly. He said
nothing, but he stuck the butt of his pole in the mud at once and climbed up
on the bank again and sat there, with his legs hanging over; and his own face
was not pleasant to see. The little girl was riding at a walk up the road.
Chad kept perfect silence, for he realized that he had not been minding his
own business; still he did not like to be told so and in such a way. Both
corks were shaking at the same time now.

"You got a bite," said Dan, but Chad did not move.

"You got a bite, I tell you," he said, in almost the tone he had used to
Snowball, but Chad, when the small aristocrat looked sharply around, dropped
his elbows to his knees and his chin into his hand--taking no notice. Once he
spat dexterously into the creek. Dan's own cork was going under:

"Snowball!" he cried--"jerk!" A fish flew over Chad's head. Snowball had run
for the other pole at command and jerked, too, but the fish was gone and with
it the bait.

"You lost that fish!" said the boy, hotly, but Chad sat silent--still. If he
would only say something! Dan began to think that the stranger was a coward.
So presently, to show what a great little man he was, he began to tease
Snowball, who was up on the bank unhooking the fish, of which Chad had taken
no notice.

"What's your name?"

"Snowball!" henchman, obediently.

"Louder!"

"S-n-o-w-b-a-l-l-l"

"Louder!" The little black fellow opened his mouth wide.

"S-N-O-W-B-A-L-L!" he shrieked.

"LOUDER!"

At last Chad spoke quietly.

"He can't holler no louder."

"What do you know about it? Louder!", and Dan started menacingly after the
little darky but Chad stepped between.

"Don't hit him!"

Now Dan had never struck Snowball in his life' and he would as soon have
struck his own brother--but he must not be told that he couldn't. His face
flamed and little Hotspur that he was, he drew his fist back and hit Chad full
in the chest. Chad leaped back to avoid the blow, tumbling Snowball down the
bank; the two clinched, and, while they tussled, Chad heard the other brother
clambering over the rocks, the beat of hoofs coming toward him on the turf,
and the little girl's cry:

"Don't you DARE touch my brother!"

Both went down side by side with their head just hanging over the bank, where
both could see Snowball's black wool coming to the surface in the deep hole,
and both heard his terrified shriek as he went under again. Chad was first to
his feet.

"Git a rail!" he shouted and plunged in, but Dan sprang in after him. In three
strokes, for the current was rather strong, Chad had the kinky wool in his
hand, and, in a few strokes more, the two boys had Snowball gasping on the
bank. Harry, the taller brother, ran forward to help them carry him up the
bank, and they laid him, choking and bawling, on the grass. Whip in one hand
and with the skirt of her long black riding-habit in the other, the little
girl stood above, looking on--white and frightened. The hullabaloo had reached
the house and General Dean was walking swiftly down the hill, with Snowball's
mammy, topped by a red bandanna handkerchief, rushing after him and the
kitchen servants following.

"What does this mean?" he said, sternly, and Chad was in a strange awe at
once--he was so tall, and he stood so straight, and his eye was so piercing.
Few people could lie into that eye. The little girl spoke first--usually she
does speak first, as well as last.

"Dan and--and--that boy were fighting and they pushed Snowball into the
creek."

"Dan was teasin' Snowball," said Harry the just.

"And that boy meddled," said Dan.

"Who struck first?" asked the General, looking from one boy to the other. Dan
dropped his eyes sullenly and Chad did not answer.

"I wasn't goin' to hit Snowball," said Dan.

"I thought you wus," said Chad.

"Who struck first?" repeated the General, looking at Dan now.

"That boy meddled and I hit him."

Chad turned and answered the General's eyes steadily.

"I reckon I had no business meddlin'!"

"He tried to give sister a fish."

That was unwise in Dan--Margaret's chin lifted.

"Oh," she said, "that was it, too, was it? Well--"

"I didn't see no harm givin' the little gal a fish," said Chad. "Little gal,"
indeed! Chad lost the ground he might have gained. Margaret's eyes looked all
at once like her father's.

"I'm a little GIRL, thank you."

Chad turned to her father now, looking him in the face straight and steadily.

"I reckon I had no business meddlin', but I didn't think hit was fa'r fer him
to hit the nigger; the nigger was littler, an' I didn't think hit 'as right."

"I didn't mean to hit him--I was only playin'!"

"But I THOUGHT you was goin' to hit him," said Chad. He looked at the General
again. "But I had no business meddlin'." And he picked up his old coonskin cap
from the grass to start away.

"Hold on, little man," said the General.

"Dan, haven't I told you not to tease Snowball?" Dan dropped his eyes again.

"Yes, sir."

"You struck first, and this boy says he oughtn't to have meddled, but I think
he did just right. Have you anything to say to him?" Dan worked the toe of his
left boot into the turf for a moment "No, sir."

"Well, go up to your room and think about it awhile and see if you don't owe
somebody an apology. Hurry up now an' change your clothes.

"You'd better come up to the house and get some dry clothes for yourself, my
boy," he added to Chad. "You'll catch cold."

"Much obleeged," said Chad. "But I don't ketch cold."

He put on his old coonskin cap, and then the General recognized him.

"Why, aren't you the little boy who bought a horse from me in town the other
day?" And then Chad recognized him as the tall man who had cried "Let him have
her."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I know all about you," said the General, kindly. "You are staying with
Major Buford. He's a great friend and neighbor of mine. Now you must come up
and get some clothes, Harry!" --But Chad, though he hesitated, for he knew now
that the gentleman had practically given him the mare, interrupted, sturdily,

"No, sir, I can't go--not while he's a-feelin' hard at me."

"Very well," said the General, gravely. Chad started off on a trot and stopped
suddenly, "I wish you'd please tell that little GURL"--Chad pronounced the
word with some difficulty--"that I didn't mean nothin' callin' her a little
gal. Ever'body calls gurls gals whar I come from."

"All right," laughed the General. Chad trotted all the way home and there Miss
Lucy made him take off his wet clothes at once, though the boy had to go to
bed while they were drying, for he had no other clothes, and while he lay in
bed the Major came up and listened to Chad's story of the afternoon, which
Chad told him word for word just as it had all happened.

"You did just right, Chad," said the Major, and he went down the stairs,
chuckling:

"Wouldn't go in and get dry clothes because Dan wouldn't apologize. Dear me! I
reckon they'll have it out when they see each other again. I'd like to be on
hand, and I'd bet my bottom dollar on Chad." But they did not have it out.
Half an hour after supper somebody shouted "Hello!" at the gate, and the Major
went out and came back smiling.

"Somebody wants to see you, Chad," he said. And Chad went out and found Dan
there on the black pony with Snowball behind him.

"I've come over to say that I had no business hittin' you down at the creek,
and--" Chad interrupted him:

"That's all right," he said, and Dan stopped and thrust out his hand. The two
boys shook hands gravely.

"An' my papa says you are a man an' he wants you to come over and see us and I
want you--and Harry and Margaret. We all want you."

"All right," said Chad. Dan turned his black pony and galloped off.

"An' come soon!" he shouted back.

Out in the quarters Mammy Ailsie, old Tom's wife, was having her own say that
night.

"Ole Marse Cal Buford pickin' a piece of white trash out de gutter an' not
sayin' whar he come from an' nuttin' 'bout him. An' old Mars Henry takin' him
jus' like he was quality. My Tom say dae boy don' know who is his mammy ner
his daddy. I ain' gwine to let my little mistis play wid no sech trash, I tell
you--'deed I ain't!" And this talk would reach the drawing-room by and by,
where the General was telling the family, at just about the same hour, the
story of the horse sale and Chad's purchase of the old brood mare.

"I knew where he was from right away," said Harry "I've seen mountain-people
wearing caps like his up at Uncle Brutus's, when they come down to go to
Richmond."

The General frowned.

"Well, you won't see any more people like him up there again."

"Why, papa?"

"Because you aren't going to Uncle Brutus's any more."

"Why, papa?"

The mother put her hand on her husband's knee.

"Never mind, son," she said.



CHAPTER 10. THE BLUEGRASS

God's Country!

No humor in that phrase to the Bluegrass Kentuckian! There never was--there is
none now. To him, the land seems in all the New World, to have been the pet
shrine of the Great Mother herself. She fashioned it with loving hands. She
shut it in with a mighty barrier of mighty mountains to keep the mob out. She
gave it the loving clasp of a mighty river, and spread broad, level prairies
beyond that the mob might glide by, or be tempted to the other side, where the
earth was level and there was no need to climb; that she might send priests
from her shrine to reclaim Western wastes or let the weak or the unloving--if
such could be--have easy access to another land.

In the beginning, such was her clear purpose to the Kentuckian's eye, she
filled it with flowers and grass and trees, and fish and bird and wild beasts.
Just as she made Eden for Adam and Eve. The red men fought for the
Paradise--fought till it was drenched with blood, but no tribe, without mortal
challenge from another straightway, could ever call a rood its own. Boone
loved the land from the moment the eagle eye in his head swept its shaking
wilderness from a mountain-top, and every man who followed him loved the land
no less. And when the chosen came, they found the earth ready to receive
them--lifted above the baneful breath of river-bottom and marshland, drained
by rivers full of fish, filled with woods full of game, and
underlaid--all--with thick, blue, limestone strata that, like some divine
agent working in the dark, kept crumbling--ever crumbling--to enrich the soil
and give bone-building virtue to every drop of water and every blade of grass.
For those chosen people such, too, seemed her purpose--the Mother went to the
race upon whom she had smiled a benediction for a thousand years--the race
that obstacle but strengthens, that thrives best under an alien effort to
kill, that has ever conquered its conquerors, and that seems bent on the task
of carrying the best ideals any age has ever known back to the Old World from
which it sprang. The Great Mother knows! Knows that her children must suffer,
if they stray too far from her great teeming breasts. And how she has followed
close when this Saxon race--her youngest born--seemed likely to stray too
far--gathering its sons to her arms in virgin lands that they might suckle
again and keep the old blood fresh and strong. Who could know what danger
threatened it when she sent her blue-eyed men and women to people the
wilderness of the New World? To climb the Alleghenies, spread through the
wastes beyond, and plant their kind across a continent from sea to sea. Who
knows what dangers threaten now, when, his task done, she seems to be opening
the eastern gates of the earth with a gesture that seems to say--"Enter,
reclaim, and dwell therein!"

One little race of that race in the New World, and one only, has she kept
flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone--to that race only did she give no
outside aid. She shut it in with gray hill and shining river. She shut it off
from the mother state and the mother nation and left it to fight its own fight
with savage nature, savage beast, and savage man. And thus she gave the little
race strength of heart and body and brain, and taught it to stand together as
she taught each man of the race to stand alone, protect his women, mind his
own business, and meddle not at all; to think his own thoughts and die for
them if need be, though he divided his own house against itself; taught the
man to cleave to one woman, with the penalty of death if he strayed elsewhere;
to keep her-- and even himself--in dark ignorance of the sins against Herself
for which she has slain other nations, and in that happy ignorance keeps them
to-day, even while she is slaying elsewhere still.

And Nature holds the Kentuckians close even to-day--suckling at her breasts
and living after her simple laws. What further use she may have for them is
hid by the darkness of to-morrow, but before the Great War came she could look
upon her work and say with a smile that it was good. The land was a great
series of wooded parks such as one might have found in Merry England, except
that worm fence and stone wall took the place of hedge along the highways. It
was a land of peace and of a plenty that was close to easy luxury--for all.
Poor whites were few, the beggar was unknown, and throughout the region there
was no man, woman, or child, perhaps, who did not have enough to eat and to
wear and a roof to cover his head, whether it was his own roof or not. If
slavery had to be--then the fetters were forged light and hung loosely. And,
broadcast, through the people, was the upright sturdiness of the
Scotch-Irishman, without his narrowness and bigotry; the grace and chivalry of
the Cavalier without his Quixotic sentiment and his weakness; the jovial
good-nature of the English squire and the leavening spirit of a simple
yeomanry that bore itself with unconscious tenacity to traditions that seeped
from the very earth. And the wings of the eagle hovered over all.

For that land it was the flowering time of the age and the people; and the bud
that was about to open into the perfect flower had its living symbol in the
little creature racing over the bluegrass fields on a black pony, with a black
velvet cap and a white nodding plume above her shaking curls, just as the
little stranger who had floated down into those Elysian fields--with better
blood in his veins than he knew--was a reincarnation perhaps of the spirit of
the old race that had lain dormant in the hills. The long way from log-cabin
to Greek portico had marked the progress of the generations before her, and,
on this same way, the boy had set his sturdy feet.



CHAPTER 11. A TOURNAMENT

On Sunday, the Major and Miss Lucy took Chad to church--a country church built
of red brick and overgrown with ivy--and the sermon was very short, Chad
thought, for, down in the mountains, the circuit-rider would preach for
hours--and the deacons passed around velvet pouches for the people to drop
money in, and they passed around bread, of which nearly everybody took a
pinch, and a silver goblet with wine, from which the same people took a
sip--all of which Chad did not understand. Usually the Deans went to Lexington
to church, for they were Episcopalians, but they were all at the country
church that day, and with them was Richard Hunt, who smiled at Chad and waved
his riding-whip. After church Dan came to him and shook hands. Harry nodded to
him gravely, the mother smiled kindly, and the General put his hand on the
boy's head. Margaret looked at him furtively, but passed him by. Perhaps she
was still "mad" at him, Chad thought, and he was much worried. Margaret was
not shy like Melissa, but her face was kind. The General asked them all over
to take dinner, but Miss Lucy declined--she had asked people to take dinner
with her. And Chad, with keen disappointment, saw them drive away.

It was a lonely day for him that Sunday. He got tired staying so long at the
table, and he did not understand what the guests were talking about. The
afternoon was long, and he wandered restlessly about the yard and the
quarters. Jerome Conners, the overseer, tried to be friendly with him for the
first time, but the boy did not like the overseer and turned away from him. He
walked down to the pike gate and sat on it, looking over toward the Deans'. He
wished that Dan would come over to see him or, better still, that he could go
over to see Dan and Harry and--Margaret. But Dan did not come and Chad could
not ask the Major to let him go--he was too shy about it--and Chad was glad
when bedtime came.

Two days more and spring was come in earnest. It was in the softness of the
air, the tenderness of cloud and sky, and the warmth of the sunlight. The
grass was greener and the trees quivered happily. Hens scratched and cocks
crowed more lustily. Insect life was busier. A stallion nickered in the barn,
and from the fields came the mooing of cattle. Field-hands going to work
chaffed the maids about the house and quarters. It stirred dreamy memories of
his youth in the Major, and it brought a sad light into Miss Lucy's faded
eyes. Would she ever see another spring? It brought tender memories to General
Dean, and over at Woodlawn, after he and Mrs. Dean had watched the children go
off with happy cries and laughter to school, it led them back into the house
hand in hand. And it set Chad's heart aglow as he walked through the dewy
grass and amid the singing of many birds toward the pike gate. He, too, was on
his way to school--in a brave new suit of clothes--and nobody smiled at him
now, except admiringly, for the Major had taken him to town the preceding day
and had got the boy clothes such as Dan and Harry wore. Chad was worried at
first--he did not like to accept so much from the Major.

"I'll pay you back," said Chad. "I'll leave you my hoss when I go 'way, if I
don't," and the Major laughingly said that was all right and he made Chad,
too, think that it was all right. And so spring took the shape of hope in
Chad's breast, that morning, and a little later it took the shape of Margaret,
for he soon saw the Dean children ahead of him in the road and he ran to catch
up with them.

All looked at him with surprise--seeing his broad white collar with ruffles,
his turned-back, ruffled cuffs, and his boots with red tops; but they were too
polite to say anything. Still Chad felt Margaret taking them all in and he was
proud and confident. And, when her eyes were lifted to the handsome face that
rose from the collar and the thick yellow hair, he caught them with his own in
an unconscious look of fealty, that made the little girl blush and hurry on
and not look at him again until they were in school, when she turned her eyes,
as did all the other boys and girls, to scan the new "scholar." Chad's work in
the mountains came in well now. The teacher, a gray, sad-eyed, thin-faced man,
was surprised at the boy's capacity, for he could read as well as Dan, and in
mental arithmetic even Harry was no match for him; and when in the spelling
class he went from the bottom to the head in a single lesson, the teacher
looked as though he were going to give the boy a word of praise openly and
Margaret was regarding him with a new light in her proud eyes. That was a
happy day for Chad, but it passed after school when, as they went home
together, Margaret looked at him no more; else Chad would have gone by the
Deans' house when Dan and Harry asked him to go and look at their ponies and
the new sheep that their father had just bought; for Chad was puzzled and awed
and shy of the little girl It was strange--he had never felt that way about
Melissa. But his shyness kept him away from her day after day until, one
morning, he saw her ahead of him going to school alone, and his heart thumped
as he quietly and swiftly overtook her without calling to her; but he stopped
running that she might not know that he had been running, and for the first
time she was shy with him. Harry and Dan were threatened with the measles, she
said, and would say no more. When they went through the fields toward the
school-house, Chad stalked ahead as he had done in the mountains with Melissa,
and, looking back, he saw that Margaret had stopped. He waited for her to come
up, and she looked at him for a moment as though displeased. Puzzled, Chad
gave back her look for a moment and turned without a word--still stalking
ahead. He looked back presently and Margaret had stopped and was pouting.

"You aren't polite, little boy. My mamma says a NICE little boy always lets a
little GIRL go first." But Chad still walked ahead. He looked back presently
and she had stopped again--whether angry or ready to cry, he could not make
out-- so he waited for her, and as she came slowly near he stepped gravely
from the path, and Margaret went on like a queen.

In town, a few days later, he saw a little fellow take off his hat when a lady
passed him, and it set Chad to thinking. He recalled asking the school-master
once what was meant when the latter read about a knight doffing his plume, and
the school-master had told him that men, in those days, took off their hats in
the presence of ladies just as they did in the Bluegrass now; but Chad had
forgotten. He understood it all then and he surprised Margaret, next morning,
by taking off his cap gravely when he spoke to her; and the little lady was
greatly pleased, for her own brothers did not do that, at least, not to her,
though she had heard her mother tell them that they must. All this must be
chivalry, Chad thought, and when Harry and Dan got well, he revived his old
ideas, but Harry laughed at him and Dan did, too, until Chad, remembering
Beelzebub, suggested that they should have a tournament with two rams that the
General had tied up in the stable. They would make spears and each would get
on a ram. Harry would let them out into the lot and they would have "a real
charge--sure enough." But Margaret received the plan with disdain, until Dan,
at Chad's suggestion, asked the General to read them the tournament scene in
"Ivanhoe," which excited the little lady a great deal; and when Chad said that
she must be the "Queen of Love and Beauty" she blushed prettily and thought,
after all, that it would be great fun. They would make lances of ash-wood and
helmets of tin buckets, and perhaps Margaret would make red sashes for them.
Indeed, she would, and the tournament would take place on the next Saturday.
But, on Saturday, one of the sheep was taken over to Major Buford's and the
other was turned loose in the Major's back pasture and the great day had to be
postponed.

It was on the night of the reading from "Ivanhoe" that Harry and Dan found out
how Chad could play the banjo. Passing old Mammy's cabin that night before
supper, the three boys had stopped to listen to old Tom play, and after a few
tunes, Chad could stand it no longer.

"I foller pickin' the banjer a leetle," he said shyly, and thereupon he had
taken the rude instrument and made the old negro's eyes stretch with
amazement, while Dan rolled in the grass with delight, and every negro who
heard ran toward the boy. After supper, Dan brought the banjo into the house
and made Chad play on the porch, to the delight of them all. And there, too,
the servants gathered, and even old Mammy was observed slyly shaking her
foot--so that Margaret clapped her hands and laughed the old woman into great
confusion. After that no Saturday came that Chad did not spend the night at
the Deans', or Harry and Dan did not stay at Major Buford's. And not a
Saturday passed that the three boys did not go coon-hunting with the darkies,
or fox-hunting with the Major and the General. Chad never forgot that first
starlit night when he was awakened by the near winding of a horn and heard the
Major jump from bed. He jumped too, and when the Major reached the barn, a
dark little figure was close at his heels.

"Can I go, too?" Chad asked, eagerly.

"Think you can stick on?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. Get my bay horse. That old mare of yours is too slow."

The Major's big bay horse! Chad was dizzy with pride.

When they galloped out into the dark woods, there were the General and Harry
and Dan and half a dozen neighbors, sitting silently on their horses and
listening to the music of the hounds.

The General laughed.

"I thought you'd come," he said, and the Major laughed too, and cocked his
ear. "Old Rock's ahead," he said, for he knew, as did everyone there, the old
hound's tongue.

"He's been ahead for an hour," said the General with quiet satisfaction, "and
I think he'll stay there."

Just then a dark object swept past them, and the Major with a low cry hied on
his favorite hound.

"Not now, I reckon," he said, and the General laughed again.

Dan and Harry pressed their horses close to Chad, and all talked in low
voices.

"Ain't it fun?" whispered Dan. Chad answered with a shiver of pure joy.

"He's making for the creek," said the Major, sharply, and he touched spurs to
his horse. How they raced through the woods, cracking brush and whisking
around trees, and how they thundered over the turf and clattered across the
road and on! For a few moments the Major kept close to Chad, watching him
anxiously, but the boy stuck to the big bay like a jockey, and he left Dan and
Harry on their ponies far behind. All night they rode under the starlit sky,
and ten miles away they caught poor Reynard. Chad was in at the kill, with the
Major and the General, and the General gave Chad the brush with his own hand.

"Where did you learn to ride, boy?"

"I never learned," said Chad, simply, whereat the Major winked at his friends
and patted Chad on the shoulder.

"I've got to let my boys ride better horses, I suppose," said the General; "I
can't have a boy who does not know how to ride beating them this way."

Day was breaking when the Major and Chad rode into the stable-yard. The boy's
face was pale, his arms and legs ached, and he was so sleepy that he could
hardly keep his eyes open.

"How'd you like it, Chad?"

"I never knowed nothing like it in my life," said Chad.

"I'm going to teach you to shoot."

"Yes, sir," said Chad.

As they approached the house, a squirrel barked from the woods.

"Hear that, Chad?" said the Major. "We'll get him."

The following morning, Chad rose early and took his old rifle out into the
woods' and when the Major came out on the porch before breakfast the boy was
coming up the walk with six squirrels in his hand. The Major's eyes opened and
he looked at the squirrels when Chad dropped them on the porch. Every one of
them was shot through the head.

"Well, I'm damned! How many times did you shoot, Chad?"

"Seven."

"What--missed only once?"

"I took a knot fer a squirrel once," said Chad.

The Major roared aloud.

"Did I say I was going to teach you to shoot, Chad?"

"Yes, sir."

The Major chuckled and that day he told about those squirrels and that knot to
everybody he saw. With every day the Major grew fonder and prouder of the boy
and more convinced than ever that the lad was of his own blood.

"There's nothing that I like that that boy don't take to like a duck to
water." And when he saw the boy take off his hat to Margaret and observed his
manner with the little girl, he said to himself that if Chad wasn't a
gentleman born, he ought to have been, and the Major believed that he must be.

Everywhere, at school, at the Deans', with the darkies--with everybody but
Conners, the overseer had became a favorite, but, as to Napoleon, so to Chad,
came Waterloo--with the long deferred tournament came Waterloo to Chad.

And it came after a certain miracle on May-day. The Major had taken Chad to
the festival where the dance was on sawdust in the woodland--in the bottom of
a little hollow, around which the seats ran as in an amphitheatre. Ready to
fiddle for them stood none other than John Morgan himself, his gray eyes
dancing and an arch smile on his handsome face; and, taking a place among the
dancers, were Richard Hunt and--Margaret. The poised bow fell, a merry tune
rang out, and Richard Hunt bowed low to his little partner, who, smiling and
blushing, dropped him the daintiest of graceful courtesies. Then the miracle
came to pass. Rage straightway shook Chad's soul--shook it as a terrier shakes
a rat--and the look on his face and in his eyes went back a thousand years.
And Richard Hunt, looking up, saw the strange spectacle, understood, and did
not even smile. On the contrary, he went at once after the dance to speak to
the boy and got for his answer fierce, white, staring silence and a clinched
fist, that was almost ready to strike. Something else that was strange
happened then to Chad. He felt a very firm and a very gentle hand on his
shoulder, his own eyes dropped before the piercing dark eyes and kindly smile
above him, and, a moment later, he was shyly making his way with Richard Hunt
toward Margaret.

It was on Thursday of the following week that Dan told him the two rams were
once more tied in his father's stable. On Saturday, then, they would have the
tournament. To get Mammy's help, Margaret had to tell the plan to her, and
Mammy stormed against the little girl taking part in any such undignified
proceedings, but imperious Margaret forced her to keep silent and help make
sashes and a tent for each of the two knights. Chad would be the "Knight of
the Cumberland" and Dan the "Knight of the Bluegrass." Snowball was to be
Dan's squire and black Rufus, Harry's body-servant, would be squire to Chad.
Harry was King John, the other pickaninnies would be varlets and vassals, and
outraged Uncle Tom, so Dan told him, would, "by the beard of Abraham," have to
be a "Dog of an Unbeliever." Margaret was undecided whether she would play
Rebecca, or the "Queen of Love and Beauty," until Chad told her she ought to
be both, so both she decided to be. So all was done--the spears fashioned of
ash, the helmets battered from tin buckets, colors knotted for the spears, and
shields made of sheepskins. On the stiles sat Harry and Margaret in royal
state under a canopy of calico, with indignant Mammy behind them. At each end
of the stable-lot was a tent of cotton, and before one stood Snowball and
before the other black Rufus, each with his master's spear and shield. Near
Harry stood Sam, the trumpeter, with a fox-horn to sound the charge, and four
black vassals stood at the stable-door to lead the chargers forth.

Near the stiles were the neighbors' children, and around the barn was gathered
every darky on the place, while behind the hedge and peeping through it were
the Major and the General, the one chuckling, the other smiling indulgently.

The stable-doors opened, the four vassals disappeared and came forth, each
pair leading a ram, one covered with red calico, the other with blue cotton,
and each with a bandanna handkerchief around his neck. Each knight stepped
forth from his tent, as his charger was dragged--ba-a-ing and butting--toward
it, and, grasping his spear and shield and setting his helmet on more firmly,
got astride gravely--each squire and vassal solemn, for the King had given
command that no varlet must show unseemly mirth. Behind the hedge, the Major
was holding his hands to his side, and the General was getting grave. It had
just occurred to him that those rams would make for each other like tornadoes,
and he said so.

"Of course they will," chuckled the Major. "Don't you suppose they know that?
That's what they're doing it for. Bless my soul!"

The King waved his hand just then and his black trumpeter tooted the charge.

"Leggo!" said Chad.

"Leggo!" said Dan.

And Snowball and Rufus let go, and each ram ran a few paces and stopped with
his head close to the ground, while each knight brandished his spear and dug
with his spurred heels. One charger gave a ba-a! The other heard, raised his
head, saw his enemy, and ba-a-ed an answering challenge. Then they started for
each other with a rush that brought a sudden fearsome silence, quickly
followed by a babel of excited cries, in which Mammy's was loudest and most
indignant. Dan, nearly unseated, had dropped his lance to catch hold of his
charger's wool, and Chad had gallantly lowered the point of his, because his
antagonist was unarmed. But the temper of rams and not of knights was in that
fight now and they came together with a shock that banged the two knights into
each other and hurled both violently to the ground. General Dean and the Major
ran anxiously from the hedge. Several negro men rushed for the rams, who were
charging and butting like demons. Harry tumbled from the canopy in a most
unkingly fashion. Margaret cried and Mammy wrung her hands. Chad rose dizzily,
but Dan lay still. Chad's elbow had struck him in the temple and knocked him
unconscious.

The servants were thrown into an uproar when Dan was carried back into the
house. Harry was white and almost in tears.

"I did it, father, I did it," he said, at the foot of the steps.

"No," said Chad, sturdily, "I done it myself."

Margaret heard and ran from the hallway and down the steps, brushing away her
tears with both hands.

"Yes, you did--you DID," she cried. "I hate you."

"Why, Margaret," said General Dan.

Chad startled and stung, turned without a word and, unnoticed by the rest,
made his way slowly across the fields.



CHAPTER 12. BACK TO KINGDOM COME

It was the tournament that, at last, loosed Mammy's tongue. She was savage in
her denunciation of Chad to Mrs. Dean--so savage and in such plain language
that her mistress checked her sharply, but not before Margaret had heard,
though the little girl, with an awed face, slipped quietly out of the room
into the yard, while Harry stood in the doorway, troubled and silent.

"Don't let me hear you speak that way again Mammy," said Mrs. Dean, so sternly
that the old woman swept out of the room in high dudgeon And yet she told her
husband of Mammy's charge;

"I am rather surprised at Major Buford."

"Perhaps he doesn't know," said the General. "Perhaps it isn't true."

"Nobody knows anything about the boy."

"Well, I cannot have my children associating with a waif."

"He seems like a nice boy."

"He uses extraordinary language. I cannot have him teaching my children
mischief. Why I believe Margaret is really fond of him. I know Harry and Dan
are." The General looked thoughtful.

"I will speak to Major Buford about him," he said, and he did--no little to
that gentleman's confusion--though he defended Chad staunchly--and the two
friends parted with some heat.

Thereafter, the world changed for Chad, for if there any older and truer story
than that Evil has wings, while Good goes a plodding way? Chad felt the
change, in the negroes, in the sneering overseer, and could not understand.
The rumor reached Miss Lucy's ears and she and the Major had a spirited
discussion that rather staggered Chad's kind-hearted companion. It reached the
school, and a black-haired youngster, named Georgie Forbes, who had long been
one of Margaret's abject slaves, and who hated Chad, brought out the terrible
charge in the presence of a dozen school-children at noon-recess one day. It
had been no insult in the mountains, but Chad, dazed though he was, knew it
was meant for an insult, and his hard fist shot out promptly, landing in his
enemy's chin and bringing him bawling to the earth. Others gave out the cry
then, and the boy fought right and left like a demon. Dan stood sullenly near,
taking no part, and Harry, while he stopped the unequal fight, turned away
from Chad coldly, calling Margaret, who had run up toward them, away at the
same time, and Chad's three friends turned from him then and there, while the
boy, forgetting all else, stood watching them with dumb wonder and pain. The
school-bell clanged, but Chad stood still--with his heart well neigh breaking
In a few minutes the last pupil had disappeared through the school-room door,
and Chad stood under a great elm--alone. But only a moment, for he turned
quickly away, the tears starting to his eyes, walked rapidly through the
woods, climbed the worm fence beyond, and dropped, sobbing, in the thick
bluegrass.

An hour later he was walking swiftly through the fields toward the old brick
house that had sheltered him. He was very quiet at supper that night, and
after Miss Lucy had gone to bed and he and the Major were seated before the
fire, he was so quiet that the Major looked at him anxiously.

"What's the matter Chad? Are you sick?"

"Nothin'--no, sir."

But the Major was uneasy, and when he rose to go to bed, he went over and put
his hand on the boy's head.

"Chad," he said, "if you hear of people saying mean things about you, you
mustn't pay any attention to them."

"No, sir."

"You're a good boy, and I want you to live here with me. Good-night, Chad," he
added, affectionately. Chad nearly broke down, but he steadied himself.

"Good-by, Major," he said, brokenly. "I'm obleeged to you."

"Good-by?" repeated the Major. "Why?"

"Good-night, I mean," stammered Chad.

The Major stood inside his own door, listening to the boy's slow steps up the
second flight. "I'm gettin' to love that boy," he said, wonderingly-- "An' I'm
damned if people who talk about him don't have me to reckon with"--and the
Major shook his head from side to side. Several times he thought he could hear
the boy moving around in the room above him, and while he was wondering why
the lad did not go to bed, he fell asleep.

Chad was moving around. First, by the light of a candle, he laboriously dug
out a short letter to the Major--scalding it with tears. Then he took off his
clothes and got his old mountain-suit out of the closet--moccasins and
all--and put them on. Very carefully he folded the pretty clothes he had taken
off--just as Miss Lucy had taught him--and laid them on the bed. Then he
picked up his old rifle in one hand and his old coonskin cap in the other,
blew out the candle, slipped noiselessly down the stairs in his moccasined
feet, out the unbolted door and into the starlit night. From the pike fence he
turned once to look back to the dark, silent house amid the dark trees. Then
he sprang down and started through the fields--his face set toward the
mountains.

It so happened that mischance led General Dean to go over to see Major Buford
about Chad next morning. The Major listened patiently--or tried ineffectively
to listen--and when the General was through, he burst out with a vehemence
that shocked and amazed his old friend.

"Damn those niggers!" he cried, in a tone that seemed to include the General
in his condemnation, "that boy is the best boy I ever knew. I believe he is my
own blood, he looks a little like that picture there"--pointing to the old
portrait--"and if he is what I believe he is, by --, sir, he gets this farm
and all I have. Do you understand that?"

"I believe he told you what he was."

"He did--but I don't believe he knows, and, anyhow, whatever he is, he shall
have a home under this roof as long as he lives."

The General rose suddenly--stiffly.

"He must never darken my door again."

"Very well." The Major made a gesture which plainly said, "In that event, you
are darkening mine too long," and the General rose, slowly descended the steps
of the portico, and turned:

"Do you really mean, that you are going to let a little brat that you picked
up in the road only yesterday stand between you and me?"

The Major softened.

"Look here," he said, whisking a sheet of paper from his coat-pocket. While
the General read Chad's scrawl, the Major watched his face.

"He's gone, by --. A hint was enough for him. If he isn't the son of a
gentleman, then I'm not, nor you."

"Cal," said the General, holding out his hand, "we'll talk this over again."

The bees buzzed around the honeysuckles that clambered over the porch. A crow
flew overhead. The sound of a crying child came around the corner of the house
from the quarters, and the General's footsteps died on the gravel-walk, but
the Major heard them not. Mechanically he watched the General mount his black
horse and canter toward the pike gate. The overseer called to him from the
stable, but the Major dropped his eyes to the scrawl in his hand, and when
Miss Lucy came out he silently handed it to her.

"I reckon you know what folks is a-sayin' about me. I tol' you myself. But I
didn't know hit wus any harm, and anyways hit ain't my fault, I reckon, an' I
don't see how folks can blame me. But I don' want nobody who don' want me. An'
I'm leavin' 'cause I don't want to bother you. I never bring nothing but
trouble nohow an' I'm goin' back to the mountains. Tell Miss Lucy good-by. She
was mighty good to me, but I know she didn't like me. I left the hoss for you.
If you don't have no use fer the saddle, I wish you'd give hit to Harry,
'cause he tuk up fer me at school when I was fightin', though he wouldn't
speak to me no more. I'm mighty sorry to leave you. I'm obleeged to you cause
you wus so good to me an' I'm goin' to see you agin some day, if I can.
Good-by."

"Left that damned old mare to pay for his clothes and his board and his
schooling," muttered the Major. "By the gods"--he rose suddenly and strode
away--"I beg your pardon, Lucy."

A tear was running down each of Miss Lucy's faded cheeks.

Dawn that morning found Chad springing from a bed in a haystack--ten miles
from Lexington. By dusk that day, he was on the edge of the Bluegrass and that
night he stayed at a farm-house, going in boldly, for he had learned now that
the wayfarer was as welcome in a Bluegrass farm-house as in a log-cabin in the
mountains. Higher and higher grew the green swelling slopes, until, climbing
one about noon next day, he saw the blue foothills of the Cumberland through
the clear air--and he stopped and looked long, breathing hard from pure
ecstasy. The plain-dweller never knows the fierce home hunger that the
mountain-born have for hills.

Besides, beyond those blue summits were the Turners and the school-master and
Jack, waiting for him, and he forgot hunger and weariness as he trod on
eagerly toward them. That night, he stayed in a mountain-cabin, and while the
contrast of the dark room, the crowding children, the slovenly dress, and the
coarse food was strangely disagreeable, along with the strange new shock came
the thrill that all this meant hills and home. It was about three o'clock of
the fourth day that, tramping up the Kentucky River, he came upon a long, even
stretch of smooth water, from the upper end of which two black bowlders were
thrust out of the stream, and with a keener thrill he realized that he was
nearing home. He recalled seeing those rocks as the raft swept down the river,
and the old Squire had said that they were named after oxen--"Billy and Buck."
Opposite the rocks he met a mountaineer.

"How fer is it to Uncle Joel Turner's?"

"A leetle the rise o' six miles, I reckon."

The boy was faint with weariness, and those six miles seemed a dozen. Idea of
distance is vague among the mountaineers, and two hours of weary travel
followed, yet nothing that he recognized was in sight. Once a bend of the
river looked familiar, but when he neared it, the road turned steeply from the
river and over a high bluff, and the boy started up with a groan. He meant to
reach the summit before he stopped to rest, but in sheer pain, he dropped a
dozen paces from the top and lay with his tongue, like a dog's, between his
lips.

The top was warm, but a chill was rising from the fast-darkening shadows below
him. The rim of the sun was about to brush the green tip of a mountain across
the river, and the boy rose in a minute, dragged himself on to the point
where, rounding a big rock, he dropped again with a thumping heart and a
reeling brain. There it was--old Joel's cabin in the pretty valley below--old
Joel's cabin--home! Smoke was rising from the chimney, and that far away it
seemed that Chad could smell frying bacon. There was the old barn and he could
make out one of the boys feeding stock and another chopping wood--was that the
school-master? There was the huge form of old Joel at the fence talking with a
neighbor. He was gesticulating as though angry, and the old mother came to the
door as the neighbor moved away with a shuffling gait that the boy knew
belonged to the Dillon breed. Where was Jack? Jack! Chad sprang to his feet
and went down the hill on a run. He climbed the orchard fence, breaking the
top rail in his eagerness, and as he neared the house, he gave a shrill yell.
A scarlet figure flashed like a flame out of the door, with an answering cry,
and the Turners followed:

"Why, boy," roared old Joel. "Mammy, hit's Chad!"

Dolph dropped an armful of feed. The man with the axe left it stuck in a log,
and each man shouted:

"Chad!"

The mountaineers are an undemonstrative race, but Mother Turner took the boy
in her arms and the rest crowded around, slapping him on the back and all
asking questions at once Dolph and Rube and Tom. Yes, and there was the
school-master--every face was almost tender with love for the boy. But where
was Jack?

"Where's--where's Jack?" said Chad.

Old Joel changed face--looking angry; the rest were grave. Only the old mother
spoke:

"Jack's all right."

"Oh," said Chad, but he looked anxious.

Melissa inside heard. He had not asked for HER, and with the sudden choking of
a nameless fear she sprang out the door to be caught by the school-master, who
had gone around the corner to look for her.

"Lemme go," she said, fiercely, breaking his hold and darting away, but
stopping, when she saw Chad in the doorway, looking at her with a shy smile.

"Howdye, Melissa!"

The girl stared at him mildly and made no answer, and a wave of shame and
confusion swept over the boy as his thoughts flashed back to a little girl in
a black cap and on a black pony, and he stood reddening and helpless. There
was a halloo at the gate. It was old Squire Middleton and the circuit-rider,
and old Joel went toward them with a darkening face.

"Why, hello, Chad," the Squire said. "You back again?"

He turned to Joel.

"Look hyeh, Joel. Thar hain't no use o' your buckin' agin yo' neighbors and
harborin' a sheep-killin' dog." Chad started and looked from one face to
another--slowly but surely making out the truth.

"You never seed the dawg afore last spring. You don't know that he hain't a
sheep-killer."

"It's a lie--a lie," Chad cried, hotly, but the school-master stopped him.

"Hush, Chad," he said, and he took the boy inside and told him Jack was in
trouble. A Dillon sheep had been found dead on a hill-side. Daws Dillon had
come upon Jack leaping out of the pasture, and Jack had come home with his
muzzle bloody. Even with this overwhelming evidence, old Joel stanchly refused
to believe the dog was guilty and ordered old man Dillon off the place. A
neighbor had come over, then another, and an other, until old Joel got livid
with rage.

"That dawg mought eat a dead sheep but he never would kill a live one, and if
you kill him, by , you've got to kill me fust."

Now there is no more unneighborly or unchristian act for a farmer than to
harbor a sheep-killing dog. So the old Squire and the circuit-rider had come
over to show Joel the grievous error of his selfish, obstinate course, and, so
far, old Joel had refused to be shown. All of his sons sturdily upheld him and
little Melissa fiercely--the old mother and the school-master alone remaining
quiet and taking no part in the dissension.

"Have they got Jack?"

"No, Chad," said the school-master. "He's safe--tied up in the stable." Chad
started out, and no one followed but Melissa. A joyous bark that was almost
human came from the stable as Chad approached, for the dog must have known the
sound of his master's footsteps, and when Chad drew open the door, Jack sprang
the length of his tether to meet him and was jerked to his back. Again and
again he sprang, barking, as though beside himself, while Chad stood at the
door, looking sorrowfully at him.

"Down, Jack!" he said sternly, and Jack dropped obediently, looking straight
at his master with honest eyes and whimpering like a child.

"Jack," said Chad, "did you kill that sheep?" This was all strange conduct for
his little master, and Jack looked wondering and dazed, but his eyes never
wavered or blinked. Chad could not long stand those honest eyes.

"No," he said, fiercely--"no, little doggie, no--no!" And Chad dropped on his
knees and took Jack in his arms and hugged him to his breast.



CHAPTER 13. ON TRIAL FOR HIS LIFE

By degrees the whole story was told Chad that night. Now and then the  Turners
would ask him about his stay in the Bluegrass, but the boy would  answer as
briefly as possible and come back to Jack. Before going to bed,  Chad said he
would bring Jack into the house: 

"Somebody might pizen him," he explained, and when he came back, he  startled
the circle about the fire: 

"Whar's Whizzer?" he asked, sharply. "Who's seen Whizzer?" 

Then it developed that no one had seen the Dillon dog--since the day  before
the sheep was found dead near a ravine at the foot of the mountain  in a back
pasture. Late that afternoon Melissa had found Whizzer in that  very pasture
when she was driving old Betsy, the brindle, home at  milking-time. Since
then, no one of the Turners had seen the Dillon dog.  That, however, did not
prove that Whizzer was not at home. And yet, 

"I'd like to know whar Whizzer is now!" said Chad, and, after, at old  Joel's
command, he had tied Jack to a bedpost--an outrage that puzzled the  dog
sorely--the boy threshed his bed for an hour--trying to think out a  defence
for Jack and wondering if Whizzer might not have been concerned in  the death
of the sheep. 

It is hardly possible that what happened, next day, could happen anywhere 
except among simple people of the hills. Briefly, the old Squire and the 
circuit-rider had brought old Joel to the point of saying, the night  before,
that he would give Jack up to be killed, if he could be proven  guilty. But
the old hunter cried with an oath: 

"You've got to prove him guilty." And thereupon the Squire said he would  give
Jack every chance that he would give a man--HE WOULD TRY HIM; each  side could
bring in witnesses; old Joel could have a lawyer if he wished,  and Jack's
case would go before a jury. If pronounced innocent, Jack  should go free: if
guilty--then the dog should be handed over to the  sheriff, to be shot at
sundown. Joel agreed. 

It was a strange procession that left the gate of the Turner cabin next 
morning. Old Joel led the way, mounted, with "ole Sal," his rifle, across  his
saddle-bow. Behind him came Mother Turner and Melissa on foot and Chad  with
his rifle over his left shoulder, and leading Jack by a string with  his right
hand. Behind them slouched Tall Tom with his rifle and Dolph and  Rube, each
with a huge old-fashioned horse-pistol swinging from his right  hip. Last
strode the school-master. The cabin was left deserted--the  hospitable door
held closed by a deer-skin latch caught to a wooden pin  outside. 

It was a strange humiliation to Jack thus to be led along the highway,  like a
criminal going to the gallows. There was no power on earth that  could have
moved him from Chad's side, other than the boy's own  command--but old Joel
had sworn that he would keep the dog tied and the  old hunter always kept his
word. He had sworn, too, that Jack should have  a fair trial. Therefore, the
guns--and the school-master walked with his  hands behind him and his eyes on
the ground: he feared trouble. 

Half a mile up the river and to one side of the road, a space of some  thirty
feet square had been cut into a patch of rhododendron and filled  with rude
benches of slabs--in front of which was a rough platform on  which sat a
home-made, cane-bottomed chair. Except for the opening from the  road, the
space was walled with a circle of living green through which the  sun dappled
the benches with quivering disks of yellow light--and, high  above, great
poplars and oaks arched their mighty heads. It was an  open-air
"meeting-house" where the circuit-rider preached during his  summer circuit
and there the trial was to take place. 

Already a crowd was idling, whittling, gossiping in the road, when the  Turner
cavalcade came in sight--and for ten miles up and down the river  people were
coming in for the trial 

"Mornin', gentlemen," said old Joel, gravely. 

"Mornin'," answered several, among whom was the Squire, who eyed Joel's  gun
and the guns coming up the road. 

"Squirrel-huntin'?" he asked and, as the old hunter did not answer, he  added,
sharply: 

"Air you afeerd, Joel Turner, that you ain't a-goin' to git justice from  ME?"


"I don't keer whar it comes from," said Joel, grimly--"but I'm a-goin' to 
HAVE it." 

It was plain that the old man not only was making no plea for sympathy,  but
was alienating the little he had: and what he had was very little for  who but
a lover of dogs can give full sympathy to his kind? And, then,  Jack was
believed to be guilty. It was curious to see how each Dillon  shrank
unconsciously as the Turners gathered--all but Jerry, one of the  giant twins.
He always stood his ground--fearing nor man, nor dog--nor  devil. 

Ten minutes later, the Squire took his seat on the platform, while the 
circuit-rider squatted down beside him. The crowd, men and women and 
children, took the rough benches. To one side sat and stood the Dillons,  old
Tad and little Tad, Daws, Nance, and others of the tribe. Straight in  front
of the Squire gathered the Turners about Melissa and Chad--and Jack  as a
centre--with Jack squatted on his hanches foremost of all, facing the  Squire
with grave dignity and looking at none else save, occasionally, the  old
hunter or his little master. 

To the right stood the sheriff with his rifle, and on the outskirts hung  the
school-master. Quickly the old Squire chose a jury--giving old Joel  the
opportunity to object as he called each man's name. Old Joel objected  to
none, for every man called, he knew, was more friendly to him than to  the
Dillons: and old Tad Dillon raised no word of protest, for he knew his  case
was clear. Then began the trial, and any soul that was there would  have
shuddered could he have known how that trial was to divide neighbor  against
neighbor, and mean death and bloodshed for half a century after  the trial
itself was long forgotten. 

The first witness, old Tad--long, lean, stooping, crafty--had seen the  sheep
rushing wildly up the hill-side "'bout crack o' day," he said, and  had sent
Daws up to see what the matter was. Daws had shouted back: 

"That damned Turner dog has killed one o' our sheep. Thar he comes now.  Kill
him!" And old Tad had rushed in-doors for his rifle and had taken a  shot at
Jack as he leaped into the road and loped for home. Just then a  stern, thick
little voice rose from behind Jack: 

"Hit was a God's blessin' fer you that you didn't hit him." 

The Squire glared down at the boy and old Joel said, kindly: 

"Hush, Chad." 

Old Dillon had then gone down to the Turners and asked them to kill the  dog,
but old Joel had refused. 

"Whar was Whizzer?" Chad asked, sharply. 

"You can't axe that question," said the Squire. "Hit's er-er-irrelevant." 

Daws came next. When he reached the fence upon the hill-side he could see  the
sheep lying still on the ground. As he was climbing over, the Turner  dog
jumped the fence and Daws saw blood on his muzzle. 

"How close was you to him?" asked the Squire. 

"'Bout twenty feet," said Daws. 

"Humph!" said old Joel. 

"Whar was Whizzer?" Again the old Squire glared down at Chad. 

"Don't you axe that question again, boy. Didn't I tell you hit was 
irrelevant?" 

"What's irrelevant?" the boy asked, bluntly. 

The Squire hesitated. "Why--why, hit ain't got nothin' to do with the  case." 

"Hit ain't?" shouted Chad.

"Joel," said the Squire, testily, "ef you don't keep that boy still, I'll 
fine him fer contempt o' court." 

Joel laughed, but he put his heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. Little Tad 
Dillon and Nance and the Dillon mother had all seen Jack running down the 
road. There was no doubt but that it was the Turner dog. And with this  clear
case against poor Jack, the Dillons rested. And what else could the  Turners
do but establish Jack's character and put in a plea of mercy--a  useless plea,
old Joel knew --for a first offence? Jack was the best dog  old Joel had ever
known, and the old man told wonderful tales of the dog's  intelligence and
kindness and how one night Jack had guarded a stray lamb  that had broken its
leg--until daybreak--and he had been led to the dog  and the sheep by Jack's
barking for help. The Turner boys confirmed this  story, though it was
received with incredulity. 

How could a dog that would guard one lone helpless lamb all night long  take
the life of another? 

There was no witness that had aught but kind words to say of the dog or  aught
but wonder that he should have done this thing--even back to the 
cattle-dealer who had given him to Chad. For at that time the dealer  said--so
testified Chad, no objection being raised to hearsay  evidence--that Jack was
the best dog he ever knew. That was all the  Turners or anybody could do or
say, and the old Squire was about to turn  the case over to the jury when Chad
rose: 

"Squire," he said and his voice trembled, "Jack's my dog. I lived with him 
night an' day for 'bout three years an' I want to axe some questions." 

He turned to Daws: 

"I want to axe you ef thar was any blood around that sheep." 

"Thar was a great big pool o' blood," said Daws, indignantly. Chad looked  at
the Squire. 

"Well, a sheep-killin' dog don't leave no great big pool o' blood, Squire, 
with the FUST one he kills! He SUCKS it!" Several men nodded their heads. 

"Squire! The fust time I come over these mountains, the fust people I seed 
was these Dillons--an' Whizzer. They sicked Whizzer on Jack hyeh and Jack 
whooped him. Then Tad thar jumped me and I whooped him." (The Turner boys 
were nodding confirmation.) "Sence that time they've hated Jack an'  they've
hated me and they hate the Turners partly fer takin' keer o' me.  Now you said
somethin' I axed just now was irrelevant, but I tell you,  Squire, I know a
sheep-killin' dawg, and jes' as I know Jack AIN'T, I know  the Dillon dawg
naturely is, and I tell you, if the Dillons' dawg killed  that sheep and they
could put it on Jack--they'd do it. They'd do  it--Squire, an' I tell you,
you--ortern't--to let--that  sheriff--thar--shoot my--dog--until the Dillons
answers what I axed--" the  boy's passionate cry rang against the green walls
and out the opening and  across the river-- 

"WHAR'S WHIZZER?" 

The boy startled the crowd and the old Squire himself, who turned quickly  to
the Dillons. 

"Well, whar is Whizzer?" 

Nobody answered. 

"He ain't been seen, Squire, sence the evenin' afore the night o' the 
killin'!" Chad's statement seemed to be true. Not a voice contradicted. 

"An' I want to know if Daws seed signs o' killin' on Jack's head when he 
jumped the fence, why them same signs didn't show when he got home." 

Poor Chad! Here old Tad Dillon raised his hand. 

"Axe the Turners, Squire," he said, and as the school-master on the  outskirts
shrank, as though he meant to leave the crowd, the old man's  quick eye caught
the movement and he added: 

"Axe the school-teacher!" 

Every eye turned with the Squire's to the master, whose face was strangely 
serious straightway. 

"Did you see any signs on the dawg when he got home?" The gaunt man  hesitated
with one swift glance at the boy, who almost paled in answer. 

"Why," said the school-master, and again he hesitated, but old Joel, in a 
voice that was without hope, encouraged him: 

"Go on!" 

"What was they?" 

"Jack had blood on his muzzle, and a little strand o' wool behind one  ear." 

There was no hope against that testimony. Melissa broke away from her  mother
and ran out to the road--weeping. Chad dropped with a sob to his  bench and
put his arms around the dog: then he rose up and walked out the  opening while
Jack leaped against his leash to follow. The school-master  put out his hand
to stop him, but the boy struck it aside without looking  up and went on. he
could not stay to see Jack condemned. He knew what the  verdict would be, and
in twenty minutes the jury gave it, without leaving  their seats. 

"Guilty!" 

The Sheriff came forward. He knew Jack and Jack knew him, and wagged his  tail
and whimpered up at him when he took the leash. 

"Well, by --, this is a job I don't like, an' I'm damned ef I'm agoin' to 
shoot this dawg afore he knows what I'm shootin' him fer. I'm goin' to  show
him that sheep fust. Whar's that sheep, Daws?" 

Daws led the way down the road, over the fence, across the meadow, and up  the
hill-side where lay the slain sheep. Chad and Melissa saw them  coming--the
whole crowd--before they themselves were seen. For a minute  the boy watched
them. They were going to kill Jack where the Dillons said  he had killed the
sheep, and the boy jumped to his feet and ran up the  hill a little way and
disappeared in the bushes, that he might not hear  Jack's death-shot, while
Melissa sat where she was, watching the crowd  come on. Daws was at the foot
of the hill, and she saw him make a gesture  toward her, and then the Sheriff
came on with Jack--over the fence, past  her, the Sheriff saying, kindly,
"Howdy, Melissa. I shorely am sorry ta  have to kill Jack," and on to the dead
sheep, which lay fifty yards  beyond. If the Sheriff expected to drop head and
tail and look mean he was greatly mistaken. Jack neither hung back nor 
sniffed at the carcass. Instead he put one fore foot on it and with the  other
bent in the air, looked without shame into the Sheriff's eyes--as  much as to
say: 

"Yes, this is a wicked and shameful thing, but what have I got to do with  it?
Why are you bringing ME here?" 

The Sheriff came back greatly puzzled and shaking his head. Passing  Melissa,
he stopped to let the unhappy little girl give Jack a last pat,  and it was
there that Jack suddenly caught scent of Chad's tracks. With  one mighty bound
the dog snatched the rawhide string from the careless  Sheriff's hand, and in
a moment, with his nose to the ground, was speeding  up toward the woods. With
a startled yell and a frightful oath the Sheriff  threw his rifle to his
shoulder, but the little girl sprang up and caught  the barrel with both
hands, shaking it fiercely up and down and hieing  Jack on with shriek after
shriek. A minute later Jack had disappeared in  the bushes, Melissa was
running like the wind down the hill toward home,  while the whole crowd in the
meadow was rushing up toward the Sheriff, led  by the Dillons, who were
yelling and swearing like madmen. Above them, the  crestfallen Sheriff waited.
The Dillons crowded angrily about him,  gesticulating and threatening, while
he told his story. But nothing could  be done--nothing. They did not know that
Chad was up in the woods or they  would have gone in search of him--knowing
that when they found him they  would find Jack--but to look for Jack now would
be like searching for a  needle in a hay-stack. There was nothing to do, then,
but to wait for Jack  to come home, which he would surely do--to get to
Chad--and it was while  old Joel was promising that the dog should be
surrendered to the Sheriff  that little Tad Dillon gave an excited shriek. 

"Look up thar!"

And up there at the edge of the wood was Chad standing and, at his feet,  Jack
sitting on his haunches, with his tongue out and looking as though  nothing
had happened or could ever happen to Chad or to him. 

"Come up hyeh," shouted Chad. 

"You come down hyeh," shouted the Sheriff, angrily. So Chad came down,  with
Jack trotting after him. Chad had cut off the rawhide string, but the  Sheriff
caught Jack by the nape of the neck. 

"You won't git away from me agin, I reckon." 

"Well, I reckon you ain't goin' to shoot him," said Chad. "Leggo that  dawg." 

"Don't be a fool, Jim," said old Joel. "The dawg ain't goin' to leave the 
boy." The Sheriff let go. 

"Come on up hyeh," said Chad. "I got somethin' to show ye." 

The boy turned with such certainty that with out a word Squire, Sheriff, 
Turners, Dillons, and spectators followed. As they approached a deep  ravine
the boy pointed to the ground where were evidences of some fierce 
struggle--the dirt thrown up, and several small stones scattered about  with
faded stains of blood on them. 

"Wait hyeh!" said the boy, and he slid down the ravine and appeared again 
dragging something after him. Tall Tom ran down to help him and the two  threw
before the astonished crowd the body of a black and white dog.  "Now I reckon
you know whar Whizzer is," panted Chad vindictively to the  Dillons. 

"Well, what of it?" snapped Daws 

"Oh, nothin'," said the boy with fine sarcasm. "Only WHIZZER killed that 
sheep and Jack killed Whizzer." From every Dillon throat came a scornful 
grunt. 

"Oh, I reckon so," said Chad, easily. "Look dhar!" He lifted the dead  dog's
head, and pointed at the strands of wool between his teeth. He  turned it
over, showing the deadly grip in the throat and close to the  jaws, that had
choked the life from Whizzer--Jack's own grip. 

"Ef you will jes' rickollect, Jack had that same grip the time afore--when  I
pulled him off o' Whizzer." 

"By --, that is so," said Tall Tom, and Dolph and Rube echoed him amid a 
dozen voices, for not only old Joel, but many of his neighbors knew Jack's 
method of fighting, which had made him a victor up and down the length of 
Kingdom Come. 

There was little doubt that the boy was right--that Jack had come on  Whizzer
killing the sheep, and had caught him at the edge of the ravine,  where the
two had fought, rolling down and settling the old feud between  them in the
darkness at the bottom. And up there on the hill-side, the  jury that
pronounced Jack guilty pronounced him innocent, and, as the  Turners started
joyfully down the hill, the sun that was to have sunk on  Jack stiff in death
sank on Jack frisking before them--home. 

And yet another wonder was in store for Chad. A strange horse with a  strange
saddle was hitched to the Turner fence; beside it was an old mare  with a
boy's saddle, and as Chad came through the gate a familiar voice  called him
cheerily by name. On the porch sat Major Buford. 



CHAPTER 14. THE MAJOR IN THE MOUNTAINS

The quivering heat of August was giving way and the golden peace of autumn 
was spreading through the land. The breath of mountain woods by day was as 
cool as the breath of valleys at night. In the mountains, boy and girl  were
leaving school for work in the fields, and from the Cumberland  foothills to
the Ohio, boy and girl were leaving happy holidays for  school. Along a rough,
rocky road and down a shining river, now sunk to  deep pools with trickling
riffles between--for a drouth was on the  land--rode a tall, gaunt man on an
old brown mare that switched with her  tail now and then at a long-legged,
rough-haired colt stumbling awkwardly  behind. Where the road turned from the
river and up the mountain, the man  did a peculiar thing, for there, in that
lonely wilderness, he stopped,  dismounted, tied the reins to an overhanging
branch and, leaving mare and  colt behind, strode up the mountain, on and on,
disappearing over the top.  Half an hour later, a sturdy youth hove in sight,
trudging along the same  road with his cap in his hand, a long rifle over one
shoulder and a dog  trotting at his heels. Now and then the boy would look
back and scold the  dog and the dog would drop his muzzle with shame, until
the boy stooped to  pat him on the head, when he would leap frisking before
him, until another  affectionate scolding was due. The old mare turned her
head when she heard  them coming, and nickered. Without a moment's hesitation
the lad untied  her, mounted and rode up the mountain. For two days the man
and the boy  had been "riding and tying," as this way of travel for two men
and one  horse is still known in the hills, and over the mountain, they were
to  come together for the night. At the foot of the spur on the other side, 
boy and dog came upon the tall man sprawled at full length across a 
moss-covered bowlder. The dog dropped behind, but the man's quick eye  caught
him: 

"Where'd that dog come from, Chad?" Jack put his belly to the earth and 
crawled slowly forward--penitent, but determined. 

"He broke loose, I reckon. He come tearin' up behind me 'bout an hour ago, 
like a house afire. Let him go." Caleb Hazel frowned. 

"I told you, Chad, that we'd have no place to keep him." 

"Well, we can send him home as easy from up thar as we can from hyeh--let  him
go." 

"All right!" Chad understood not a whit better than the dog; for Jack  leaped
to his feet and jumped around the school-master, trying to lick his  hands,
but the school-master was absorbed and would none of him. There,  the
mountain-path turned into a wagon-road and the school-master pointed  with one
finger. 

"Do you know what that is, Chad?" 

"No, sir." Chad said "sir" to the school-master now. 

"Well, that's"--the school-master paused to give his words effect--"that's 
the old Wilderness Road." 

Ah, did he not know the old, old Wilderness Road! The boy gripped his  rifle
unconsciously, as though there might yet be a savage lying in ambush  in some
covert of rhododendron close by. And, as they trudged ahead, side  by side
now, for it was growing late, the school-master told him, as often  before,
the story of that road and the pioneers who had trod it--the  hunters,
adventurers, emigrants, fine ladies and fine gentlemen who had  stained it
with their blood; and how that road had broadened into the  mighty way for a
great civilization from sea to sea. The lad could see it  all, as he listened,
wishing that he had lived in those stirring days,  never dreaming in how
little was he of different mould from the  stout-hearted pioneers who beat out
the path with their moccasined feet;  how little less full of danger were his
own days to be; how little  different had been his own life, and was his our
pose now--how little  different after all was the bourn to which his own
restless feet were  bearing him. 

Chad had changed a good deal since that night after Jack's trial, when the 
kind-hearted old Major had turned up at Joel's cabin to take him back to  the
Bluegrass. He was taller, broader at shoulder, deeper of chest; his  mouth and
eyes were prematurely grave from much brooding and looked a  little defiant,
as though the boy expected hostility from the world and  was prepared to meet
it, but there was no bitterness in them, and luminous  about the lad was the
old atmosphere of brave, sunny cheer and simple  self-trust that won people to
him. 

The Major and old Joel had talked late that night after Jack's trial. The 
Major had come down to find out who Chad was, if possible, and to take him 
back home, no matter who he might be. The old hunter looked long into the 
fire. 

"Co'se I know hit 'ud be better fer Chad, but, Lawd, how we'd hate to give 
him up. Still, I reckon I'll have to let him go, but I can stand hit  better,
if you can git him to leave Jack hyeh." The Major smiled. Did old  Joel know
where Nathan Cherry lived? The old hunter did. Nathan was a  "damned old
skinflint who lived across the mountain on Stone Creek--who  stole other
folks' farms and if he knew anything about Chad the old hunter  would squeeze
it out of his throat; and if old Nathan, learning where Chad  now was, tried
to pester him he would break every bone in the skinflint's  body." So the
Major and old Joel rode over next day to see Nathan, and  Nathan with his
shifting eyes told them Chad's story in a high, cracked  voice that, recalling
Chad's imitation of it, made the Major laugh. Chad  was a foundling, Nathan
said: his mother was dead and his father had gone  off to the Mexican War and
never come back: he had taken the mother in  himself and Chad had been born in
his own house, when he lived farther up  the river, and the boy had begun to
run away as soon as he was old enough  to toddle. And with each sentence
Nathan would call for confirmation on a silent, dark-faced  daughter who sat
inside: "Didn't he, Betsy?" or "Wasn't he, gal?" And the  girl would nod
sullenly, but say nothing. It seemed a hopeless mission  except that, on the
way back, the Major learned that there were one or two  Bufords living down
the Cumberland, and like old Joel, shook his head over  Nathan's pharisaical
philanthropy to a homeless boy and wondered what the  motive under it was--but
he went back with the old hunter and tried to get  Chad to go home with him.
The boy was rock-firm in his refusal. 

"I'm obleeged to you, Major, but I reckon I better stay in the mountains." 
That was all Chad would say, and at last the Major gave up and rode back  over
the mountain and down the Cumberland alone, still on his quest. At a 
blacksmith's shop far down the river he found a man who had "heerd tell of  a
Chad Buford who had been killed in the Mexican War and whose daddy lived 
'bout fifteen mile down the river." The Major found that Buford dead, but  an
old woman told him his name was Chad, that he had "fit in the War o'  1812
when he was nothin' but a chunk of a boy, and that his daddy, whose  name,
too, was Chad, had been killed by Injuns some'eres aroun' Cumberland  Gap." By
this time the Major was as keen as a hound on the scent, and, in  a cabin at
the foot of the sheer gray wall that crumbles into the Gap, he  had the
amazing luck to find an octogenarian with an unclouded memory who  could
recollect a queer-looking old man who had been killed by Indians --"a  ole
feller with the curiosest hair I ever did see," added the patriarch.  His name
was Colonel Buford, and the old man knew where he was buried, for  he himself
was old enough at the time to help bury him. Greatly excited,  the Major hired
mountaineers to dig into the little hill that the old man  pointed out, on
which there was, however, no sign of a grave, and, at  last, they uncovered
the skeleton of an old gentleman in a wig and peruke!  There was little doubt
now that the boy, no matter what the blot on his  'scutcheon, was of his own
flesh and blood, and the Major was tempted to  go back at once for him, but it
was a long way, and he was ill and anxious  to get back home. So he took the
Wilderness Road for the Bluegrass, and  wrote old Joel the facts and asked him
to send Chad to him whenever he  would come. But the boy would not go. There
was no definite reason in his  mind. It was a stubborn instinct merely--the
instinct of pride, of  stubborn independence--of shame that festered in his
soul like a hornet's  sting. Even Melissa urged him. She never tired of
hearing Chad tell about  the Bluegrass country, and when she knew that the
Major wanted him to go  back, she followed him out in the yard that night and
found him on the  fence whittling. A red star was sinking behind the
mountains. "Why won't  you go back no more, Chad?" she said. 

"'Cause I HAIN'T got no daddy er mammy." Then Melissa startled him. 

"Well, I'd go--an' I hain't got no daddy er mammy." Chad stopped his 
whittling. 

"Whut'd you say, Lissy?" he asked, gravely. 

Melissa was frightened--the boy looked so serious. 

"Cross yo' heart an' body that you won't NUVER tell NO body." Chad  crossed. 

"Well, mammy said I mustn't ever tell nobody--but I HAIN'T got no daddy er 
mammy. I heerd her a-tellin' the school-teacher." And the little girl  shook
her head over her frightful crime of disobedience. 

"You HAIN'T?"

"I HAIN'T!" 

Melissa, too, was a waif, and Chad looked at her with a wave of new  affection
and pity. 

"Now, why won't you go back just because you hain't got no daddy an'  mammy?" 

Chad hesitated. There was no use making Melissa unhappy. 

"Oh, I'd just ruther stay hyeh in the mountains," he said,  carelessly--lying
suddenly like the little gentleman that he was--lying as  he knew, and as
Melissa some day would come to know. Then Chad looked at  the little girl a
long while, and in such a queer way that Melissa turned  her face shyly to the
red star. 

"I'm goin' to stay right hyeh. Ain't you glad, Lissy?" 

The little girl turned her eyes shyly back again. "Yes, Chad," she said. 

He would stay in the mountains and work hard; and when he grew up he would 
marry Melissa and they would go away where nobody knew him or her: or they 
would stay right there in the mountains where nobody blamed him for what  he
was nor Melissa for what she was; and he would study law like Caleb  Hazel,
and go to the Legislature--but Melissa! And with the thought of  Melissa in
the mountains came always the thought of dainty Margaret in the  Bluegrass and
the chasm that lay between the two--between Margaret and  him, for that
matter; and when Mother Turner called Melissa from him in  the orchard next
day, Chad lay on his back under an apple-tree, for a long  while, thinking;
and then he whistled for Jack and climbed the spur above  the river where he
could look down on the shadowed water and out to the  clouded heaps of rose
and green and crimson, where the sun was going down  under one faint white
star. Melissa was the glow-worm that, when darkness  came, would be a
watch-fire at his feet--Margaret, the star to which his  eyes were lifted
night and day--and so runs the world. He lay long  watching that star. It hung
almost over the world of which he had dreamed  so long and upon which he had
turned his back forever. Forever? Perhaps,  but he went back home that night
with a trouble in his soul that was not  to pass, and while he sat by the fire
he awoke from the same dream to find  Melissa's big eyes fixed on him, and in
them was a vague trouble that was  more than his own reflected back to him. 

Still the boy went back sturdily to his old life, working in the fields,  busy
about the house and stable, going to school, reading and studying  with the
school-master at nights, and wandering in the woods with Jack and  his rifle.
And he hungered for spring to come again when he should go with  the Turner
boys to take another raft of logs down the river to the  capital. Spring came,
and going out to the back pasture one morning, Chad  found a long-legged,
ungainly creature stumbling awkwardly about his old  mare--a colt! That, too,
he owed the Major, and he would have burst with  pride had he known that the
colt's sire was a famous stallion in the  Bluegrass. That spring he did go
down the river again. He did not let the  Major know he was coming and,
through a nameless shyness, he could not  bring himself to go to see his old
friend and kinsman, but in Lexington,  while he and the school-master were
standing on Cheapside, the Major  whirled around a corner on them in his
carriage, and, as on the turnpike a  year before, old Tom, the driver, called
out: 

"Look dar, Mars Cal!" And there stood Chad. 

"Why, bless my soul! Chad--why, boy! How you have grown!" For Chad had  grown,
and his face was curiously aged and thoughtful. The Major insisted  on taking
him home, and the school-master, too, who went reluctantly. Miss  Lucy was
there, looking whiter and more fragile than ever, and she greeted  Chad with a
sweet kindliness that took the sting from his unjust  remembrance of her. And
what that failure to understand her must have been  Chad better knew when he
saw the embarrassed awe, in her presence, of the  school-master, for whom all
in the mountains had so much reverence. At the  table was Thankyma'am waiting.
Around the quarters and the stable the  pickaninnies and servants seemed to
remember the boy in a kindly genuine  way that touched him, and even Jerome
Conners, the overseer, seemed glad  to see him. The Major was drawn at once to
the grave school-master, and he  had a long talk with him that night. It was
no use, Caleb Hazel said,  trying to persuade the boy to live with the
Major--not yet. And the Major  was more content when he came to know in what
good hands the boy was, and,  down in his heart, he loved the lad the more for
his sturdy independence,  and for the pride that made him shrink from facing
the world with the  shame of his birth; knowing that Chad thought of him
perhaps more than of  himself. Such unwillingness to give others trouble
seemed remarkable in so  young a lad. Not once did the Major mention the Deans
to the boy, and  about them Chad asked no questions--not even when he saw
their carriage  passing the Major's gate. When they came to leave the Major
said: 

"Well, Chad, when that filly of yours is a year old, I'll buy 'em both  from
you, if you'll sell 'em, and I reckon you can come up and go to  school then."


Chad shook his head. Sell that colt? He would as soon have thought of  selling
Jack. But the temptation took root, just the same, then and there,  and grew
steadily until, after another year in the mountains, it grew too  strong. For,
in that year, Chad grew to look the fact of his birth  steadily in the face,
and in his heart grew steadily a proud resolution to  make his way in the
world despite it. It was curious how Melissa came to  know the struggle that
was going on within him and how Chad came to know  that she knew-- though no
word passed between them: more curious still,  how it came with a shock to
Chad one day to realize how little was the  tragedy of his life in comparison
with the tragedy in hers, and to learn  that the little girl with swift vision
had already reached that truth and  with sweet unselfishness had reconciled
herself. He was a boy--he could go  out in the world and conquer it, while her
life was as rigid and straight  before her as though it ran between close
walls of rock as steep and sheer  as the cliff across the river. One thing he
never guessed--what it cost  the little girl to support him bravely in his
purpose, and to stand with  smiling face when the first breath of one sombre
autumn stole through the  hills, and Chad and the school-master left the
Turner home for the  Bluegrass, this time to stay. 

She stood in the doorway after they had waved good-by from the head of the 
river--the smile gone and her face in a sudden dark eclipse. The wise old 
mother went in-doors. Once the girl started through the yard as though she 
would rush after them and stopped at the gate, clinching it hard with both 
hands. As suddenly she became quiet. 

She went in-doors to her work and worked quietly and without a word. Thus  she
did all day while her mind and her heart ached. When she went after  the cows
before sunset she stopped at the barn where Beelzebub had been  tied. She
lifted her eyes to the hay-loft where she and Chad had hunted  for hens' eggs
and played hide-and-seek. She passed through the orchard  where they had
worked and played so many happy hours, and on to the back  pasture where the
Dillon sheep had been killed and she had kept the  Sheriff from shooting Jack.
And she saw and noted everything with a  piteous pain and dry eyes. But she
gave no sign that night, and not until  she was in bed did she with covered
head give way. Then the bed shook with  her smothered sobs. This is the sad
way with women. After the way of men,  Chad proudly marched the old Wilderness
Road that led to a big, bright,  beautiful world where one had but to do and
dare to reach the stars. The  men who had trod that road had made that big
world beyond, and their life  Chad himself had lived so far. Only, where they
had lived he had been  born--in a log cabin. Their weapons--the axe and the
rifle-- had been his.  He had had the same fight with Nature as they. He knew
as well as they  what life in the woods in "a half-faced camp" was. Their rude
sports and  pastimes, their log-rollings, house-raisings, quilting parties, 
corn-huskings, feats of strength, had been his. He had the same lynx eyes,
cool courage, swiftness of foot, readiness of resource that had been trained
into them. His heart was as stout and his life as simple and pure. He was
taking their path and, in the far West, beyond the Bluegrass world where he
was going, he could, if he pleased, take up the same life at the precise point
where they had left off. At sunset, Chad and the school-master stood on the 
summit of the Cumberland foothills and looked over the rolling land with 
little less of a thrill, doubtless, than the first hunters felt when the  land
before them was as much a wilderness as the wilds through which they  had made
their way. Below them a farmhouse shrank half out of sight into a  little
hollow, and toward it they went down. 

The outside world had moved swiftly during the two years that they had  been
buried in the hills as they learned at the farm-house that night.  Already the
national storm was threatening, the air was electrically  charged with alarms,
and already here and there the lightning had flashed.  The underground railway
was busy with black freight, and John Brown,  fanatic, was boldly lifting his
shaggy head. Old Brutus Dean was even  publishing an abolitionist paper at
Lexington, the aristocratic heart of  the State. He was making abolition
speeches throughout the Bluegrass with  a dagger thrust in the table before
him--shaking his black mane and  roaring defiance like a lion. The news
thrilled Chad unaccountably, as did  the shadow of any danger, but it threw
the school-master into gloom. There  was more. A dark little man by the name
of Douglas and a sinewy giant by  the name of Lincoln were thrilling the West.
Phillips and Garrison were  thundering in Massachusetts, and fiery tongues in
the South were flashing  back scornful challenges and threats that would
imperil a nation. An  invisible air-line shot suddenly between the North and
the South, destined  to drop some day and lie a dead-line on the earth, and on
each side of it  two hordes of brothers, who thought themselves two hostile
peoples, were  shrinking away from each other with the half-conscious purpose
of making  ready for a charge. In no other State in the Union was the
fratricidal  character of the coming war to be so marked as in Kentucky, in no
other  State was the national drama to be so fully played to the bitter end. 

That night even, Brutus Dean was going to speak near by, and Chad and  Caleb
Hazel went to hear him. The fierce abolitionist first placed a Bible  before
him. 

"This is for those who believe in religion," he said; then a copy of the 
Constitution: "this for those who believe in the laws and in freedom of 
speech. And this," he thundered, driving a dagger into the table and  leaving
it to quiver there, "is for the rest!" Then he went on and no man  dared to
interrupt. 

And only next day came the rush of wind that heralds the storm. Just  outside
of Lexington Chad and the school-master left the mare and colt at  a
farm-house and with Jack went into town on foot. It was Saturday  afternoon,
the town was full of people, and an excited crowd was pressing  along Main
Street toward Cheapside. The man and the boy followed eagerly.  Cheapside was
thronged--thickest around a frame building that bore a  newspaper sign on
which was the name of Brutus Dean. A man dashed from a  hardware store with an
axe, followed by several others with heavy hammers  in their hands. One swing
of the axe, the door was crashed open and the  crowd went in like wolves.
Shattered windows, sashes and all, flew out  into the street, followed by
showers of type, chair-legs, table-tops, and  then, piece by piece, the
battered cogs, wheels, and forms of a  printing-press. The crowd made little
noise. In fifteen minutes the house  was a shell with gaping windows,
surrounded with a pile of chaotic  rubbish, and the men who had done the work
quietly disappeared. Chad  looked at the school-master for the first time
neither of them had uttered  a word. The school-master's face was white with
anger, his hands were  clinched, and his eyes were so fierce and burning that
the boy was  frightened. 



CHAPTER 15. TO COLLEGE IN THE BLUEGRASS

As the school-master had foretold, there was no room at college for Jack. 
Several times Major Buford took the dog home with him, but Jack would not 
stay. The next morning the dog would turn up at the door of the dormitory 
where Chad and the school-master slept, and as a last resort the boy had  to
send Jack home. So, one Sunday morning Chad led Jack out of the town  for
several miles, and at the top of a high hill pointed toward the  mountains and
sternly told him to go home. And Jack, understanding that  the boy was in
earnest, trotted sadly away with a placard around his neck: 

I own this dog. His name is Jack. He is on his way to Kingdom Come. Please
feed him. Uncle Joel Turner will shoot any man who steels him.  CHAD.

It was no little consolation to Chad to think that the faithful sheep-dog 
would in no small measure repay the Turners for all they had done for him. 
But Jack was the closest link that bound him to the mountains, and  dropping
out of sight behind the crest of the hill, Chad crept to the top  again and
watched Jack until he trotted out of sight, and the link was  broken. Then
Chad went slowly and sorrowfully back to his room. 

It was the smallest room in the dormitory that the school-master had  chosen
for himself and Chad, and in it were one closet, one table, one  lamp, two
chairs and one bed--no more. There were two windows in the  little room--one
almost swept by the branches of a locust-tree and  overlooking the brown-gray
sloping campus and the roofs and  church-steeples of the town--the other
opening to the east on a sweep of  field and woodland over which the sun rose
with a daily message from the  unseen mountains far beyond and toward which
Chad had sent Jack trotting  home. It was a proud day for Chad when Caleb
Hazel took him to  "matriculate"--leading him from one to another of the
professors, who awed  the lad with their preternatural dignity, but it was a
sad blow when he  was told that in everything but mathematics he must go to
the preparatory  department until the second session of the term--the
"kitchen," as it was  called by the students. He bore it bravely, though, and
the school-master  took him down the shady streets to the busy thoroughfare,
where the  official book-store was, and where Chad, with pure ecstasy, caught
his  first new books under one arm and trudged back, bending his head now and 
then to catch the delicious smell of the fresh leaves and print. It was  while
he was standing with his treasures under the big elm at the  turnstile,
looking across the campus at the sundown that two boys came  down the gravel
path. He knew them both at once as Dan and Harry Dean.  Both looked at him
curiously, as he thought, but he saw that neither knew  him and no one spoke.
The sound of wheels came up the street behind him  just then, and a carriage
halted at the turnstile to take them in.  Turning, Chad saw a slender girl
with dark hair and eyes and heard her  call brightly to the boys. He almost
caught his breath at the sound of her  voice, but he kept sturdily on his way,
and the girl's laugh rang in his  ears as it rang the first time he heard it,
was ringing when he reached  his room, ringing when he went to bed that night,
and lay sleepless,  looking through his window at the quiet stars. 

For some time, indeed, no one recognized him, and Chad was glad. Once he  met
Richard Hunt riding with Margaret, and the piercing dark eyes that the  boy
remembered so well turned again to look at him. Chad colored and  bravely met
them with his own, but there was no recognition. And he saw  John
Morgan--Captain John Morgan--at the head of the "Lexington Rifles,"  which he
had just formed from the best blood of the town, as though in  long
preparation for that coming war--saw him and Richard Hunt, as  lieutenant,
drilling them in the campus, and the sight thrilled him as  nothing else,
except Margaret, had ever done. Many times he met the Dean  brothers on the
playground and in the streets, but there was no sign that  he was known until
he was called to the blackboard one day in geometry,  the only course in which
he had not been sent to the "kitchen." Then Chad  saw Harry turn quickly when
the professor called his name. Confused though  he was for a moment, he gave
his demonstration in his quaint speech with  perfect clearness and without
interruption from the professor, who gave  the boy a keen look as he said,
quietly: 

"Very good, sir!" And Harry could see his fingers tracing in his  class-book
the figures that meant a perfect recitation. 

"How are you, Chad?" he said in the hallway afterward. 

"Howdye!" said Chad, shaking the proffered hand. 

"I didn't know you--you've grown so tall. Didn't you know me?" 

"Yes." 

"Then why didn't you speak to me?" 

"'Cause you didn't know ME." 

Harry laughed. "Well, that isn't fair. See you again." 

"All right," said Chad. 

That very afternoon Chad met Dan in a football game--an old-fashioned  game,
in which there were twenty or thirty howling lads on each side and  nobody
touched the ball except with his foot--met him so violently that,  clasped in
each other's arms, they tumbled to the ground. 

"Leggo!" said Dan. 

"S'pose you leggo!" said Chad. 

As Dan started after the ball he turned to look at Chad and after the game  he
went up to him. 

"Why, aren't you the boy who was out at Major Buford's once?" 

"Yes." Dan thrust out his hand and began to laugh. So did Chad, and each  knew
that the other was thinking of the tournament. 

"In college?" 

"Math'matics," said Chad. "I'm in the kitchen fer the rest." 

"Oh!" said Dan. "Where you living?" Chad pointed to the dormitory, and  again
Dan said "Oh!" in a way that made Chad flush, but added, quickly: 

"You better play on our side to-morrow." 

Chad looked at his clothes--foot-ball seemed pretty hard on clothes--"I  don't
know," he said--"mebbe."

It was plain that neither of the boys was holding anything against Chad,  but
neither had asked the mountain lad to come to see him--an omission  that was
almost unforgivable according to Chad's social ethics. So Chad  proudly went
into his shell again, and while the three boys met often, no  intimacy
developed. Often he saw them with Margaret, on the street, in a  carriage or
walking with a laughing crowd of boys and girls; on the  porticos of old
houses or in the yards; and, one night, Chad saw, through  the wide-open door
of a certain old house on the corner of Mill and Market  Streets, a party
going on; and Margaret, all in white, dancing, and he  stood in the shade of
the trees opposite with new pangs shooting through  him and went back to his
room in desolate loneliness, but with a new grip  on his resolution that his
own day should yet come. 

Steadily the boy worked, forging his way slowly but surely toward the head  of
his class in the "kitchen," and the school-master helped him  unwearyingly.
And it was a great help--mental and spiritual--to be near  the stern Puritan,
who loved the boy as a brother and was ever ready to  guide him with counsel
and aid him with his studies. In time the Major  went to the president to ask
him about Chad, and that august dignitary  spoke of the lad in a way that made
the Major, on his way through the  campus, swish through the grass with his
cane in great satisfaction. He  always spoke of the boy now as his adopted son
and, whenever it was  possible, he came in to take Chad out home to spend
Sunday with him; but,  being a wise man and loving Chad's independence, he let
the boy have his  own way. He had bought the filly--and would hold her, he
said, until Chad  could buy her back, and he would keep the old nag as a
broodmare and would  divide profits with Chad--to all of which the boy agreed.
The question of  the lad's birth was ignored between them, and the Major
rarely spoke to  Chad of the Deans, who were living in town during the winter,
nor  questioned him about Dan or Harry or Margaret. But Chad had found out 
where the little girl went to church, and every Sunday, despite Caleb  Hazel's
protest, he would slip into the Episcopal church, with a queer 
feeling--little Calvinist of the hills that he was that it was not quite 
right for him even to enter that church; and he would watch the little  girl
come in with her family and, after the queer way of these  "furriners," kneel
first in prayer. And there, with soul uplifted by the  dim rich light and the
peal of the organ, he would sit watching her;  rising when she rose, watching
the light from the windows on her shining  hair and sweet-spirited face,
watching her reverent little head bend in obeisance to the name of the Master,
though he kept his own held straight, for no Popery like that was for him.
Always, however, he would slip out before the service was quite over and never
wait even to see her come out of church. He was too proud for that and,
anyhow, it made him lonely to see the people greeting one another and chatting
and going off home together when there was not a  soul to speak to him. It was
just one such Sunday that they came face to  face for the first time. Chad had
gone down the street after leaving the  church, had changed his mind and was
going back to his room. People were  pouring from the church, as he went by,
but Chad did not even look across.  A clatter rose behind him and he turned to
see a horse and rockaway coming  at a gallop up the street, which was narrow.
The negro driver, frightened  though he was, had sense enough to pull his
running horse away from the  line of vehicles in front of the church so that
the beast stumbled against  the curb-stone, crashed into a tree, and dropped
struggling in the gutter  below another line of vehicles waiting on the other
side of the street.  Like lightning, Chad leaped and landed full length on the
horse's head and  was tossed violently to and fro, but he held on until the
animal lay  still. 

"Unhitch the hoss," he called, sharply. 

"Well, that was pretty quick work for a boy," said a voice across the  street
that sounded familiar, and Chad looked across to see General Dean  and
Margaret watching him. The boy blushed furiously when his eyes met  Margaret's
and he thought he saw her start slightly, but he lowered his  eyes and hurried
away. 

It was only a few days later that, going up from town toward the campus,  he
turned a corner and there was Margaret alone and moving slowly ahead of  him.
Hearing his steps she turned her head to see who it was, but Chad  kept his
eyes on the ground and passed her without looking up. And thus he  went on,
although she was close behind him, across the street and to the  turnstile. As
he was passing through, a voice rose behind him: 

"You aren't very polite, little boy." He turned quickly--Margaret had not 
gone around the corner: she, too, was coming through the campus and there  she
stood, grave and demure, though her eyes were dancing. 

"My mamma says a NICE little boy always lets a little GIRL go FIRST." 

"I didn't know you was comin' through." 

"Was comin' through!" Margaret made a little face as though to say--"Oh, 
dear." 

"I said I didn't know you were coming through this way." 

Margaret shook her head. "No," she said; "no, you didn't." 

"Well, that's what I meant to say." Chad was having a hard time with his 
English. He had snatched his cap from his head, had stepped back outside  the
stile and was waiting to turn it for her. Margaret passed through and  waited
where the paths forked. 

"Are you going up to the college?" she asked. 

"I was--but I ain't now--if you'll let me walk a piece with you." He was 
scarlet with confusion--a tribute that Chad rarely paid his kind. His way  of
talking was very funny, to be sure, but had she not heard her father  say that
"the poor little chap had had no chance in life;" and Harry, that  some day he
would be the best in his class? 

"Aren't you--Chad?" 

"Yes--ain't you Margaret--Miss Margaret?" 

"Yes, I'm Margaret." She was pleased with the hesitant title and the boy's 
halting reverence. 

"An' I called you a little gal." Margaret's laugh tinkled in merry 
remembrance. "An' you wouldn't take my fish." 

"I can't bear to touch them." 

"I know," said Chad, remembering Melissa. 

They passed a boy who knew Chad, but not Margaret. The lad took off his  hat,
but Chad did not lift his; then a boy and a girl and, when only the  two girls
spoke, the other boy lifted his hat, though he did not speak to  Margaret.
Still Chad's hat was untouched and when Margaret looked up,  Chad's face was
red with confusion again. But it never took the boy long  to learn and,
thereafter, during the walk his hat came off unfailingly.  Everyone looked at
the two with some surprise and Chad noticed that the  little girl's chin was
being lifted higher and higher. His intuition told  him what the matter was,
and when they reached the stile across the campus  and Chad saw a crowd of
Margaret's friends coming down the street, he  halted as if to turn back, but
the little girl told him imperiously to  come on. It was a strange escort for
haughty Margaret--the country-looking  boy, in coarse homespun--but Margaret
spoke cheerily to her friends and  went on, looking up at Chad and talking to
him as though he were the  dearest friend she had on earth. 

At the edge of town she suggested that they walk across a pasture and go  back
by another street, and not until they were passing through the  woodland did
Chad come to himself. 

"You know I didn't rickollect when you called me 'little boy.'" 

"Indeed!" 

"Not at fust, I mean," stammered Chad. 

Margaret grew mock-haughty and Chad grew grave. He spoke very slowly and 
steadily. "I reckon I rickollect ever'thing that happened out thar a sight 
better'n you. I ain't forgot nothin'--anything." 

The boy's sober and half-sullen tone made Margaret catch her breath with a 
sudden vague alarm. 

Unconsciously she quickened her pace, but, already, she was mistress of an 
art to which she was born and she said, lightly: 

"Now, that's MUCH better." A piece of pasteboard dropped from Chad's  jacket
just then, and, taking the little girl's cue to swerve from the  point at
issue, he picked it up and held it out for Margaret to read. It  was the first
copy of the placard which he had tied around Jack's neck  when he sent him
home, and it set Margaret to laughing and asking  questions. Before he knew it
Chad was telling her about Jack and the  mountains; how he had run away; about
the Turners and about Melissa and  coming down the river on a raft--all he had
done and all he meant to do.  And from looking at Chad now and then, Margaret
finally kept her eyes  fixed on his--and thus they stood when they reached the
gate, while crows  flew cawing over them and the air grew chill. 

"And did Jack go home?" 

Chad laughed. 

"No, he didn't. He come back, and I had to hide fer two days. Then,  because
he couldn't find me he did go, thinking I had gone back to the  mountains,
too. He went to look fer me." 

"Well, if he comes back again I'll ask my papa to get them to let you keep 
Jack at college," said Margaret. 

Chad shook his head.

"Then I'll keep him for you myself." The boy looked his gratitude, but  shook
his head again. 

"He won't stay." 

Margaret asked for the placard again as they moved down the street. 

"You've got it spelled wrong," she said, pointing to "steel." Chad  blushed.
"I can't spell when I write," he said. "I can't even  talk--right." 

"But you'll learn," she said. 

"Will you help me?" 

"Yes." 

"Tell me when I say things wrong?" 

"Yes." 

"Where'm I goin' to see you?" 

Margaret shook her head thoughtfully: then the reason for her speaking  first
to Chad came out. 

"Papa and I saw you on Sunday, and papa said you must be very strong as  well
as brave, and that you knew something about horses. Harry told us who  you
were when papa described you, and then I remembered. Papa told Harry  to bring
you to see us. And you must come," she said, decisively. 

They had reached the turnstile at the campus again. 

"Have you had any more tournaments?" asked Margaret. 

"No," said Chad, apprehensively. 

"Do you remember the last thing I said to you?" 

"I rickollect that better'n anything," said Chad. 

"Well, I didn't hate you. I'm sorry I said that," she said gently. Chad 
looked very serious. 

"That's all right," he said. "I seed--I saw you on Sunday, too." 

"Did you know me?" 

"I reckon I did. And that wasn't the fust time." Margaret's eyes were  opening
with surprise. 

"I been goin' to church ever' Sunday fer nothin' else but just to see  you."
Again his tone gave her vague alarm, but she asked: 

"Why didn't you speak to me?" 

They were nearing the turnstile across the campus now, and Chad did not 
answer. 

"Why didn't you speak to me?" 

Chad stopped suddenly, and Margaret looked quickly at him, and saw that  his
face was scarlet. The little girl started and her own face flamed.  There was
one thing she had forgotten, and even now she could not recall  what it
was--only that it was something terrible she must not know--old  Mammy's words
when Dan was carried in senseless after the tournament.  Frightened and
helpless, she shrank toward the turnstile, but Chad did not  wait. With his
cap in his hand, he turned abruptly, without a sound, and  strode away. 



CHAPTER 16. AGAIN THE BAR SINISTER

And yet, the next time Chad saw Margaret, she spoke to him shyly but
cordially, and when he did not come near her, she stopped him on the street
one day and reminded him of his promise to come and see them. And Chad knew
the truth at once--that she had never asked her father about him, but had not
wanted to know what she had been told she must not know, and had properly
taken it for granted that her father would not ask Chad to his house, if there
were a good reason why he should not come. But Chad did not go even to the
Christmas party that Margaret gave in town, though the Major urged him. He
spent Christmas with the Major, and he did go to a country party, where the
Major was delighted with the boy's grace and agility dancing the quadrille,
and where the lad occasioned no little amusement with his improvisations in
the way of cutting pigeon's wings and shuffling, which he had learned in the
mountains. So the Major made him accept a loan and buy a suit for social
purposes after Christmas, and had him go to Madam Blake's dancing school, and
promise to go to the next party to which he was asked. And that Chad did--to
the big gray house on the corner, through whose widespread doors his longing
eyes had watched Margaret and her friends flitting like butterflies months
before.

It intoxicated the boy--the lights, music, flowers, the little girls in
white--and Margaret. For the first time he met her friends, Nellie Hunt,
sister to Richard; Elizabeth Morgan, cousin to John Morgan; and Miss Jennie
Overstreet, who, young as she was, wrote poems--but Chad had eyes only for
Margaret. It was while he was dancing a quadrille with her, that he noticed a
tall, pale youth with black hair, glaring at him, and he recognized Georgie
Forbes, a champion of Margaret, and the old enemy who had caused his first
trouble in his new home. Chad laughed with fearless gladness, and Margaret
tossed her head. It was Georgie now who blackened and spread the blot on
Chad's good name, and it was Georgie to whom Chad--fast learning the ways of
gentlemen--promptly sent a pompous challenge, that the difficulty might be
settled "in any way the gentleman saw fit." Georgie insultingly declined to
fight with one who was not his equal, and Chad boxed his jaws in the presence
of a crowd, floored him with one blow, and contemptuously twisted his nose.
Thereafter open comment ceased. Chad was making himself known. He was the
swiftest runner on the football field; he had the quickest brain in
mathematics; he was elected to the Periclean Society, and astonished his
fellow-members with a fiery denunciation of the men who banished Napoleon to
St. Helena--so fiery was it, indeed, that his opponents themselves began to
wonder how that crime had ever come to pass. He would fight at the drop of a
hat, and he always won; and by-and-by the boy began to take a fierce joy in
battling his way upward against a block that would have crushed a weaker soul.
It was only with Margaret that that soul was in awe. He began to love her with
a pure reverence that he could never know at another age. Every Saturday
night, when dusk fell, he was mounting the steps of her house. Every Sunday
morning he was waiting to take her home from church. Every afternoon he looked
for her, hoping to catch sight of her on the streets, and it was only when Dan
and Harry got indignant, and after Margaret had made a passionate defence of
Chad in the presence of the family, that the General and Mrs. Dean took the
matter in hand. It was a childish thing, of course; a girlish whim. It was
right that they should be kind to the boy--for Major Buford's sake, if not for
his own; but they could not have even the pretence of more than a friendly
intimacy between the two, and so Margaret was told the truth. Immediately,
when Chad next saw her, her honest eyes sadly told him that she knew the
truth, and Chad gave up then. Thereafter he disappeared from sports and from
his kind every way, except in the classroom and in the debating hall. Sullenly
he stuck to his books. From five o'clock in the morning until ten o'clock at
night, he was at them steadily, in his room, or at recitation except for an
hour's walk with the school-master and the three half-hours that his meals
kept him away. He grew so pale and thin that the Major and Caleb Hazel were
greatly worried, but protest from both was useless. Before the end of the term
he had mounted into college in every study, and was holding his own. At the
end he knew his power--knew what he COULD do, and his face was set, for his
future, dauntless. When vacation came, he went at once to the Major's farm,
but not to be idle. In a week or two he was taking some of the reins into his
own hands as a valuable assistant to the Major. He knew a good horse, could
guess the weight of a steer with surprising accuracy, and was a past master in
knowledge of sheep. By instinct he was canny at a trade--what mountaineer is
not?--and he astonished the Major with the shrewd deals he made. Authority
seemed to come naturally to him, and the Major swore that he could get more
work out of the "hands" than the overseer himself, who sullenly resented
Chad's interference, but dared not open his lips. Not once did he go to the
Deans', and neither Harry nor Dan came near him. There was little intercourse
between the Major and the General, as well; for, while the Major could not,
under the circumstances, blame the General, inconsistently, he could not quite
forgive him, and the line of polite coolness between the neighbors was never
overstepped. At the end of July, Chad went to the mountains to see the Turners
and Jack and Melissa. He wore his roughest clothes, put on no airs, and, to
all eyes, save Melissa's, he was the same old Chad. But feminine subtlety
knows no social or geographical lines, and while Melissa knew what had
happened as well as Chad, she never let him see that she knew. Apparently she
was giving open encouragement to Dave Hilton, a tawny youth from down the
river, who was hanging, dog-like, about the house, and foolish Chad began to
let himself dream of Margaret with a light heart. On the third day before he
was to go back to the Bluegrass, a boy came from over Black Mountain with a
message from old Nathan Cherry. Old Nathan had joined the church, had fallen
ill, and, fearing he was going to die, wanted to see Chad. Chad went over with
curious premonitions that were not in vain, and he came back with a strange
story that he told only to old Joel, under promise that he would never make it
known to Melissa. Then he started for the Bluegrass, going over Pine Mountain
and down through Cumberland Gap. He would come back every year of his life, he
told Melissa and the Turners, but Chad knew he was bidding a last farewell to
the life he had known in the mountains. At Melissa's wish and old Joel's, he
left Jack behind, though he sorely wanted to take the dog with him. It was
little enough for him to do in return for their kindness, and he could see
that Melissa's affection for Jack was even greater than his own: and how
incomparably lonelier than his life was the life that she must lead! This time
Melissa did not rush to the yard gate when he was gone. She sank slowly where
she stood to the steps of the porch, and there she sat stone-still. Old Joel
passed her on the way to the barn. Several times the old mother walked to the
door behind her, and each time starting to speak, stopped and turned back, but
the girl neither saw nor heard them. Jack trotted by, whimpering. He sat down
in front of her, looking up at her unseeing eyes, and it was only when he
crept to her and put his head in her lap, that she put her arms around him and
bent her own head down; but no tears came.



CHAPTER 17. CHADWICK BUFORD, GENTLEMAN

And so, returned to the Bluegrass, the midsummer of that year, Chadwick Buford
gentleman. A youth of eighteen, with the self-possession of a man, and a pair
of level, clear eyes, that looked the world in the face as proudly as ever but
with no defiance and no secret sense of shame It was a curious story that Chad
brought back and told to the Major, on the porch under the honeysuckle vines,
but it seemed to surprise the Major very little: how old Nathan had sent for
him to come to his death-bed and had told Chad that he was no foundling; that
one of his farms belonged to the boy; that he had lied to the Major about
Chad's mother, who was a lawful wife, in order to keep the land for himself;
how old Nathan had offered to give back the farm, or pay him the price of it
in livestock, and how, at old Joel's advice he had taken the stock and turned
the stock into money. How, after he had found his mother's grave, his first
act had been to take up the rough bee-gum coffin that held her remains, and
carry it down the river, and bury her where she had the right to lie, side by
side with her grandfather and his--the old gentleman who slept in wig and
peruke on the hill-side--that her good name and memory should never again
suffer insult from any living tongue. It was then that Major took Chad by the
shoulders roughly, and, with tears in his eyes, swore that he would have no
more nonsense from the boy; that Chad was flesh of his flesh and bone of his
bone; that he would adopt him and make him live where he belonged, and break
his damned pride. And it was then that Chad told him how gladly he would come,
now that he could bring him an untarnished name. And the two walked together
down to the old family graveyard, where the Major said that the two in the
mountains should be brought some day and where the two brothers who had parted
nearly fourscore years ago could, side by side, await Judgment Day.

When they went back into the house the Major went to the sideboard.

"Have a drink, Chad?"

Chad laughed: "Do you think it will stunt my growth?"

"Stand up here, and let's see," said the Major.

The two stood up, back to back, in front of a long mirror, and Chad's shaggy
hair rose at least an inch above the Major's thin locks of gray. The Major
turned and looked at him from head to foot with affectionate pride.

"Six feet in your socks, to the inch, without that hair. I reckon it won't
stunt you--not now."

"All right," laughed Chad, "then I'll take that drink." And together they
drank.

Thus, Chadwick Buford, gentleman, after the lapse of three-quarters of a
century, came back to his own: and what that own, at that day and in that
land, was!

It was the rose of Virginia, springing, in full bloom, from new and richer
soil--a rose of a deeper scarlet and a stronger stem: and the big village
where the old University reared its noble front was the very heart of that
rose. There were the proudest families, the stateliest homes, the broadest
culture, the most gracious hospitality, the gentlest courtesies, the finest
chivalry, that the State has ever known. There lived the political idols;
there, under the low sky, rose the memorial shaft to Clay. There had lived
beaux and belles, memories of whom hang still about the town, people it with
phantom shapes, and give an individual or a family here and there a subtle
distinction to-day. There the grasp of Calvinism was most lax. There were the
dance, the ready sideboard, the card table, the love of the horse and the dog,
and but little passion for the game-cock. There were as manly virtues, as
manly vices, as the world has ever known. And there, love was as far from lust
as heaven from hell.

It was on the threshold of this life that Chad stood. Kentucky had given birth
to the man who was to uphold the Union--birth to the man who would seek to
shatter it. Fate had given Chad the early life of one, and like blood with the
other; and, curiously enough, in his own short life, he already epitomized the
social development of the nation, from its birth in a log cabin to its swift
maturity behind the columns of a Greek portico. Against the uncounted
generations of gentlepeople that ran behind him to sunny England, how little
could the short sleep of three in the hills count! It may take three
generations to make a gentleman, but one is enough, if the blood be there, the
heart be right, and the brain and hand come early under discipline.

It was to General Dean that the Major told Chad's story first. The two old
friends silently grasped hands, and the cloud between them passed like mist.

"Bring him over to dinner on Saturday, Cal--you and Miss Lucy, won't you? Some
people are coming out from town." In making amends, there was no half-way with
General Dean.

"I will," said the Major, "gladly."

The cool of the coming autumn was already in the air that Saturday when Miss
Lucy and the Major and Chad, in the old carriage, with old Tom as driver and
the pickaninny behind, started for General Dean's. The Major was beautiful to
behold, in his flowered waistcoat, his ruffled shirt, white trousers strapped
beneath his highly polished, high-heeled boots, high hat and frock coat, with
only the lowest button fastened, in order to rive a glimpse of that wonderful
waistcoat, just as that, too, was unbuttoned at the top that the ruffles might
peep out upon the world. Chad's raiment, too, was a Solomon's--for him. He had
protested, but in vain; and he, too, wore white trousers with straps,
high-heeled boots, and a wine-colored waistcoat and slouch hat, and a brave,
though very conscious, figure he made, with his tall body, well-poised head,
strong shoulders and thick hair. It was a rare thing for Miss Lucy to do, but
the old gentlewoman could not resist the Major, and she, too, rode in state
with them, smiling indulgently at the Major's quips, and now, kindly, on Chad.
A drowsy peace lay over the magnificent woodlands, unravaged then except for
firewood; the seared pastures, just beginning to show green again for the
second spring; the flashing creek, the seas of still hemp and yellow corn. and
Chad saw a wistful shadow cross Miss Lucy's pale face, and a darker one
anxiously sweep over he Major's jesting lips.

Guests were arriving, when they entered the yard gate, and guests were coming
behind them. General and Mrs. Dean were receiving them on the porch, and Harry
and Dan were helping the ladies out of their carriages, while, leaning against
one of the columns, in pure white, was the graceful figure of Margaret. That
there could ever have been any feeling in any member of the family other than
simple, gracious kindliness toward him, Chad could neither see nor feel. At
once every trace of embarrassment in him was gone, and he could but wonder at
the swift justice done him in a way that was so simple and effective. Even
with Margaret there was no trace of consciousness. The past was wiped clean of
all save courtesy and kindness. There were the Hunts--Nellie, and the
Lieutenant of the Lexington Rifles, Richard Hunt, a dauntless-looking dare-
devil, with the ready tongue of a coffee-house wit and the grace of a
cavalier. There was Elizabeth Morgan, to whom Harry's grave eyes were always
wandering, and Miss Jennie Overstreet, who was romantic and openly now wrote
poems for the Observer, and who looked at Chad with no attempt to conceal her
admiration of his appearance and her wonder as to who he was. And there were
the neighbors roundabout--the Talbotts, Quisenberrys, Clays, Prestons,
Morgans--surely no less than forty strong, and all for dinner. It was no
little trial for Chad in that crowd of fine ladies, judges, soldiers, lawyers,
statesmen--but he stood it well. While his self-consciousness made him
awkward, he had pronounced dignity of bearing; his diffidence emphasized his
modesty, and he had the good sense to stand and keep still. Soon they were at
table--and what a table and what a dinner that was! The dining-room was the
biggest and sunniest room in the house; its walls covered with hunting prints,
pictures of game and stag heads. The table ran the length of it. The snowy
tablecloth hung almost to the floor. At the head sat Mrs. Dean, with a great
tureen of calf's head soup in front of her. Before the General was the saddle
of venison that was to follow, drenched in a bottle of ancient Madeira, and
flanked by flakes of red-currant jelly. Before the Major rested broiled wild
ducks, on which he could show his carving skill--on game as well as men. A
great turkey supplanted the venison, and last to come, and before Richard
Hunt, Lieutenant of the Rifles, was a Kentucky ham. That ham! Mellow, aged,
boiled in champagne, baked brown, spiced deeply, rosy pink within, and of a
flavor and fragrance to shatter the fast of a Pope; and without, a brown-edged
white layer, so firm that the lieutenant's deft carving knife, passing
through, gave no hint to the eye that it was delicious fat. There had been
merry jest and laughter and banter and gallant compliment before, but it was
Richard Hunt's turn now, and story after story he told, as the rose-flakes
dropped under his knife in such thin slices that their edges coiled. It was
full half an hour before the carver and story-teller were done. After that ham
the tablecloth was lifted, and the dessert spread on another lying beneath;
then that, too, was raised, and the nuts and wines were placed on a third--red
damask this time.

Then came the toasts: to the gracious hostess from Major Buford; to Miss Lucy
from General Dean; from valiant Richard Hunt to blushing Margaret, and then
the ladies were gone, and the talk was politics--the election of Lincoln,
slavery, disunion.

"If Lincoln is elected, no power but God's can avert war," said Richard Hunt,
gravely.

Dan's eyes flashed. "Will you take me?"

The lieutenant lifted his glass. "Gladly, my boy."

"Kentucky's convictions are with the Union; her kinship and sympathies with
the South," said a deep-voiced lawyer. "She must remain neutral."

"Straddling the fence," said the Major, sarcastically.

"No; to avert the war, if possible, or to act the peacemaker when the tragedy
is over."

"Well, I can see Kentuckians keeping out of a fight," laughed the General, and
he looked around. Three out of five of the men present had been in the Mexican
war. The General had been wounded at Cerro Gordo, and the Major had brought
his dead home in leaden coffins.

"The fanatics of Boston, the hot-heads of South Carolina--they are making the
mischief."

"And New England began with slavery," said the lawyer again.

"And naturally, with that conscience that is a national calamity, was the
first to give it up," said Richard Hunt, "when the market price of slaves fell
to sixpence a pound in the open Boston markets." There was an incredulous
murmur.

"Oh, yes," said Hunt, easily, "I can show you advertisements in Boston papers
of slaves for sale at sixpence a pound."

Perhaps it never occurred to a soul present that the word "slave" was never
heard in that region except in some such way. With Southerners, the negroes
were "our servants" or "our people"--never slaves. Two lads at that table were
growing white--Chad and Harry--and Chad's lips opened first.

"I don't think slavery has much to do with the question, really," he said,
"not even with Mr. Lincoln." The silent surprise that followed the boy's
embarrassed statement ended in a gasp of astonishment when Harry leaned across
the table and said, hotly:

"Slavery has EVERYTHING to do with the question."

The Major looked bewildered; the General frowned, and the keen-eyed lawyer
spoke again:

"The struggle was written in the Constitution. The framers evaded it. Logic
leads one way as well as another and no man can logically blame another for
the way he goes."

"No more politics now, gentlemen," said the General quickly. "We will join the
ladies. Harry," he added, with some sternness, "lead the way!"

As the three boys rose, Chad lifted his glass. His face was pale and his lips
trembled.

"May I propose a toast, General Dean?"

"Why, certainly," said the General, kindly.

"I want to drink to one man but for whom I might be in a log cabin now, and
might have died there for all I know--my friend and, thank God! my
kinsman--Major Buford."

It was irregular and hardly in good taste, but the boy had waited till the
ladies were gone, and it touched the Major that he should want to make such a
public acknowledgment that there should be no false colors in the flag he
meant henceforth to bear.

The startled guests drank blindly to the confused Major, though they knew not
why, but as the lads disappeared the lawyer asked:

"Who is that boy, Major?"

Outside, the same question had been asked among the ladies and the same story
told. The three girls remembered him vaguely, they said, and when Chad
reappeared, in the eyes of the poetess at least, the halo of romance floated
above his head.

She was waiting for Chad when he came out on the porch, and she shook her
curls and flashed her eyes in a way that almost alarmed him. Old Mammy dropped
him a curtsey, for she had had her orders, and, behind her, Snowball, now a
tall, fine-looking coal-black youth, grinned a welcome. The three girls were
walking under the trees, with their arms mysteriously twined about one
anther's waists, and the poetess walked down toward them with the three lads,
Richard Hunt following. Chad could not know how it happened, but, a moment
later, Dan was walking away with Nellie Hunt one way; Harry with Elizabeth
Morgan the other; the Lieutenant had Margaret alone, and Miss Overstreet was
leading him away, raving meanwhile about the beauty of field and sky. As they
went toward the gate he could not help flashing one look toward the pair under
the fir tree. An amused smile was playing under the Lieutenant's beautiful
mustache, his eyes were dancing with mischief, and Margaret was blushing with
anything else than displeasure.

"Oho!" he said, as Chad and his companion passed on. "Sits the wind in that
corner? Bless me, if looks could kill, I'd have a happy death here at your
feet, Mistress Margaret. SEE the young man! It's the second time he has almost
slain me."

Chad could scarcely hear Miss Jennie's happy chatter, scarcely saw the shaking
curls, the eyes all but in a frenzy of rolling. His eyes were in the back of
his head, and his backward-listening ears heard only Margaret's laugh behind
him.

"Oh, I do love the autumn"--it was at the foot of those steps, thought Chad,
that he first saw Margaret springing to the back of her pony and dashing off
under the fir trees--" and it's coming. There's one scarlet leaf
already"--Chad could see the rock fence where he had sat that spring day--
"it's curious and mournful that you can see in any season a sign of the next
to come." And there was the creek where he found Dan fishing, and there the
road led to the ford where Margaret had spurned his offer of a slimy
fish--ugh!" I do love the autumn. It makes me feel like the young woman who
told Emerson that she had such mammoth thoughts she couldn't give them
utterance--why, wake up, Mr. Buford, wake up!" Chad came to with a start.

"Do you know you aren't very polite, Mr. Buford?" Mr. Buford! That did sound
funny.

"But I know what the matter is," she went on. "I saw you look"--she nodded her
head backward. "Can you keep a secret?" Chad nodded; he had not yet opened his
lips.

"Thae's going to be a match back there. He's only a few years older. The
French say that a woman should be half a man's age plus seven years. That
would make her only a few years too young, and she can wait." Chad was scarlet
under the girl's mischievous torture, but a cry from the house saved him. Dan
was calling them back.

"Mr. Hunt has to go back early to drill the Rifles. Can you keep another
secret?" Again Chad nodded gravely. "Well, he is going to drive me back. I'll
tell him what a dangerous rival he has." Chad was dumb; there was much yet for
him to learn before he could parry with a tongue like hers.

"He's very good-looking," said Miss Jennie, when she joined the girls, "but
oh, so stupid."

Margaret turned quickly and unsuspiciously. "Stupid! Why, he's the first man
in his class."

"Oh," said Miss Jennie, with a demure smile, "perhaps I couldn't draw him
out," and Margaret flushed to have caught the deftly tossed bait so readily.

A moment later the Lieutenant was gathering up the reins, with Miss Jennie by
his side. He gave a bow to Margaret, and Miss Jennie nodded to Chad.

"Come see me when you come to town, Mr. Buford," she called, as though to an
old friend, and still Chad was dumb, though he lifted his hat gravely.

At no time was Chad alone with Margaret, and he was not sorry--her manner so
puzzled him. The three lads and three girls walked together through Mrs.
Dean's garden with its grass walks and flower beds and vegetable patches
surrounded with rose bushes. At the lower edge they could see the barn with
sheep in the yard around it, and there were the very stiles where Harry and
Margaret had sat in state when Dan and Chad were charging in the tournament.
The thing might never have happened for any sign from Harry or Dan or
Margaret, and Chad began to wonder if his past or his present were a dream.

How fine this courtesy was Chad could not realize. Neither could he know that
the favor Margaret had shown him when he was little more than outcast he must
now, as an equal, win for himself. Miss Jennie had called him "Mr. Buford." He
wondered what Margaret would call him when he came to say good-by. She called
him nothing. She only smiled at him.

"You must come to see us soon again," she said, graciously, and so said all
the Deans.

The Major was quiet going home, and Miss Lucy drowsed. All evening the Major
was quiet.

"If a fight does come," he said, when they were going to bed, "I reckon I'm
not too old to take a hand."

"And I reckon I'm not too young," said Chad.



CHAPTER 18. THE SPIRIT OF '76 AND THE SHADOW OF '61

One night, in the following April, there was a great dance in Lexington. Next
day the news of Sumter came. Chad pleaded to be let off from the dance, but
the Major would not hear of it. It was a fancy-dress ball, and the Major had a
pet purpose of his own that he wanted gratified and Chad had promised to aid
him. That fancy was that Chad should go in regimentals, as the stern, old
soldier on the wall, of whom the Major swore the boy was the "spit and image."
The Major himself helped Chad dress in wig, peruke, stock, breeches, boots,
spurs, cocked hat, sword and all. And then he led the boy down into the
parlor, where Miss Lucy was waiting for them, and stood him up on one side of
the portrait. To please the old fellow, Chad laughingly struck the attitude of
the pictured soldier, and the Major cried:

"What'd I tell you, Lucy!" Then he advanced and made a low bow.

"General Buford," he said, "General Washington's compliments, and will General
Buford plant the flag on that hill where the left wing of the British is
entrenched?"

"Hush, Cal," said Miss Lucy, laughing.

"General Buford's compliments to General Washington. General Buford will plant
that flag on ANY hill that ANY enemy holds against it."

The lad's face paled as the words, by some curious impulse, sprang to his
lips, but the unsuspecting Major saw no lurking significance in his manner,
nor in what he said, and then there was a rumble of carriage wheels at the
door.

The winter had sped swiftly. Chad had done his work in college only fairly
well, for Margaret had been a disturbing factor. The girl was an impenetrable
mystery to him, for the past between them was not only wiped clean--it seemed
quite gone. Once only had he dared to open his lips about the old days, and
the girl's flushed silence made a like mistake forever impossible. He came and
went at the Deans' as he pleased. Always they were kind, courteous,
hospitable--no more, no less, unvaryingly. During the Christmas holidays he
and Margaret had had a foolish quarrel, and it was then that Chad took his
little fling at his little world--a fling that was foolish, but harmful,
chiefly in that it took his time and his mind and his energy from his work. He
not only neglected his studies, but he fell in with the wild young bucks of
the town, learned to play cards, took more wine than was good for him
sometimes, was on the verge of several duels, and night after night raced home
in his buggy against the coming dawn. Though Miss Lucy looked worried, the
indulgent old Major made no protest. Indeed he was rather pleased. Chad was
sowing his wild oats--it was in the blood, and the mood would pass. It did
pass, naturally enough, on the very day that the breach between him and
Margaret was partly healed; and the heart of Caleb Hazel, whom Chad, for
months, had not dared to face, was made glad when the boy came back to him
remorseful and repentant--the old Chad once more.

They were late in getting to the dance. Every window in the old Hunt home was
brilliant with light. Chinese lanterns swung in the big yard. The scent of
early spring flowers smote the fresh night air. Music and the murmur of nimble
feet and happy laughter swept out the wide-open doors past which white figures
flitted swiftly. Scarcely anybody knew Chad in his regimentals, and the Major,
with the delight of a boy, led him around, gravely presenting him as General
Buford here and there. Indeed, the lad made a noble figure with his superb
height and bearing, and he wore sword and spurs as though born to them.
Margaret was dancing with Richard Hunt when she saw his eyes searching for her
through the room, and she gave him a radiant smile that almost stunned him.
She had been haughty and distant when he went to her to plead forgiveness: she
had been too hard. and Margaret, too, was repentant.

"Why, who's that?" asked Richard Hunt. "Oh, yes," he added, getting his answer
from Margaret's face. "Bless me, but he's fine--the very spirit of '76. I must
have him in the Rifles."

"Will you make him a lieutenant?" asked Margaret.

"Why, yes, I will," said Mr. Hunt, decisively. "I'll resign myself in his
favor, if it pleases you."

"Oh, no, no--no one could fill your place."

"Well, he can, I fear--and here he comes to do it. I'll have to retreat some
time, and I suppose I'd as well begin now." And the gallant gentleman bowed to
Chad.

"Will you pardon me, Miss Margaret? My mother is calling me."

"You must have keen ears," said Margaret; "your mother is upstairs."

"Yes; but she wants me. Everybody wants me, but--" he bowed again with an
imperturbable smile and went his way.

Margaret looked demurely into Chad's eager eyes.

"And how is the spirit of '76?"

"The spirit of '76 is unchanged."

"Oh, yes, he is; I scarcely knew him."

"But he's unchanged; he never will change."

Margaret dropped her eyes and Chad looked around.

"I wish we could get out of here."

"We can," said Margaret, demurely.

"We will!" said Chad, and he made for a door, outside which lanterns were
swinging in the wind. Margaret caught up some flimsy garment and wound it
about her pretty round throat--they call it a "fascinator" in the South.

Chad looked down at her.

"I wish you could see yourself; I wish I could tell you how you look."

"I have," said Margaret, "every time I passed a mirror. And other people have
told me. Mr. Hunt did. He didn't seem to have much trouble."

"I wish I had his tongue."

"If you had, and nothing else, you wouldn't have me"--Chad started as the
little witch paused a second, drawling--"leaving my friends and this jolly
dance to go out into a freezing yard and talk to an aged Colonial who doesn't
appreciate his modern blessings. The next thing you'll be wanting, I
suppose--will be--"

"You, Margaret; you--YOU!"

It had come at last and Margaret hardly knew the choked voice that interrupted
her. She had turned her back to him to sit down. She paused a moment,
standing. Her eyes closed; a slight tremor ran through her, and she sank with
her face in her hands. Chad stood silent, trembling. Voices murmured about
them, but like the music in the house, they seemed strangely far away. The
stirring of the wind made the sudden damp on his forehead icy-cold. Margaret's
hands slowly left her face, which had changed as by a miracle. Every trace of
coquetry was gone. It was the face of a woman who knew her own heart, and had
the sweet frankness to speak it, that was lifted now to Chad.

"I'm so glad you are what you are, Chad; but had you been otherwise--that
would have made no difference to me. You believe that, don't you, Chad? They
might not have let me marry you, but I should have cared, just the same. They
may not now, but that, too, will make no difference." She turned her eyes from
his for an instant, as though she were looking far backward. "Ever since that
day," she said, slowly, "when I heard you say, 'Tell the little gurl I didn't
mean nothin' callin' her a little gal'"--there was a low, delicious gurgle in
the throat as she tried to imitate his odd speech, and then her eyes suddenly
filled with tears, but she brushed them away, smiling brightly. "Ever since
then, Chad--" she stopped--a shadow fell across the door of the little summer
house.

"Here I am, Mr. Hunt," she said, lightly; "is this your dance?" She rose and
was gone. "Thank you, Mr. Buford," she called back, sweetly.

For a moment Chad stood where he was, quite dazed--so quickly, so unexpectedly
had the crisis come. The blood had rushed to his face and flooded him with
triumphant happiness. A terrible doubt chilled him as quickly. Had he heard
aright?--could he have misunderstood her? Had the dream of years really come
true? What was it she had said? He stumbled around in the half darkness,
wondering. Was this another phase of her unceasing coquetry? How quickly her
tone had changed when Richard Hunt's shadow came. At that moment, he neither
could nor would have changed a hair had some genie dropped them both in the
midst of the crowded ball-room. He turned swiftly toward the dancers. He must
see, know--now!

The dance was a quadrille and the figure was "Grand right and left." Margaret
had met Richard Hunt opposite, half-way, when Chad reached the door and was
curtseying to him with a radiant smile. Again the boy's doubts beat him
fiercely; and then Margaret turned her head, as though she knew he must be
standing there. Her face grew so suddenly serious and her eyes softened with
such swift tenderness when they met his, that a wave of guilty shame swept
through him. And when she came around to him and passed, she leaned from the
circle toward him, merry and mock-reproachful:

"You mustn't look at me like that," she whispered, and Hunt, close at hand,
saw, guessed and smiled. Chad turned quickly away again.

That happy dawn--going home! The Major drowsed and fell asleep. The first
coming light, the first cool breath that was stealing over the awakening
fields, the first spring leaves with their weight of dew, were not more fresh
and pure than the love that was in the boy's heart. He held his right hand in
his left, as though he were imprisoning there the memory of the last little
clasp that she had given it. He looked at the Major, and he wondered how
anybody on earth, at that hour, could be asleep. He thought of the wasted days
of the past few months; the silly, foolish life he had led, and thanked God
that, in the memory of them, there was not one sting of shame. How he would
work for her now! Little guessing how proud she already was, he swore to
himself how proud she should be of him some day. He wondered where she was,
and what she was doing. She could not be asleep, and he must have cried aloud
could he have known--could he have heard her on her knees at her bedside,
whispering his name for the first time in her prayers; could he have seen her,
a little later, at her open window, looking across the fields, as though her
eyes must reach him through the morning dusk.

That happy dawn--for both, that happy dawn!

It was well that neither, at that hour, could see beyond the rim of his own
little world. In a far Southern city another ball, that night, had been going
on. Down there the air was charged with the prescience of dark trouble, but,
while the music moaned to many a heart like a god in pain, there was no
brooding--only a deeper flush to the cheek, a brighter sparkle to the eye, a
keener wit to the tongue; to the dance, a merrier swing. And at that very hour
of dawn, ladies, slippered, bare of head, and in evening gowns, were
fluttering like white moths along the streets of old Charleston, and down to
the Battery, where Fort Sumter lay, gray and quiet in the morning mist--to
await with jest and laughter the hissing shriek of one shell that lighted the
fires of a four years' hell in a happy land of God-fearing peace and God-given
plenty, and the hissing shriek of another that Anderson, Kentuckian, hurled
back, in heroic defence of the flag struck for the first time by other than an
alien hand.



CHAPTER 19. THE BLUE OR THE GRAY

In the far North, as in the far South, men had but to drift with the tide.
Among the Kentuckians, the forces that moulded her sons--Davis and
Lincoln--were at war in the State, as they were at war in the nation. By ties
of blood, sympathies, institutions, Kentucky was bound fast to the South. Yet,
ten years before, Kentuckians had demanded the gradual emancipation of the
slave. That far back, they had carved a pledge on a block of Kentucky marble,
which should be placed in the Washington monument, that Kentucky would be the
last to give up the Union. For ten years, they had felt the shadow of the war
creeping toward them. In the dark hours of that dismal year, before the dawn
of final decision, the men, women, and children of Kentucky talked of little
else save war, and the skeleton of war took its place in the closet of every
home from the Ohio to the crest of the Cumberland. When the dawn of that
decision came, Kentucky spread before the world a record of
independent-mindedness, patriotism, as each side save the word, and sacrifice
that has no parallel in history. She sent the flower of her youth--forty
thousand strong--into the Confederacy; she lifted the lid of her treasury to
Lincoln, and in answer to his every call, sent him a soldier, practically
without a bounty and without a draft. And when the curtain fell on the last
act of the great tragedy, half of her manhood was behind it--helpless from
disease, wounded, or dead on the battle-field.

So, on a gentle April day, when the great news came, it came like a sword
that, with one stroke, slashed the State in twain, shearing through the
strongest bonds that link one man to another, whether of blood, business,
politics or religion, as though they were no more than threads of wool.
Nowhere in the Union was the National drama so played to the bitter end in the
confines of a single State. As the nation was rent apart, so was the
commonwealth; as the State, so was the county; as the county, the
neighborhood; as the neighborhood, the family; and as the family, so brother
and brother, father and son. In the nation the kinship was racial only.
Brother knew not the face of brother. There was distance between them,
antagonism, prejudice, a smouldering dislike easily fanned to flaming hatred.
In Kentucky the brothers had been born in the same bed, slept in the same
cradle, played under the same roof, sat side by side in the same schoolroom,
and stood now on the threshold of manhood arm in arm, with mutual interests,
mutual love, mutual pride in family that made clan feeling peculiarly intense.
For antislavery fanaticism, or honest unionism, one needed not to go to the
far North; as, for imperious, hotheaded, non-interference or pure State
sovereignty, one needed not to go to the far South. They were all there in the
State, the county, the family--under the same roof. Along the border alone did
feeling approach uniformity--the border of Kentucky hills. There unionism was
free from prejudice as nowhere else on the continent save elsewhere throughout
the Southern mountains. Those Southern Yankees knew nothing about the valley
aristocrat, nothing about his slaves, and cared as little for one as for the
other. Since '76 they had known but one flag, and one flag only, and to that
flag instinctively they rallied. But that the State should be swept from
border to border with horror, there was division even here: for, in the
Kentucky mountains, there was, here and there, a patriarch like Joel Turner
who owned slaves, and he and his sons fought for them as he and his sons would
have fought for their horses, or their cattle, or their sheep.

It was the prescient horror of such a condition that had no little part in the
neutral stand that Kentucky strove to maintain. She knew what war was--for
every fireside was rich in memories that men and women had of kindred who had
fallen on numberless battle-fields--back even to St. Clair's defeat and the
Raisin massacre; and though she did not fear war for its harvest of dangers
and death, she did look with terror on a conflict between neighbors, friends,
and brothers. So she refused troops to Lincoln; she refused them to Davis.
Both pledged her immunity from invasion, and, to enforce that pledge, she
raised Home Guards as she had already raised State Guards for internal
protection and peace. And there--as a State--she stood: but the tragedy went
on in the Kentucky home--a tragedy of peculiar intensity and pathos in one
Kentucky home--the Deans'.

Harry had grown up tall, pale, studious, brooding. He had always been the pet
of his Uncle Brutus--the old Lion of White Hall. Visiting the Hall, he had
drunk in the poison, or consecration, as was the point of view, of
abolitionism. At the first sign he was never allowed to go again. But the
poison had gone deep. Whenever he could he went to hear old Brutus speak.
Eagerly he heard stories of the fearless abolitionist's hand-to-hand fights
with men who sought to skewer his fiery tongue. Deeply he brooded on every
word that his retentive ear had caught from the old man's lips, and on the
wrongs he endured in behalf of his cause and for freedom of speech.

One other hero did he place above him--the great commoner after whom he had
been christened, Henry Clay Dean. He knew how Clay's life had been devoted to
averting the coming war, and how his last days had been darkly shadowed by the
belief that, when he was gone, the war must come. At times he could hear that
clarion voice as it rang through the Senate with the bold challenge to his own
people that paramount was his duty to the nation--subordinate his duty to his
State. Who can tell what the nation owed, in Kentucky, at least, to the
passionate allegiance that was broadcast through the State to Henry Clay? It
was not in the boy's blood to be driven an inch, and no one tried to drive
him. In his own home he was a spectre of gnawing anguish to his mother and
Margaret, of unspeakable bitterness and disappointment to his father, and an
impenetrable sphinx to Dan. For in Dan there was no shaking doubt. He was the
spirit, incarnate, of the young, unquestioning, unthinking, generous,
reckless, hotheaded, passionate South.

And Chad? The news reached Major Buford's farm at noon, and Chad went to the
woods and came in at dusk, haggard and spent. Miserably now he held his tongue
and tortured his brain. Purposely, he never opened his lips to Harry Dean. He
tried to make known to the Major the struggle going on within him, but the
iron-willed old man brushed away all argument with an impatient wave of his
hand. With Margaret he talked once, and straightway the question was dropped
like a living coal. So, Chad withdrew from his fellows. The social life of the
town, gayer than ever now, knew him no more. He kept up his college work, but
when he was not at his books, he walked the fields, and many a moonlit
midnight found him striding along a white turnpike, or sitting motionless on
top of a fence along the border of some woodland, his chin in both hands,
fighting his fight out in the cool stillness alone. He himself little knew the
unmeant significance there was in the old Continental uniform he had worn to
the dance. Even his old rifle, had he but known it, had been carried with
Daniel Morgan from Virginia to Washington's aid in Cambridge. His earliest
memories of war were rooted in thrilling stories of King's Mountain. He had
heard old men tell of pointing deadly rifles at red-coats at New Orleans, and
had absorbed their own love of Old Hickory. The school-master himself, when a
mere lad, had been with Scott in Mexico. The spirit of the back-woodsman had
been caught in the hills, and was alive and unchanged at that very hour. The
boy was practically born in Revolutionary days, and that was why, like all
mountaineers, Chad had little love of State and only love of country--was
first, last and all the time, simply American. It was not reason--it was
instinct. The heroes the school-master had taught him to love and some day to
emulate, had fought under one flag, and, like them, the mountaineers never
dreamed there could be another. And so the boy was an unconscious
reincarnation of that old spirit, uninfluenced by temporary apostasies in the
outside world, untouched absolutely by sectional prejudice or the appeal of
the slave. The mountaineer had no hatred of the valley aristocrat, because he
knew nothing of him, and envied no man what he was, what he had, or the life
he led. So, as for slavery, that question, singularly enough, never troubled
his soul. To him slaves were hewers of wood and drawers of water. The Lord had
made them so and the Bible said that it was right. That the school-master had
taught Chad. He had read "Uncle Tom's Cabin," and the story made him smile.
The tragedies of it he had never known and he did not believe. Slaves were
sleek, well-fed, well-housed, loved and trusted, rightly inferior and happy;
and no aristocrat ever moved among them with a more lordly, righteous air of
authority than did this mountain lad who had known them little more than half
a dozen years. Unlike the North, the boy had no prejudice, no antagonism, no
jealousy, no grievance to help him in his struggle. Unlike Harry, he had no
slave sympathy to stir him to the depths, no stubborn, rebellious pride to
prod him on. In the days when the school-master thundered at him some speech
of the Prince of Kentuckians, it was always the national thrill in the fiery
utterance that had shaken him even then. So that unconsciously the boy was the
embodiment of pure Americanism, and for that reason he and the people among
whom he was born stood among the millions on either side, quite alone.

What was he fighting then--ah, what? If the bed-rock of his character was not
loyalty, it was nothing. In the mountains the Turners had taken him from the
Wilderness. In the Bluegrass the old Major had taken him from the hills. His
very life he owed to the simple, kindly mountaineers, and what he valued more
than his life he owed to the simple gentleman who had picked him up from the
roadside and, almost without question, had taken him to his heart and to his
home. The Turners, he knew, would fight for their slaves as they would have
fought Dillon or Devil had either proposed to take from them a cow, a hog, or
a sheep. For that Chad could not blame them. And the Major was going to fight,
as he believed, for his liberty, his State, his country, his property, his
fireside. So in the eyes of both, Chad must be the snake who had warmed his
frozen body on their hearthstones and bitten the kindly hands that had warmed
him back to life. What would Melissa say? Mentally he shrank from the fire of
her eyes and the scorn of her tongue when she should know. And Margaret--the
thought of her brought always a voiceless groan. To her, he had let his doubts
be known, and her white silence closed his own lips then and there. The simple
fact that he had doubts was an entering wedge of coldness between them that
Chad saw must force them apart for he knew that the truth must come soon, and
what would be the bitter cost of that truth. She could never see him as she
saw Harry. Harry was a beloved and erring brother. Hatred of slavery had been
cunningly planted in his heart by her father's own brother, upon whose head
the blame for Harry's sin was set. The boy had been taunted until his own
father's scorn had stirred his proud independence into stubborn resistance and
intensified his resolution to do what he pleased and what he thought was
right. But Chad--she would never understand him. She would never understand
his love for the Government that had once abandoned her people to savages and
forced her State and his to seek aid from a foreign land. In her eyes, too, he
would be rending the hearts that had been tenderest to him in all the world:
and that was all. Of what fate she would deal out to him he dared not think.
If he lifted his hand against the South, he must strike at the heart of all he
loved best, to which he owed most. If against the Union, at the heart of all
that was best in himself. In him the pure spirit that gave birth to the nation
was fighting for life. Ah, God! what should he do--what should he do?



CHAPTER 20. OFF TO THE WAR

Throughout that summer Chad fought his fight, daily swaying this way and
that-- fought it in secret until the phantom of neutrality faded and gave
place to the grim spectre of war--until with each hand Kentucky drew a sword
and made ready to plunge both into her own stout heart. When Sumter fell, she
shook her head resolutely to both North and South. Crittenden, in the name of
Union lovers and the dead Clay, pleaded with the State to take no part in the
fratricidal crime. From the mothers, wives, sisters and daughters of
thirty-one counties came piteously the same appeal. Neutrality, to be held
inviolate, was the answer to the cry from both the North and the South; but
armed neutrality, said Kentucky. The State had not the moral right to secede;
the Nation, no constitutional right to coerce: if both the North and the South
left their paths of duty and fought--let both keep their battles from her
soil. Straightway State Guards went into camp and Home Guards were held in
reserve, but there was not a fool in the Commonwealth who did not know that,
in sympathy, the State Guards were already for the Confederacy and the Home
Guards for the Union cause. This was in May.

In June, Federals were enlisting across the Ohio; Confederates, just over the
border of Dixie which begins in Tennessee. Within a month Stonewall Jackson
sat on his horse, after Bull Run, watching the routed Yankees, praying for
fresh men that he might go on and take the Capitol, and, from the Federal
dream of a sixty-days' riot, the North woke with a gasp. A week or two later,
Camp Dick Robinson squatted down on the edge of the Bluegrass, the first
violation of the State's neutrality, and beckoned with both hands for Yankee
recruits. Soon an order went round to disarm the State Guards, and on that
very day the State Guards made ready for Dixie. On that day the crisis came at
the Deans', and on that day Chad Buford made up his mind. When the Major and
Miss Lucy went to bed that night, he slipped out of the house and walked
through the yard and across the pike, following the little creek half
unconsciously toward the Deans', until he could see the light in Margaret's
window, and there he climbed the worm fence and sat leaning his head against
one of the forked stakes with his hat in his lap. He would probably not see
her again. He would send her word next morning to ask that he might, and he
feared what the result of that word would be. Several times his longing eyes
saw her shadow pass the curtain, and when her light was out, he closed his
eyes and sat motionless--how long he hardly knew; but, when he sprang down, he
was stiffened from the midnight chill and his unchanged posture. He went back
to his room then, and wrote Margaret a letter and tore it up and went to bed.
There was little sleep for him that night, and when the glimmer of morning
brightened at his window, he rose listlessly, dipped his hot head in a bowl of
water and stole out to the barn. His little mare whinnied a welcome as he
opened the barn door. He patted her on the neck.

"Good-by, little girl," he said. He started to call her by name and stopped.
Margaret had named the beautiful creature "Dixie." The servants were stirring.

"Good-mawnin', Mars Chad," said each, and with each he shook hands, saying
simply that he was going away that morning. Only old Tom asked him a question.

"Foh Gawd, Mars Chad," said the old fellow, "old Mars Buford can't git along
widout you. You gwine to come back soon?"

"I don't know, Uncle Tom," said Chad, sadly.

"Whar you gwine, Mars Chad?"

"Into the army."

"De ahmy?" The old man smiled. "You gwine to fight de Yankees?"

"I'm going to fight WITH the Yankees."

The old driver looked as though he could not have heard aright.

"You foolin' this ole nigger, Mars Chad, ain't you?"

Chad shook his head, and the old man straightened himself a bit.

"I'se sorry to heah it, suh," he said, with dignity, and he turned to his
work.

Miss Lucy was not feeling well that morning and did not come down to
breakfast. The boy was so pale and haggard that the Major looked at him
anxiously.

"What's the matter with you, Chad? Are you--?"

"I didn't sleep very well last night, Major."

The Major chuckled. "I reckon you ain't gettin' enough sleep these days. I
reckon I wouldn't, either, if I were in your place."

Chad did not answer. After breakfast he sat with the Major on the porch in the
fresh, sunny air. The Major smoked his pipe, taking the stem out of his mouth
now and then to shout some order as a servant passed under his eye.

"What's the news, Chad?"

"Mr. Crittenden is back."

"What did old Lincoln say?"

"That Camp Dick Robinson was formed for Kentuckians by Kentuckians, and he did
not believe that it was the wish of the State that it should be removed."

"Well, by --! after his promise. What did Davis say?"

"That if Kentucky opened the Northern door for invasion, she must not close
the Southern door to entrance for defence."

"And dead right he is," growled the Major with satisfaction.

"Governor Magoffin asked Ohio and Indiana to join in an effort for a peace
Congress," Chad added.

"Well?"

"Both governors refused."

"I tell you, boy, the hour has come."

The hour had come.

"I'm going away this morning, Major."

The Major did not even turn his head.

"I thought this was coming," he said quietly. Chad's face grew even paler, and
he steeled his heart for the revelation.

"I've already spoken to Lieutenant Hunt," the Major went on. "He expects to be
a captain, and he says that, maybe, he can make you a lieutenant. You can take
that boy Brutus as a body servant." He brought his fist down on the railing of
the porch. "God, but I'd give the rest of my life to be ten years younger than
I am now."

"Major, I'm GOING INTO THE UNION ARMY."

The Major's pipe almost dropped from between his lips. Catching the arms of
his chair with both hands, he turned heavily and with dazed wonder, as though
the boy had struck him with his fist from behind, and, without a word, stared
hard into Chad's tortured face. The keen old eye had not long to look before
it saw the truth, and then, silently, the old man turned back. His hands
trembled on the chair, and he slowly thrust them into his pockets, breathing
hard through his nose. The boy expected an outbreak, but none came. A bee
buzzed above them. A yellow butterfly zigzagged by. Blackbirds chattered in
the firs. The screech of a peacock shrilled across the yard, and a ploughman's
singing wailed across the fields:

Trouble, O Lawd!
 Nothin' but trouble in de lan' of Canaan.

The boy knew he had given his old friend a mortal hurt.

"Don't, Major," he pleaded. "You don't know how I have fought against this. I
tried to be on your side. I thought I was. I joined the Rifles. I found first
that I couldn't fight WITH the South, and--then--I--found that I had to fight
FOR the North. It almost kills me when I think of all you have done "

The Major waved his hand imperiously. He was not the man to hear his favors
recounted, much less refer to them himself. He straightened and got up from
his chair. His manner had grown formal, stately, coldly courteous.

"I cannot understand, but you are old enough, sir, to know your own mind. You
should have prepared me for this. You will excuse me a moment." Chad rose and
the Major walked toward the door, his step not very steady, and his shoulders
a bit shrunken--his back, somehow, looked suddenly old.

"Brutus!" he called sharply to a black boy who was training rosebushes in the
yard. "Saddle Mr. Chad's horse." Then, without looking again at Chad, he
turned into his office, and Chad, standing where he was, with a breaking
heart, could hear, through the open window, the rustling of papers and the
scratching of a pen.

In a few minutes he heard the Major rise and he turned to meet him. The old
man held a roll of bills in one hand and a paper in the other.

"Here is the balance due you on our last trade," he said, quietly. "The mare
is yours--Dixie," he added, grimly. "The old mare is in foal. I will keep her
and send you your due when the time comes. We are quite even," he went on in a
level tone of business. "Indeed, what you have done about the place more than
exceeds any expense that you have ever caused me. If anything, I am still in
your debt."

"I can't take it!" said Chad, choking back a sob.

"You will have to take it," the Major broke in, curtly, unless--" the Major
held back the bitter speech that was on his lips and Chad understood. The old
man did not want to feel under any obligations to him.

"I would offer you Brutus, as was my intention, except that I know you would
not take him," again he added, grimly, "and Brutus would run away from you."

"No, Major," said Chad, sadly, "I would not take Brutus," and he stepped down
one step of the porch backward.

"I tried to tell you, Major, but you wouldn't listen. I don't wonder, for I
couldn't explain to you what I couldn't understand myself. I--" the boy choked
and tears filled his eyes. He was afraid to hold out his hand.

"Good-by, Major," he said, brokenly.

"Good-by, sir," answered the Major, with a stiff bow, but the old man's lip
shook and he turned abruptly within.

Chad did not trust himself to look back, but, as he rode through the pasture
to the pike gate, his ears heard, never to forget, the chatter of the
blackbirds, the noises around the barn, the cry of the peacock, and the
wailing of the ploughman:

Trouble, O Lawd!
 Nothin' but trouble--

At the gate the little mare turned her head toward town and started away in
the easy swinging lope for which she was famous. From a cornfield Jerome
Conners, the overseer, watched horse and rider for a while, and then his lips
were lifted over his protruding teeth in one of his ghastly, infrequent
smiles. Chad Buford was out of his way at last. At the Deans' gate, Snowball
was just going in on Margaret's pony and Chad pulled up.

"Where's Mr. Dan, Snowball?--and Mr. Harry?"

"Mars Dan he gwine to de wah--an' I'se gwine wid him."

"Is Mr. Harry going, too?" Snowball hesitated. He did not like to gossip about
family matters, but it was a friend of the family who was questioning him.

"Yessuh! But Mammy say Mars Harry's teched in de haid. He gwine to fight wid
de po' white trash."

"Is Miss Margaret at home?"

"Yessuh."

Chad had his note to Margaret, unsealed. He little felt like seeing her now,
but he had just as well have it all over at once. He took it out and looked it
over once more--irresolute.

"I'm going away to join the Union army, Margaret. May I come to tell you
good-by? If not, God bless you always. CHAD."

"Take this to Miss Margaret, Snowball, and bang me an answer here as soon as
you can."

"Yessuh."

The black boy was not gone long. Chad saw him go up the steps, and in a few
moments he reappeared and galloped back.

"Ole Mistis say dey ain't no answer."

"Thank you, Snowball." Chad pitched him a coin and loped on toward Lexington
with his head bent, his hands folded on the pommel, and the reins flapping
loosely. Within one mile of Lexington he turned into a cross-road and set his
face toward the mountains.

An hour later, the General and Harry and Dan stood on the big portico. Inside,
the mother and Margaret were weeping in each other's arms. Two negro boys were
each leading a saddled horse from the stable, while Snowball was blubbering at
the corner of the house. At the last moment Dan had decided to leave him
behind. If Harry could have no servant, Dan, too, would have none. Dan was
crying without shame. Harry's face was as white and stern as his father's. As
the horses drew near the General stretched out the sabre in his hand to Dan.

"This should belong to you, Harry."

"It is yours to give, father," said Harry, gently.

"It shall never be drawn against my roof and your mother."

The boy was silent.

"You are going far North?" asked the General, more gently. "You will not fight
on Kentucky soil?"

"You taught me that the first duty of a soldier is obedience. I must go where
I'm ordered."

"God grant that you two may never meet."

"Father!" It was a cry of horror from both the lads.

The horses were waiting at the stiles. The General took Dan in his arms and
the boy broke away and ran down the steps, weeping.

"Father," said Harry, with trembling lips, "I hope you won't be too hard on
me. Perhaps the day will come when you won't be so ashamed of me. I hope you
and mother will forgive me. I can't do otherwise than I must. Will you shake
hands with me, father?"

"Yes, my son. God be with you both."

And then, as he watched the boys ride side by side to the gate, he added:

"I could kill my own brother with my own hand for this."

He saw them stop a moment at the gate; saw them clasp hands and turn opposite
ways--one with his face set for Tennessee, the other making for the Ohio. Dan
waved his cap in a last sad good-by. Harry rode over the hill without turning
his head. The General stood rigid, with his hands clasped behind his back,
staring across the gray fields between them. Through the winds, came the low
sound of sobbing.



CHAPTER 21. MELISSA

Shortly after dusk, that night, two or three wagons moved quietly out of
Lexington, under a little guard with guns loaded and bayonets fixed. Back at
the old Armory--the home of the "Rifles"--a dozen youngsters drilled
vigorously with faces in a broad grin, as they swept under the motto of the
company--"Our laws the commands of our Captain." They were following out those
commands most literally. Never did Lieutenant Hunt give his orders more
sonorously--he could be heard for blocks away. Never did young soldiers stamp
out maneuvers more lustily--they made more noise than a regiment. Not a man
carried a gun, though ringing orders to "Carry arms" and "Present arms" made
the windows rattle. It was John Morgan's first ruse. While that mock-drill was
going on, and listening Unionists outside were laughing to think how those
Rifles were going to be fooled next day, the guns of the company were moving
in those wagons toward Dixie--toward mocking-bird-haunted Bowling Green, where
the underfed, unclothed, unarmed body of Albert Sydney Johnston's army lay,
with one half-feathered wing stretching into the Cumberland hills and the
frayed edge of the other touching the Ohio.

Next morning, the Home Guards came gayly around to the Armory to seize those
guns, and the wily youngsters left temporarily behind (they, too, fled for
Dixie, that night) gibed them unmercifully; so that, then and there, a little
interchange of powder-and-ball civilities followed; and thus, on the very
first day, Daniel Dean smelled the one and heard the other whistle right
harmlessly and merrily. Straightway, more guards were called out; cannon were
planted to sweep the principal streets, and from that hour the old town was
under the rule of a Northern or Southern sword for the four years' reign of
the war.

Meanwhile, Chad Buford was giving a strange journey to Dixie. Whenever he
dismounted, she would turn her head toward the Bluegrass, as though it surely
were time they were starting for home. When they reached the end of the
turnpike, she lifted her feet daintily along the muddy road, and leaped pools
of water like a cat. Climbing the first foot-hills, she turned her beautiful
head to right and left, and with pointed ears snorted now and then at the
strange dark woods on either side and the tumbling water-falls. The red of her
wide nostrils was showing when she reached the top of the first mountain, and
from that high point of vantage she turned her wondering eyes over the wide
rolling stretch that waved homeward, and whinnied with distinct uneasiness
when Chad started her down into the wilderness beyond. Distinctly that road
was no path for a lady to tread, but Dixie was to know it better in the coming
war.

Within ten miles of the Turners', Chad met the first man that he knew--Hence
Sturgill from Kingdom Come. He was driving a wagon.

"Howdye, Hence!" said Chad, reining in.

"Whoa!" said Hence, pulling in and staring at Chad's horse and at Chad from
hat to spur.

"Don't you know me, Hence?"

"Well, God--I--may--die, if it ain't Chad! How air ye, Chad? Goin' up to ole
Joel's?"

"Yes. How are things on Kingdom Come?"

Hence spat on the ground and raised one hand high over his head:

"God--I--may--die, if thar hain't hell to pay on Kingdom Come. You better keep
offo' Kingdom Come," and then he stopped with an expression of quick alarm,
looked around him into the bushes and dropped his voice to a whisper:

"But I hain't sayin' a word--rickollect now--not a word!"

Chad laughed aloud. "What's the matter with you, Hence?"

Hence put one finger on one side of his nose--still speaking in a low tone:

"Whut'd I say, Chad? D'I say one word?" He gathered up his reins. "You
rickollect Jake and Jerry Dillon?" Chad nodded. "You know Jerry was al'ays
a-runnin' over Jake 'cause Jake' didn't have good sense. Jake was drapped when
he was a baby. Well, Jerry struck Jake over the head with a fence-rail 'bout
two months ago, an when Jake come to, he had just as good sense as anybody,
and now he hates Jerry like pizen, an Jerry's half afeard of him. An' they do
say a how them two brothers air a-goin'" Again Hence stopped abruptly and
clucked to his team "But I ain't a-sayin' a word, now, mind ye--not a word!"

Chad rode on, amused, and thinking that Hence had gone daft, but he was to
learn better. A reign of forty years' terror was starting in those hills.

Not a soul was in sight when he reached the top of the hill from which he
could see the Turner home below--about the house or the orchard or in the
fields. No one answered his halloo at the Turner gate, though Chad was sure
that he saw a woman's figure flit past the door. It was a full minute before
Mother Turner cautiously thrust her head outside the door and peered at him

"Why, Aunt Betsey," called Chad, "don't you know me?"

At the sound of his voice Melissa sprang out the door with a welcoming cry,
and ran to him, Mother Turner following with a broad smile on her kind old
face. Chad felt the tears almost come--these were friends indeed. How tall
Melissa had grown, and how lovely she was, with her tangled hair and flashing
eyes and delicately modelled face. She went with him to the stable to help him
put up his horse, blushing when he looked at her and talking very little,
while the old mother, from the fence, followed him with her dim eyes. At once
Chad began to ply both with questions--where was Uncle Joel and the boys and
the school-master? And, straightway, Chad felt a reticence in both--a curious
reticence even with him. On each side of the fireplace, on each side of the
door, and on each side of the window, he saw narrow blocks fixed to the logs.
One was turned horizontal, and through the hole under it Chad saw
daylight--portholes they were. At the door were taken blocks as catches for a
piece of upright wood nearby, which was plainly used to bar the door. The
cabin was a fortress. By degrees the story came out. The neighborhood was in a
turmoil of bloodshed and terror. Tom and Dolph had gone off to the
war--Rebels. Old Joel had been called to the door one night, a few weeks
since, and had been shot down without warning. They had fought all night.
Melissa herself had handled a rifle at one of the portholes. Rube was out in
the woods now, with Jack guarding and taking care of his wounded father. A
Home Guard had been organized, and Daws Dillon was captain. They were driving
out of the mountains every man who owned a negro, for nearly every man who
owned a negro had taken, or was forced to take, the Rebel side. The Dillons
were all Yankees, except Jerry, who had gone off with Tom; and the giant
brothers, Rebel Jerry and Yankee Jake--as both were already known--had sworn
to kill each other on sight. Bushwhacking had already begun. When Chad asked
about the school-master, the old woman's face grew stern, and Melissa's lip
curled with scorn.

"Yankee!" The girl spat the word out with such vindictive bitterness that
Chad's face turned slowly scarlet, while the girl's keen eyes pierced him like
a knife, and narrowed as, with pale face and heaving breast, she rose suddenly
from her chair and faced him--amazed, bewildered, burning with sudden hatred.
"And you're another!" The girl's voice was like a hiss.

"Why, 'Lissy!" cried the old mother, startled, horrified.

"Look at him!" said the girl. The old woman looked; her face grew hard and
frightened, and she rose feebly, moving toward the girl as though for
protection against him. Chad's very heart seemed suddenly to turn to water. He
had been dreading the moment to come when he must tell He knew it would be
hard, but he was not looking for this.

"You better git away!" quavered the old woman, "afore Joel and Rube come in."

"Hush!" said the girl, sharply, her hands clinched like claws, her whole body
stiff, like a tigress ready to attack, or awaiting attack.

"Mebbe he come hyeh to find out whar they air--don't tell him!"

"Lissy!" said Chad, brokenly.

"Then whut did you come fer?"

"To tell you good-by, I came to see all of you, Lissy."

The girl laughed scornfully, and Chad knew he was helpless. He could not
explain, and they could not understand--nobody had understood.

"Aunt Betsey," he said, "you took Jack and me in, and you took care of me just
as though I had been your own child. You know I'd give my life for you or
Uncle Joel, or any one of the boys"--his voice grew a little stern--"and you
know it, too, Lissy--"

"You're makin' things wuss," interrupted the girl, stridently, "an' now you're
goin' to do all you can to kill us. I reckon you can see that door. Why don't
you go over to the Dillons?" she panted. "They're friends o' your'n. An' don't
let Uncle Joel or Rube ketch you anywhar round hyeh!"

"I'm not afraid to see Uncle Joel or Rube, Lissy."

"You must git away, Chad," quavered the old woman. "They mought hurt ye!"

"I'm sorry not to see Jack. He's the only friend I have now."

"Why, Jack would snarl at ye," said the girl, bitterly. "He hates a Yankee."
She pointed again with her finger. "I reckon you can see that door."

They followed him, Melissa going on the porch and the old woman standing in
the doorway. On one side of the walk Chad saw a rose-bush that he had brought
from the Bluegrass for Melissa. It was dying. He took one step toward it, his
foot sinking in the soft earth where the girl had evidently been working
around it, and broke off the one green leaf that was left.

"Here, Lissy! You'll be sorry you were so hard on me. I'd never get over it if
I didn't think you would. Keep this, won't you, and let's be friends, not enemies."

He held it out, and the girl angrily struck the rose-leaf from his hand to her
feet.

Chad rode away at a walk. Two hundred yards below, where the hill rose, the
road was hock-deep with sand, and Dixie's feet were as noiseless as a cat's. A
few yards beyond a ravine on the right, a stone rolled from the bushes into
the road. Instinctively Chad drew rein, and Dixie stood motionless. A moment
later, a crouching figure, with a long squirrel rifle, slipped out of the
bushes and started noiselessly across the ravine. Chad's pistol flashed.

"Stop!"

The figure crouched more, and turned a terror-stricken face--Daws Dillon's.

"Oh, it's you, is it--Well, drop that gun and come down here."

The Dillon boy rose, leaving his gun on the ground, and came down, trembling.

"What're you doin' sneaking around in the brush?"

"Nothin'!" The Dillon had to make two efforts before he could speak at all.
"Nothin', jes' a-huntin'!"

"Huntin'!" repeated Chad. He lowered his pistol and looked at the sorry figure
silently.

"I know what you were huntin', you rattlesnake! I understand you are captain
of the Home Guard. I reckon you don't know that nobody has to go into this
war. That a man has the right to stay peaceably at home, and nobody has the
right to bother him. If you don't know it, I tell you now. I believe you had
something to do with shooting Uncle Joel."

The Dillon shook his head, and fumbled with his hands.

"If I knew it, I'd kill you where you stand, now. But I've got one word to say
to you, you hell-pup. I hate to think it, but you and I are on the same
side--that is, if you have any side. But in spite of that, if I hear of any
harm happening to Aunt Betsey, or Melissa, or Uncle Joel, or Rube, while they
are all peaceably at home, I'm goin' to hold you and Tad responsible, whether
you are or not, and I'll kill you"--he raised one hand to make the Almighty a
witness to his oath --"I'll kill you, if I have to follow you both to hell for
doin' it. Now, you take keer of 'em! Turn 'round!"

The Dillon hesitated.

"Turn!" Chad cried, savagely, raising his pistol. "Go back to that gun, an' if
you turn your head I'll shoot you where you're sneakin' aroun' to shoot Rube
or Uncle Joel--in the back, you cowardly feist. Pick up that gun! Now, let her
off! See if you can hit that beech-tree in front of you. Just imagine that
it's me."

The rifle cracked and Chad laughed.

"Well, you ain't much of a shot. I reckon you must have chills and fever. Now,
come back here. Give me your powder-horn. You'll find it on top of the hill on
the right-hand side of the road. Now, you trot--home!"

Then Dillon stared.

"Double-quick!" shouted Chad. "You ought to know what that means if you are a
soldier--a soldier!" he repeated, contemptuously.

The Dillon disappeared on a run.

Chad rode all that night. At dawn he reached the foot-hills, and by noon he
drew up at the road which turned to Camp Dick Robinson. He sat there a long
time thinking, and then pushed on toward Lexington. If he could, he would keep
from fighting on Kentucky soil.

Next morning he was going at an easy "running-walk" along the old Maysville
road toward the Ohio. Within three miles of Major Buford's, he leaped the
fence and stuck across the fields that he might go around and avoid the risk
of a painful chance meeting with his old friend or any of the Deans.

What a land of peace and plenty it was--the woodlands, meadows, pasture lands!
Fat cattle raised their noses from the thick grass and looked with mild
inquiry at him. Sheep ran bleating toward him, as though he were come to salt
them. A rabbit leaped from a thorn-bush and whisked his white flag into safety
in a hemp-field. Squirrels barked in the big oaks, and a covey of young quail
fluttered up from a fence corner and sailed bravely away. 'Possum signs were
plentiful, and on the edge of the creek he saw a coon solemnly searching under
a rock with one paw for crawfish Every now and then Dixie would turn her head
impatiently to the left, for she knew where home was. The Deans' house was
just over the hill he would have but the ride to the top to see it and,
perhaps, Margaret. There was no need. As he sat, looking up the hill, Margaret
herself rode slowly over it, and down, through the sunlight slanting athwart
the dreaming woods, straight toward him Chad sat still. Above him the road
curved, and she could not see him until she turned the little thicket just
before him. Her pony was more startled than was she. A little leap of color to
her face alone showed her surprise.

"Did you get my note?"

"I did. You got my mother's message?"

"I did." Chad paused. "That is why I am passing around you."

The girl said nothing.

"But I'm glad I came so near. I wanted to see you once more. I wish I could
make you understand. But nobody understands. I hardly understand myself. But
please try to believe that what I say is true. I'm just back from the
mountains, and listen, Margaret--" He halted a moment to steady his voice.
"The Turners down there took me in when I was a ragged outcast. They clothed
me, fed me, educated me. The Major took me when I was little more; and he fed
me, clothed me, educated me. The Turners scorned me--Melissa told me to go
herd with the Dillons. The Major all but turned me from his door. Your father
was bitter toward me, thinking that I had helped turn Harry to the Union
cause. But let me tell you! If the Turners died, believing me a traitor; if
Lissy died with a curse on her lips for me; if the Major died without, as he
believed, ever having polluted his lips again with my name; if Harry were
brought back here dead, and your father died, believing that his blood was on
my hands; and if I lost you and your love, and you died, believing the same
thing--I must still go. Oh, Margaret, I can't understand--I have ceased to
reason. I only know I must go!"

The girl in the mountains had let her rage and scorn loose like a storm, but
the gentlewoman only grew more calm. Every vestige of color left her, but her
eyes never for a moment wavered from his face. Her voice was quiet and even
and passionless.

"Then, why don't you go?"

The lash of an overseer's whip across his face could not have made his soul so
bleed. Even then he did not lose himself.

"I am in your way," he said, quietly. And backing Dixie from the road, and
without bending his head or lowering his eyes, he waited, hat in hand, for
Margaret to pass.

All that day Chad rode, and, next morning, Dixie climbed the Union bank of the
Ohio and trotted into the recruiting camp of the Fourth Ohio Cavalry. The
first man Chad saw was Harry Dean--grave, sombre, taciturn, though he smiled
and thrust out his hand eagerly. Chad's eyes dropped to the sergeant's stripes
on Harry's sleeves, and again Harry smiled.

"You'll have 'em yourself in a week. These fellows ride like a lot of
meal-bags over here. Here's my captain," he added, in a lower voice.

A pompous officer rode slowly up. He pulled in his horse when he saw Chad.

"You want to join the army?"

"Yes," said Chad.

"All right. That's a fine horse you've got."

Chad said nothing.

"What's his name?"

"HER name is Dixie."

The captain stared. Some soldiers behind laughed in a smothered fashion,
sobering their' faces quickly when the captain turned upon them, furious.

"Well, change her name!"

"I'll not change her name," said Chad, quietly.

"What!" shouted the officer. "How dare you--" Chad's eyes looked ominous.

"Don't you give any orders to me--not yet. You haven't the right; and when you
have, you can save your breath by not giving that one. This horse comes from
Kentucky, and so do I; her name will stay Dixie as long as I straddle her, and
I propose to straddle her until one of us dies, or,"--he smiled and nodded
across the river--"somebody over there gets her who won't object to her name
as much as you do."

The astonished captain's lips opened, but a quiet voice behind interrupted
him:

"Never mind, Captain." Chad turned and saw a short, thick-set man with a
stubbly brown beard, whose eyes were twinkling, though his face was grave. "A
boy who wants to fight for the Union, and insists on calling his horse Dixie,
must be all right. Come with me, my lad."

As Chad followed, he heard the man saluted as Colonel Grant, but he paid no
heed. Few people at that time did pay heed to the name of Ulysses Grant.



CHAPTER 22. MORGAN'S MEN

Boots and saddles at daybreak!

Over the border, in Dixie, two videttes in gray trot briskly from out a leafy
woodland, side by side, and looking with keen eyes right and left; one, erect,
boyish, bronzed; the other, slouching, bearded, huge--the boy, Daniel Dean;
the man, Rebel Jerry Dillon, one of the giant twins.

Fifty yards behind them emerges a single picket; after him come three more
videttes, the same distance apart. Fifty yards behind the last rides "the
advance"--a guard of twenty-five picked men. No commission among "Morgan's
Men" was more eagerly sought than a place on that guard of hourly risk and
honor. Behind it trot still three more videttes, at intervals of one hundred
yards, and just that interval behind the last of these ride Morgan's Men, the
flower of Kentucky's youth, in columns of fours--Colonel Hunt's regiment in
advance, the colors borne by Renfrew the Silent in a brilliant Zouave jacket
studded with buttons of red coral. In the rear rumble two Parrot guns,
affectionately christened the "Bull Pups."

Skirting the next woodland ran a cross-road. Down one way gallops Dan, and
down the other lumbers Rebel Jerry, each two hundred yards. A cry rings from
vidette to vidette behind them and back to the guard. Two horsemen spur from
the "advance" and take the places of the last two videttes, while the videttes
in front take and keep the original formation until the column passes that
cross-road, when Dean and Dillon gallop up to their old places in the extreme
front again. Far in front, and on both flanks, are scouting parties, miles
away.

This was the way Morgan marched.

Yankees ahead! Not many, to be sure--no more numerous than two or three to
one; so back fall the videttes and forward charges that advance guard like a
thunderbolt, not troubling the column behind. Wild yells, a clattering of
hoofs, the crack of pistol-shots, a wild flight, a merry chase, a few
riderless horses gathered in from the fleeing Yankees, and the incident is
over.

Ten miles more, and many hostile bayonets gleam ahead. A serious fight, this,
perhaps--so back drops the advance, this time as a reserve; up gallops the
column into single rank and dismounts, while the flank companies, deploying as
skirmishers, cover the whole front, one man out of each set of fours and the
corporals holding the horses in the rear. The "Bull Pups" bark and the Rebel
yell rings as the line--the files two yards apart--"a long flexible line
curving forward at each extremity"--slips forward at a half run. This time the
Yankees charge.

From every point of that curving line pours a merciless fire, and the charging
men in blue recoil--all but one. (War is full of grim humor.) On comes one
lone Yankee, hatless, red-headed, pulling on his reins with might and main,
his horse beyond control, and not one of the enemy shoot as he sweeps
helplessly into their line. A huge rebel grabs his bridle-rein.

"I don't know whether to kill you now, "he says, with pretended ferocity, "or
wait till the fight is over."

"For God's sake, don't kill me at all!" shouts the Yankee. "I'm a dissipated
character, and not prepared to die."

Shots from the right flank and rear, and the line is thrown about like a rope.
But the main body of the Yankees is to the left.

"Left face! Double-quick!" is the ringing order, and, by magic, the line
concentrates in a solid phalanx and sweeps forward.

This was the way Morgan fought.

And thus, marching and fighting, he went his triumphant way into the land of
the enemy, without sabres, without artillery, without even the "Bull Pups,"
sometimes--fighting infantry, cavalry, artillery with only muzzle-loading
rifles, pistols, and shotguns; scattering Home Guards like turkeys; destroying
railroads and bridges; taking towns and burning Government stores, and
encompassed, usually, with forces treble his own.

This was what Morgan did on a raid, was what he had done, what he was starting
out now to do again.

Darkness threatens, and the column halts to bivouac for the night on the very
spot where, nearly a year before, Morgan's Men first joined Johnston's army,
which, like a great, lean, hungry hawk, guarded the Southern border.

Daniel Dean was a war-worn veteran now. He could ride twenty hours out of the
twenty-four; he could sleep in his saddle or anywhere but on picket duty, and
there was no trick of the trade in camp, or on the march, that was not at his
finger's end.

Fire first! Nobody had a match, the leaves were wet and the twigs soggy, but
by some magic a tiny spark glows under some shadowy figure, bites at the
twigs, snaps at the branches, and wraps a log in flames.

Water next! A tin cup rattles in a bucket, and another shadowy figure steals
off into the darkness, with an instinct as unerring as the skill of a
water-witch with a willow wand. The Yankees chose open fields for camps, but
your rebel took to the woods. Each man and his chum picked a tree for a home,
hung up canteens and spread blankets at the foot of it. Supper--Heavens, what
luck--fresh beef! One man broils it on coals, pinning pieces of fat to it to
make gravy; another roasts it on a forked stick, for Morgan carried no cooking
utensils on a raid.

Here, one man made up bread in an oilcloth (and every Morgan's man had one
soon after they were issued to the Federals); another worked up corn-meal into
dough in the scooped-out half of a pumpkin; one baked bread on a flat rock,
another on a board, while a third had twisted his dough around his ram-rod; if
it were spring-time, a fourth might be fitting his into a cornshuck to roast
in ashes. All this Dan Dean could do.

The roaring fire thickens the gloom of the woods where the lonely pickets
stand. Pipes are out now. An oracle outlines the general campaign of the war
as it will be and as it should have been. A long-winded, innocent braggart
tells of his personal prowess that day. A little group is guying the new
recruit. A wag shaves a bearded comrade on one side of his face, pockets his
razor and refuses to shave the other side. A poet, with a bandaged eye, and
hair like a windblown hay-stack, recites "I am dying, Egypt-- dying," and then
a pure, clear, tenor voice starts through the forest-aisles, and there is
sudden silence. Every man knows that voice, and loves the boy who owns
it--little Tom Morgan, Dan's brother-in-arms, the General's seventeen-year-old
brother--and there he stands leaning against a tree, full in the light of the
fire, a handsome, gallant figure--a song like a seraph's pouring from his
lips. One bearded soldier is gazing at him with curious intentness, and when
the song ceases, lies down with a suddenly troubled face. He has seen the
"death-look" in the boy's eyes--that prophetic death-look in which he has
unshaken faith. The night deepens, figures roll up in blankets, quiet comes,
and Dan lies wide awake and deep in memories, and looking back on those early
helpless days of the war with a tolerant smile.

He was a war-worn veteran now, but how vividly he could recall that first
night in the camp of a big army, in the very woods where he now lay--dusk
settling over the Green River country, which Morgan's Men grew to love so
well; a mocking-bird singing a farewell song from the top of a stunted oak to
the dead summer and the dying day; Morgan seated on a cracker-box in front of
his tent, contemplatively chewing one end of his mustache; Lieutenant Hunt
swinging from his horse, smiling grimly.

"It would make a horse laugh--a Yankee cavalry horse, anyhow--to see this
army."

Hunt had been over the camp that first afternoon on a personal tour of
investigation. They were not a thousand Springfield and Enfield rifles at that
time in Johnston's army. Half of the soldiers were armed with shotguns and
squirrel rifle and the greater part of the other half with flintlock muskets.
But nearly every man, thinking he was in for a rough-and-tumble fight, had a
bowie knife and a revolver swung to his belt.

"Those Arkansas and Texas fellows have got knives that would make a Malay's
blood run cold."

"Well, they'll do to hew firewood and cut meat," laughed Morgan.

The troops were not only badly armed. On his tour, Hunt had seen men making
blankets of pieces of old carpet, lined on one side with a piece of cotton
cloth; men wearing ox-hide buskins, or complicated wrapping of rags, for
shoes; orderly sergeants making out reports on shingles; surgeon using a
twisted handkerchief instead of a tourniquet. There was a total lack of
medicine, and camp diseases were already breaking out--measles, typhoid fever,
pneumonia, bowel troubles--each fatal, it seemed, in time of war.

"General Johnston has asked Richmond for a stand of thirty thousand arms,"
Morgan had mused, and Hunt looked up inquiringly.

"Mr. Davis can only spare a thousand."

"That's lucky," said Hunt, grimly.

And then the military organization of that army, so characteristic of the
Southerner! An officer who wanted to be more than a colonel, and couldn't be a
brigadier, would have a "legion"-- a hybrid unit between a regiment and a
brigade. Sometimes there was a regiment whose roll-call was more than two
thousand men, so popular was its colonel. Companies would often refuse to
designate themselves by letter, but by the thrilling titles they had given
themselves. How Morgan and Hunt had laughed over "The Yellow Jackets," "The
Dead Shots," "The Earthquakes," "The Chickasha Desperadoes," and "The Hell
Roarers"! Regiments would bear the names of their commanders--a singular
instance of the Southerner's passion for individuality, as a man, a company, a
regiment, or a brigade. And there was little or no discipline, as the word is
understood among the military elect, and with no army that the world has ever
seen, Richard Hunt always claimed, was there so little need of it. For
Southern soldiers, he argued, were, from the start, obedient, zealous, and
tolerably patient, from good sense and a strong sense of duty. They were born
fighters; a spirit of emulation induced them to learn the drill; pride and
patriotism kept them true and patient to the last, but they could not be made,
by punishment or the fear of it, into machines. They read their chance of
success, not in opposing numbers, but in the character and reputation of their
commanders, who, in turn, believed, as a rule, that "the unthinking automaton,
formed by routine and punishment, could no more stand before the high-strung
young soldier with brains and good blood, and some practice and knowledge of
warfare, than a tree could resist a stroke of lightning." So that with
Southern soldiers discipline came to mean "the pride which made soldiers learn
their duties rather than incur disgrace; the subordination that came from
self-respect and respect for the man whom they thought worthy to command
them."

Boots and saddles again at daybreak! By noon the column reached Green River,
over the Kentucky line, where Morgan, even on his way down to join Johnston,
had begun the operations which were to make him famous. No picket duty that
infantry could do as well, for Morgan's cavalry! He wanted it kept out on the
front or the flanks of an army, and as close as possible upon the enemy. Right
away, there had been thrilling times for Dan in the Green River
country--setting out at dark, chasing countrymen in Federal pay or sympathy,
prowling all night around and among pickets and outposts; entrapping the
unwary; taking a position on the line of retreat at daybreak, and turning
leisurely back to camp with prisoners and information. How memories thronged!
At this very turn of the road, Dan remembered, they had their first brush with
the enemy. No plan of battle had been adopted, other than to hide on both
sides of the road and send their horses to the rear.

"I think we ought to charge 'em," said Georgie Forbes, Chad's old enemy. Dan
saw that his lip trembled, and, a moment later, Georgie, muttering something,
disappeared.

The Yankees had come on, and, discovering them, halted. Morgan himself stepped
out in the road and shot the officer riding at the head of the column. His men
fell back without returning the fire, deployed and opened up. Dan recognized
the very tree behind which he had stood, and again he could almost hear
Richard Hunt chuckling from behind another close by.

"We would be in bad shape," said Richard Hunt, as the bullets whistled high
overhead, "if we were in the tops of these trees instead of behind them."
There had been no maneuvering, no command given among the Confederates. Each
man fought his own fight. In ten minutes a horse-holder ran up from the rear,
breathless, and announced that the Yankees were flanking. Every man withdrew,
straightway, after his own fashion, and in his own time. One man was wounded
and several were shot through the clothes.

"That was like a camp-meeting or an election row," laughed Morgan, when they
were in camp.

"Or an affair between Austrian and Italian outposts," said Hunt.

A chuckle rose behind them. A lame colonel was limping past.

"I got your courier," he said.

"I sent no courier," said Morgan.

"It was Forbes who wanted to charge 'em," said Dan.

Again the Colonel chuckled.

"The Yankees ran when you did," he said, and limped, chuckling, away.

But it was great fun, those moonlit nights, burning bridges and chasing Home
Guards who would flee fifteen or twenty miles sometimes to "rally." Here was a
little town through which Dan and Richard Hunt had marched with nine prisoners
in a column--taken by them alone--and a captured United States flag, flying in
front, scaring Confederate sympathizers and straggling soldiers, as Hunt
reported, horribly. Dan chuckled at the memory, for the prisoners were
quartered with different messes, and, that night, several bottles of sparkling
Catawba happened, by some mystery, to be on hand. The prisoners were told that
this was regularly issued by their commissaries, and thereupon they plead,
with tears, to be received into the Confederate ranks.

This kind of service was valuable training for Morgan's later work. Slight as
it was, it soon brought him thirty old, condemned artillery-horses--Dan smiled
now at the memory of those ancient chargers--which were turned over to Morgan
to be nursed until they would bear a mount, and, by and by, it gained him a
colonelcy and three companies, superbly mounted and equipped, which, as
"Morgan's Squadron," became known far and near. Then real service began.

In January, the right wing of Johnston's hungry hawk had been broken in the
Cumberland Mountains. Early in February, Johnston had withdrawn it from
Kentucky before Buell's hosts, with its beak always to the foe. By the middle
of the month, Grant had won the Western border States to the Union, with the
capture of Fort Donelson. In April, the sun of Shiloh rose and set on the
failure of the first Confederate aggressive campaign at the West; and in that
fight Dan saw his first real battle, and Captain Hunt was wounded. In May,
Buell had pushed the Confederate lines south and east toward Chattanooga. To
retain a hold on the Mississippi valley, the Confederates must make another
push for Kentucky, and it was this great Southern need that soon put John
Morgan's name on the lips of every rebel and Yankee in the middle South. In
June, provost-marshals were appointed in every county in Kentucky; the dogs of
war began to be turned locals on the "secesh sympathizers" throughout the
State, and Jerome Conners, overseer, began to render sly service to the Union
cause.

For it was in June that Morgan paid his first memorable little visit to the
Bluegrass, and Daniel Dean wrote his brother Harry the short tale of the raid.

"We left Dixie with nine hundred men," the letter ran, "and got back in
twenty-four days with twelve hundred. Travelled over one thousand miles,
captured seventeen towns, destroyed all Government supplies and arms in them,
scattered fifteen hundred Home Guards, and paroled twelve hundred regular
troops. Lost of the original nine hundred, in killed, wounded, and missing,
about ninety men. How's that? We kept twenty thousand men busy guarding
Government posts or chasing us, and we're going back often. Oh Harry, I AM
glad that you are with Grant."

But Harry was not with Grant--not now While Morgan was marching up from Dixie
to help Kirby Smith in the last great effort that the Confederacy was about to
make to win Kentucky--down from the yellow river marched the Fourth Ohio
Cavalry to go into camp at Lexington; and with it marched Chadwick Buford and
Harry Dean who, too, were veterans now--who, too, were going home. Both lads
wore a second lieutenant's empty shoulder-straps, which both yet meant to fill
with bars, but Chad's promotion had not come as swiftly as Harry had
predicted; the Captain, whose displeasure he had incurred, prevented that. It
had come, in time, however, and with one leap he had landed, after Shiloh, at
Harry's side. In the beginning, young Dean had wanted to go to the Army of the
Potomac, as did Chad, but one quiet word from the taciturn colonel with the
stubbly reddish-brown beard and the perpetual black cigar kept both where they
were.

"Though," said Grant to Chad, as his eye ran over beautiful Dixie from tip of
nose to tip of tail, and came back to Chad, slightly twinkling, "I've a great
notion to put you in the infantry just to get hold of that horse."

So it was no queer turn of fate that had soon sent both the lads to help hold
Zollicoffer at Cumberland Gap, that stopped them at Camp Dick Robinson to join
forces with Wolford's cavalry, and brought Chad face to face with an old
friend. Wolford's cavalry was gathered from the mountains and the hills, and
when some scouts came in that afternoon, Chad, to his great joy, saw, mounted
on a gaunt sorrel, none other than his old school-master, Caleb Hazel, who,
after shaking hands with both Harry and Chad, pointed silently at a great,
strange figure following him on a splendid horse some fifty yards behind. The
man wore a slouch hat, tow linen breeches, home-made suspenders, a belt with
two pistols, and on his naked heels were two huge Texan spurs. Harry broke
into a laugh, and Chad's puzzled face cleared when the man grinned; it was
Yankee Jake Dillon, one of the giant twins. Chad looked at him curiously; that
blow on the head that his brother, Rebel Jerry, had given him, had wrought a
miracle. The lips no longer hung apart, but were set firmly, and the eye was
almost keen; the face was still rather stupid, but not foolish--and it was
still kind. Chad knew that, somewhere in the Confederate lines, Rebel Jerry
was looking for Jake, as Yankee Jake, doubtless, was now looking for Jerry,
and he began to think that it might be well for Jerry if neither was ever
found. Daws Dillon, so he learned from Caleb Hazel and Jake, was already
making his name a watchword of terror along the border of Virginia and
Tennessee, and was prowling, like a wolf, now and then, along the edge of the
Bluegrass. Old Joel Turner had died of his wound, Rube had gone off to the war
and Mother Turner and Melissa were left at home, alone.

"Daws fit fust on one side and then on t'other," said Jake, and then he smiled
in a way that Chad understood; "an' sence you was down thar last Daws don't
seem to hanker much atter meddlin' with the Turners, though the two women did
have to run over into Virginny, once in a while. Melissy," he added, "was
a-goin' to marry Dave Hilton, so folks said; and he reckoned they'd already
hitched most likely, sence Chad thar--"

A flash from Chad's eyes stopped him, and Chad, seeing Harry's puzzled face,
turned away. He was glad that Melissa was going to marry--yes, he was glad;
and how he did pray that she might be happy!

Fighting Zollicoffer, only a few days later, Chad and Harry had their baptism
of fire, and strange battle orders they heard, that made them smile even in
the thick of the fight.

"Huddle up thar!" "Scatterout, now!" "Form a line of fight!" "Wait till you
see the shine of their eyes!"

"I see 'em!" shouted a private, and "bang" went his gun. That was the way the
fight opened. Chad saw Harry's eyes blazing like stars from his pale face,
which looked pained and half sick, and Chad understood--the lads were fighting
their own people, and there was no help for it. A voice bellowed from the
rear, and a man in a red cap loomed in the smoke-mist ahead:

"Now, now! Git up and git, boys!"

That was the order for the charge, and the blue line went forward. Chad never
forgot that first battle-field when he saw it a few hours later strewn with
dead and wounded, the dead lying, as they dropped, in every conceivable
position, features stark, limbs rigid; one man with a half-smoked cigar on his
breast; the faces of so many beardless; some frowning, some as if asleep and
dreaming; and the wounded--some talking pitifully, some in delirium, some
courteous, patient, anxious to save trouble, others morose, sullen, stolid,
independent; never forgot it, even the terrible night after Shiloh, when he
searched heaps of wounded and slain for Caleb Hazel, who lay all through the
night wounded almost to death.

Later, the Fourth Ohio followed Johnston, as he gave way before Buell, and
many times did they skirmish and fight with ubiquitous Morgan's Men. Several
times Harry and Dan sent each other messages to say that each was still
unhurt, and both were in constant horror of some day coming face to face.
Once, indeed, Harry, chasing a rebel and firing at him, saw him lurch in his
saddle, and Chad, coming up, found the lad on the ground, crying over a
canteen which the rebel had dropped. It was marked with the initials D. D.,
the strap was cut by the bullet Harry had fired, and not for a week of
agonizing torture did Harry learn that the canteen, though Dan's, had been
carried that day by another man.

It was on these scouts and skirmishes that the four--Harry and Chad, and Caleb
Hazel and Yankee Jake Dillon, whose dog-like devotion to Chad soon became a
regimental joke--became known, not only among their own men, but among their
enemies, as the shrewdest and most daring scouts in the Federal service. Every
Morgan's man came to know the name of Chad Buford; but it was not until Shiloh
that Chad got his shoulder-straps, leading a charge under the very eye of
General Grant. After Shiloh, the Fourth Ohio went back to its old quarters
across the river, and no sooner were Chad and Harry there than Kentucky was
put under the Department of the Ohio; and so it was also no queer turn of fate
that now they were on their way to new head-quarters in Lexington.

Straight along the turnpike that ran between the Dean and the Buford farms,
the Fourth Ohio went in a cloud of thick dust that rose and settled like a
gray choking mist on the seared fields. Side by side rode Harry and Chad, and
neither spoke when, on the left, the white columns of the Dean house came into
view, and, on the right, the red brick of Chad's old home showed through the
dusty leaves; not even when both saw on the Dean porch the figures of two
women who, standing motionless, were looking at them. Harry's shoulders
drooped, and he stared stonily ahead, while Chad turned his head quickly. The
front door and shutters of the Buford house were closed, and there were few
signs of life about the place. Only at the gate was the slouching figure of
Jerome Conners, the overseer, who, waving his hat at the column, recognized
Chad, as he rode by, and spoke to him, Chad thought, with a covert sneer.
Farther ahead, and on the farthest boundary of the Buford farm, was a Federal
fort, now deserted, and the beautiful woodland that had once stood in perfect
beauty around it was sadly ravaged and nearly gone, as was the Dean woodland
across the road. It was plain that some people were paying the Yankee piper
for the death-dance in which a mighty nation was shaking its feet.

On they went, past the old college, down Broadway, wheeling at Second
Street--Harry going on with the regiment to camp on the other edge of the
town; Chad reporting with his colonel at General Ward's head-quarters, a
columned brick house on one corner of the college campus, and straight across
from the Hunt home, where he had first danced with Margaret Dean.

That night the two lay on the edge of the Ashland woods, looking up at the
stars, the ripened bluegrass--a yellow, moonlit sea--around them and the woods
dark and still behind them. Both smoked and were silent, but each knew that to
the other his thoughts were known; for both had been on the same errand that
day, and the miserable tale of the last ten months both had learned.

Trouble had soon begun for the ones who were dear to them, when both left for
the war. At once General Anderson had promised immunity from arrest to every
peaceable citizen in the State, but at once the shiftless, the prowling, the
lawless, gathered to the Home Guards for self-protection, to mask deviltry and
to wreak vengeance for private wrongs. At once mischief began. Along the Ohio,
men with Southern sympathies were clapped into prison. Citizens who had joined
the Confederates were pronounced guilty of treason, and Breckinridge was
expelled from the Senate as a traitor. Morgan's great raid in June, '61,
spread consternation through the land and, straightway, every district and
county were at the mercy of a petty local provost. No man of Southern
sympathies could stand for office. Courts in session were broken up with the
bayonet. Civil authority was overthrown. Destruction of property, indemnity
assessments on innocent men, arrests, imprisonment, and murder became of daily
occurrence. Ministers were jailed and lately prisons had even been prepared
for disloyal women. Major Buford, forced to stay at home on account of his
rheumatism and the serious illness of Miss Lucy, had been sent to prison once
and was now under arrest again. General Dean, old as he was, had escaped and
had gone to Virginia to fight with Lee; and Margaret and Mrs. Dean, with a few
servants, were out on the farm alone.

But neither spoke of the worst that both feared was yet to come--and "Taps"
sounded soft and dear on the night air.



CHAPTER 23. CHAD CAPTURES AN OLD FRIEND

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 hit 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.



CHAPTER 24. A RACE BETWEEN DIXIE AND DAWN

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
he 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

"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."

It was signed "John Morgan," and the signature was Morgan's own.

"I gave the order only last night. How could Morgan have heard of it so soon,
and how could he have got this note to me? Could he have come back?"

"Impossible," said the staff-officer. "He wouldn't dare come back now."

The Commandant shook his head doubtfully, and just then there was a knock at
the door and the operator, still pale and excited, spoke his message:

"General, the wires are cut."

The two officers stared at each other in silence.

. . . . . .

Twenty-seven miles to go and less than three hours before sunrise. There was a
race yet for the life of Daniel Dean. The gallant little mare could cover the
stretch with nearly an hour to spare, and Chad, thrilled in every nerve, but
with calm confidence, raced against the coming dawn.

"The wires are cut."

Who had cut them and where and when and why? No matter--Chad had the paper in
his pocket that would save two lives and he would be on time even if Dixie
broke her noble heart, but he could not get the words out of his brain--even
Dixie's hoofs beat them out ceaselessly:

"The wires are cut--the wires are cut!"

The mystery would have been clear, had Chad known the message that lay on the
Commandant's desk back at the Capital, for the boy knew Morgan, and that
Morgan's lips never opened for an idle threat. He would have ridden just as
hard, had he known, but a different purpose would have been his.

An hour more and there was still no light in the East. An hour more and one
red streak had shot upward; then ahead of him gleamed a picket fire --a fire
that seemed farther from town than any post he had seen on his way down to the
Capital --but he galloped on. Within fifty yards a cry came:

"Halt! Who comes there?"

"Friend," he shouted, reining in. A bullet whizzed past his head as he pulled
up outside the edge of the fire and Chad shouted indignantly:

"Don't shoot, you fool! I have a message for General Ward!"

"Oh! All right! Come on!" said the sentinel, but his hesitation and the tone
of his voice made the boy alert with suspicion. The other pickets about the
fire had risen and grasped their muskets. The wind flared the flames just then
and in the leaping light Chad saw that their uniforms were gray.

The boy almost gasped. There was need for quick thought and quick action now.

"Lower that blunderbuss," he called out, jestingly, and kicking loose from one
stirrup, he touched Dixie with the spur and pulled her up with an impatient
"Whoa," as though he were trying to replace his foot.

"You come on!" said the sentinel, but he dropped his musket to the hollow of
his arm, and, before he could throw it to his shoulder again, fire flashed
under Dixie's feet and the astonished rebel saw horse and rider rise over the
pike-fence. His bullet went overhead as Dixie landed on the other side, and
the pickets at the fire joined in a fusillade at the dark shapes speeding
across the bluegrass field. A moment later Chad's mocking yell rang from the
edge of the woods beyond and the disgusted sentinel split the night with
oaths.

"That beats the devil. We never touched him I swear, I believe that hoss had
wings."

Morgan! The flash of that name across his brain cleared the mystery for Chad
like magic. Nobody but Morgan and his daredevils could rise out of the ground
like that in the very midst of enemies when they were supposed to be hundreds
of Mlles away ~n Tennessee. Morgan had cut those wires. Morgan had every road
around Lexington guarded, no doubt, and was at that hour hemming in Chad's
unsuspicious regiment, whose camp was on the other side of town, and unless he
could give warning, Morgan would drop like a thunderbolt on it, asleep. He
must circle the town now to get around the rebel posts, and that meant several
miles more for Dixie.

He stopped and reached down to feel the little mare's flanks. Dixie drew a
long breath and dropped her muzzle to tear up a rich mouthful of bluegrass.

"Oh, you beauty!" said the boy, "you wonder!" And on he went, through woodland
and field, over gully, log, and fence, bullets ringing after him from nearly
every road he crossed.

Morgan was near. In disguise, when Bragg retreated, he had got permission to
leave Kentucky in his own way. That meant wheeling and making straight back to
Lexington to surprise the Fourth Ohio Cavalry; representing himself on the
way, one night, as his old enemy Wolford, and being guided a short cut through
the edge of the Bluegrass by an ardent admirer of the Yankee Colonel--the said
admirer giving Morgan the worst tirade possible, meanwhile, and nearly
tumbling from his horse when Morgan told him who he was and sarcastically
advised him to make sure next time to whom he paid his compliments.

So that while Chad, with the precious message under his jacket, and Dixie were
lightly thundering along the road, Morgan's Men were gobbling up pickets
around Lexington and making ready for an attack on the sleeping camp at dawn.

The dawn was nearly breaking now, and Harry Dean was pacing to and fro before
the old CourtHouse where Dan and Rebel Jerry lay under guard --pacing to and
fro and waiting for his mother and sister to come to say the last good-by to
the boy--for Harry had given up hope and had sent for them. At that very hour
Richard Hunt was leading his regiment around the Ashland woods where the enemy
lay; another regiment was taking its place between the camp and the town, and
gray figures were slipping noiselessly on the provost-guard that watched the
rebel prisoners who were waiting for death at sunrise. As the dawn broke, the
dash came, and Harry Dean was sick at heart as he sharply rallied the startled
guard to prevent the rescue of his own brother and straightway delirious with
joy when he saw the gray mass sweeping on him and knew that he would fail. A
few shots rang out; the far rattle of musketry rose between the camp and town;
the thunder of the " Bull Pups" saluted the coming light, and Dan and Rebel
Jerry had suddenly--instead of death--life, liberty, arms, a horse each, and
the sudden pursuit of happiness in a wild dash toward the Yankee camp, while
~n a dew-drenched meadow two miles away Chad Buford drew Dixie in to listen.
The fight was on.

If the rebels won, Dan Dean would be safe; if the Yankees--then there would
still be need of him and the paper over his heart. He was too late to warn,
but not, maybe, to fight--so he galloped on.

But the end came as he galloped. The amazed Fourth Ohio threw down its arms at
once, and Richard Hunt and his men, as they sat on their horses outside the
camp picking up stragglers, saw a lone scout coming at a gallop across the
still, gray fields. His horse was black and his uniform was blue, but he came
straight on, apparently not seeing the rebels behind the ragged hedge along
the road. When within thirty yards, Richard Hunt rode through a roadside gate
to meet him and saluted.

"You are my prisoner," he said, courteously.

The Yankee never stopped, but wheeled, almost brushing the hedge as he turned.

"Prisoner--hell!" he said, clearly, and like a bird was skimming away while
the men behind the hedge, paralyzed by his daring, fired not a shot. Only Dan
Dean started through the gate in pursuit.

"I want him," he said, savagely.

"Who's that?" asked Morgan, who had ridden up.

"That's a Yankee," laughed Colonel Hunt.

"Why didn't you shoot him?" The Colonel laughed again.

"I don't know," he said, looking around at his men, who, too, were smiling.

"That's the fellow who gave us so much trouble in the Green River Country,"
said a soldier. "It's Chad Buford."

"Well, I'm glad we didn't shoot him," said Colonel Hunt, thinking of Margaret.
That was not the way he liked to dispose of a rival.

"Dan will catch him," said an officer. He wants him bad, and I don't wonder."
Just then Chad lifted Dixie over a fence.

"Not much," said Morgan. "I'd rather you'd shot him than that horse."

Dan was gaining now, and Chad, in the middle of the field beyond the fence,
turned his head and saw the lone rebel in pursuit. Deliberately he pulled
weary Dixie in, faced about, and waited. He drew his pistol, raised it, saw
that the rebel was Daniel Dean, and dropped it again to his side. Verily the
fortune of that war was strange. Dan's horse refused the fence and the boy, in
a rage, lifted his pistol and fired. Again Chad raised his own pistol and
again he lowered it just as Dan fired again. This time Chad lurched in his
saddle, but recovering himself, turned and galloped slowly away, while
Dan--his pistol hanging at his side--stared after him, and the wondering
rebels behind the hedge stared hard at Dan.

. . . . . .

All was over. The Fourth Ohio Cavalry was in rebel hands, and a few minutes
later Dan rode with General Morgan and Colonel Hunt toward the Yankee camp.
There had been many blunders in the fight. Regiments had fired into each other
in the confusion and the "Bull Pups" had kept on pounding the Yankee camp even
while the rebels were taking possession of it. On the way they met Renfrew,
the Silent, in his brilliant Zouave jacket.

"Colonel," he said, indignantly--and it was the first time many had ever heard
him open his lips --"some officer over there deliberately fired twice at me,
though I was holding my arms over my head."

"It was dark," said Colonel Hunt, soothingly. "He didn't know you."

"Ah, Colonel, he might not have known me-- but he must have known this
jacket."

On the outskirts of one group of prisoners was a tall, slender young
lieutenant with a streak of blood across one cheek. Dan pulled in his horse
and the two met each other's eyes silently. Dan threw himself from his horse.

"Are you hurt, Harry?"

"It's nothing--but you've got me, Dan."

"Why, Harry!" said Morgan. "Is that you? You are paroled, my boy," he added,
kindly. "Go home and stay until you are exchanged."

So, Harry, as a prisoner, did what he had not done before--he went home
immediately. And home with him went Dan and Colonel Hunt, while they could,
for the Yankees would soon be after them from the north, east, south and west.
Behind them trotted Rebel Jerry. On the edge of town they saw a negro lashing
a pair of horses along the turnpike toward them. Two white faced women were
seated in a carriage behind him, and in a moment Dan was in the arms of his
mother and sister and both women were looking, through tears, their speechless
gratitude to Richard Hunt.

The three Confederates did not stay long at the Deans'. Jerry Dillon was on
the lookout, and even while the Deans were at dinner, Rufus ran in with the
familiar cry that Yankees were coming. It was a regiment from an adjoining
county, but Colonel Hunt finished his coffee, amid all the excitement, most
leisurely.

"You'll pardon us for eating and running, won't you, Mrs. Dean?" It was the
first time in her life that Mrs. Dean ever speeded a parting guest.

"Oh, do hurry, Colonel--please, please." Dan laughed.

"Good-by, Harry," he said. "We'll give you a week or two at home before we get
that exchange."

"Don't make it any longer than necessary, please," said Harry, gravely.

"We're coming back again, Mrs. Dean," said he Colonel, and then in a lower
tone to Margaret: "I'm coming often," he added, and Margaret blushed in a way
that would not have given very great joy to one Chadwick Buford.

Very leisurely the three rode out to the pike gate, where they halted and
surveyed the advancing column, which was still several hundred yards away, and
then with a last wave of their caps, started in a slow gallop for town. The
advance guard started suddenly in pursuit, and the Deans saw Dan turn in his
saddle and heard his defiant yell. Margaret ran down and fixed her flag in its
place on the fence--Harry watching her.

"Mother," he said, sadly, "you don't know what trouble you may be laying for
up yourself."

Fate could hardly lay up more than what she already had, but the mother
smiled.

"I can do nothing with Margaret," she said.

In town the Federal flags had been furled and the Stars and Bars thrown out to
the wind. Morgan was preparing to march when Dan and Colonel Hunt galloped up
to head-quarters.

"They're coming," said Hunt, quietly.

"Yes," said Morgan, "from every direction."

"Ah, John," called an old fellow, who, though a Unionist, believing in keeping
peace with both sides, "when we don't expect you--then is the time you come.
Going to stay long?"

"Not long," said Morgan, grimly. "In fact, I guess we'll be moving along now."

And he did--back to Dixie with his prisoners, tearing up railroads, burning
bridges and trestles, and pursued by enough Yankees to have eaten him and his
entire command if they ever could have caught him. As they passed into Dixie,
"Lightning" captured a telegraph office and had a last little fling at his
Yankee brethren.

"Head-quarters, Telegraph Dept. of Ky., Confederate States of America"--thus
he headed his General Order No. to the various Union authorities throughout
the State

"Hereafter," he clicked, grinning, "an operator will destroy telegraphic
instruments and all material in charge when informed that Morgan has crossed
the border. Such instances of carelessness as lately have been exhibited in
the Bluegrass will be severely dealt with.

"By order of

LIGHTNING,

"Gen. Supt. C. S. Tel. Dept."

Just about that time Chad Buford, in a Yankee hospital, was coming back from
the land of ether dreams. An hour later, the surgeon who had taken Dan's
bullet from his shoulder, handed him a piece of paper, black with faded blood
and scarcely legible.

"I found that in your jacket," he said. "Is it important?"

Chad smiled.

"No," he said. "Not now."



CHAPTER 25. AFTER DAWS DILLON--GUERILLA

Once more, and for the last time, Chadwick Buford jogged along the turnpike
from the Ohio to the heart of the Bluegrass. He had filled his empty
shoulder-straps with two bars. He had a bullet wound through one shoulder and
there was a beautiful sabre cut across his right cheek. He looked the soldier
every inch of him; he was, in truth, what he looked; and he was, moreover, a
man. Naturally, his face was stern and resolute, if only from habit of
authority, but he had known no passion during the war that might have seared
its kindness; no other feeling toward his foes than admiration for their
unquenchable courage and miserable regret that to such men he must be a foe.

Now, it was coming spring again--the spring of '64, and but one more year of
the war to come.

The capture of the Fourth Ohio by Morgan that autumn of '62 had given Chad his
long-looked-for chance. He turned Dixie's head toward the foothills to join
Wolford, for with Wolford was the work that he loved--that leader being more
like Morgan in his method and daring than any other Federal cavalryman in the
field behind him, in Kentucky, he left the State under martial sway once more,
and, thereafter, the troubles of rebel sympathizers multiplied steadily, for
never again was the State under rebel control. A heavy hand was laid on every
rebel roof. Major Buford was sent to prison again. General Dean was in
Virginia, fighting, and only the fact that there was no man in the Dean
household on whom vengeance could fall, saved Margaret and Mrs. Dean from
suffering, but even the time of women was to come.

On the last day of '62, Murfreesboro was fought and the second great effort of
the Confederacy at the West was lost. Again Bragg withdrew. On New Year's Day,
'63, Lincoln freed the slaves--and no rebel was more indignant than was
Chadwick Buford. The Kentucky Unionists, in general, protested: the
Confederates had broken the Constitution, they said; the Unionists were
helping to maintain that contract and now the Federals had broken the
Constitution, and their own high ground was swept from beneath their feet.
They protested as bitterly as their foes, be it said, against the Federals
breaking up political conventions with bayonets and against the ruin of
innocent citizens for the crimes of guerillas, for whose acts nobody was
responsible, but all to no avail. The terrorism only grew the more.

When summer came, and while Grant was bisecting the Confederacy at Vicksburg,
by opening the Mississippi, and Lee was fighting Gettysburg, Chad, with
Wolford, chased Morgan when he gathered his clans for his last daring
venture--to cross the Ohio and strike the enemy on its own hearth-stones--and
thus give him a little taste of what the South had long known from border to
border. Pursued by Federals, Morgan got across the river, waving a farewell to
his pursuing enemies on the other bank, and struck out. Within three days, one
hundred thousand men were after him and his two thousand daredevils, cutting
down trees behind him (in case he should return!), flanking him, getting in
his front, but on he went, uncaught and spreading terror for a thousand miles,
while behind him for six hundred miles country people lined the dusty road,
singing "Rally 'round the Flag, Boys," and handing out fried chicken and
blackberry-pie to his pursuers. Men taken afterward with typhoid fever sang
that song through their delirium and tasted fried chicken no more as long as
they lived. Hemmed in as Morgan was, he would have gotten away, but for the
fact that a heavy fog made him miss the crossing of the river, and for the
further reason that the first rise in the river in that month for twenty years
made it impossible for his command to swim. He might have fought out, but his
ammunition was gone. Many did escape, and Morgan himself could have gotten
away. Chad, himself, saw the rebel chief swimming the river on a powerful
horse, followed by a negro servant on another--saw him turn deliberately in
the middle of the stream, when it was plain that his command could not escape,
and make for the Ohio shore to share the fortunes of his beloved officers who
were left behind. Chad heard him shout to the negro:

"Go back, you will be drowned." The negro turned his face and Chad laughed--it
was Snowball, grinning and shaking his head:

"No, Mars John, no suh!" he yelled. "It's all right fer YOU! YOU can git a
furlough, but dis nigger ain't gwine to be cotched in no free State. 'Sides,
Mars Dan, he gwine to get away, too." And Dan did get away, and Chad, to his
shame, saw Morgan and Colonel Hunt loaded on a boat to be sent down to prison
in a State penitentiary! It was a grateful surprise to Chad, two months later,
to learn from a Federal officer that Morgan with six others had dug out of
prison and escaped.

"I was going through that very town," said the officer, "and a fellow, shaved
and sheared like a convict, got aboard and sat down in the same seat with me.
As we passed the penitentiary, he turned with a yawn--and said, in a
matter-of-fact way:

"'That's where Morgan is kept, isn't it?" and then he drew out a flask. I
thought he had wonderfully good manners in spite of his looks, and, so help
me, if he didn't wave his hand, bow like a Bayard, and hand it over to me:

"'Let's drink to the hope that Morgan may always be as safe as he is now.' I
drank to his toast with a hearty Amen, and the fellow never cracked a smile.
It was Morgan himself."

Early in '64 the order had gone round for negroes to be enrolled as soldiers,
and again no rebel felt more outraged than Chadwick Buford. Wolford, his
commander, was dishonorably dismissed from the service for bitter protests and
harsh open criticism of the Government, and Chad, himself, felt like tearing
off with his own hands the straps which he had won with so much bravery and
worn with so much pride. But the instinct that led him into the Union service
kept his lips sealed when his respect for that service, in his own State, was
well-nigh gone--kept him in that State where he thought his duty lay. There
was need of him and thousands more like him. For, while active war was now
over in Kentucky, its brood of evils was still thickening. Every county in the
State was ravaged by a guerilla band--and the ranks of these marauders began
to be swelled by Confederates, particularly in the mountains and in the hills
that skirt them. Banks, trains, public vaults, stores, were robbed right and
left, and murder and revenge were of daily occurrence. Daws Dillon was an open
terror both in the mountains and in the Bluegrass. Hitherto the bands had been
Union and Confederate but now, more and more, men who had been rebels joined
them. And Chad Buford could understand. For, many a rebel soldier--"hopeless
now for his cause," as Richard Hunt was wont to say, "fighting from pride,
bereft of sympathy, aid, and encouragement that he once received, and
compelled to wring existence from his own countrymen; a cavalryman on some
out-post department, perhaps, without rations, fluttering with rags; shod, if
shod at all, with shoes that sucked in rain and cold; sleeping at night under
the blanket that kept his saddle by day from his sore-backed horse; paid, if
paid at all, with waste paper; hardened into recklessness by war--many a rebel
soldier thus became a guerrilla--consoling himself, perhaps, with the thought
that his desertion was not to the enemy."

Bad as the methods of such men were, they were hardly worse than the means
taken in retaliation. At first, Confederate sympathizers were arrested and
held as hostages for all persons captured and detained by guerillas. Later,
when a citizen was killed by one of these bands, four prisoners, supposed to
be chosen from this class of free-booters, were taken from prison and shot to
death on the spot where the deed was done. Now it was rare that one of these
brigands was ever taken alive, and thus regular soldier after soldier who was
a prisoner of war, and entitled to consideration as such, was taken from
prison and murdered by the Commandant without even a court-martial. It was
such a death that Dan Dean and Rebel Jerry had narrowly escaped. Union men
were imprisoned even for protesting against these outrages, so that between
guerilla and provost-marshal no citizen, whether Federal or Confederate, in
sympathy, felt safe in property, life, or liberty. The better Unionists were
alienated, but worse yet was to come. Hitherto, only the finest chivalry had
been shown women and children throughout the war. Women whose brothers and
husbands and sons were in the rebel army, or dead on the battle-field, were
banished now with their children to Canada under a negro guard, or sent to
prison. State authorities became openly arrayed against provost-marshals and
their followers. There was almost an open clash. The Governor, a Unionist,
threatened even to recall the Kentucky troops from the field to come back and
protect their homes. Even the Home Guards got disgusted with their masters,
and for a while it seemed as if the State, between guerilla and
provost-marshal, would go to pieces. For months the Confederates had
repudiated all connection with these free-booters and had joined with Federals
in hunting them down, but when the State government tried to raise troops to
crush them, the Commandant not only ordered his troops to resist the State,
but ordered the muster-out of all State troops then in service.

The Deans little knew then how much trouble Captain Chad Buford, whose daring
service against guerillas had given him great power with the Union
authorities, had saved them--how he had kept them from arrest and imprisonment
on the charge of none other than Jerome Conners, the overseer; how he had
ridden out to pay his personal respects to the complainant, and that brave
gentleman, seeing him from afar, had mounted his horse and fled,
terror-stricken. They never knew that just after this he had got a furlough
and gone to see Grant himself, who had sent him on to tell his story to Mr.
Lincoln

"Go back to Kentucky, then," said Grant, with his quiet smile, "and if General
Ward has nothing particular for you to do, I want him to send you to me," and
Chad had gone from him, dizzy with pride and hope.

"I'm going to do something," said Mr. Lincoln, "and I'm going to do it right
away."

And now, in the spring of '64, Chad carried in his breast despatches from the
President himself to General Ward at Lexington.

As he rode over the next hill, from which he would get his first glimpse of
his old home and the Deans', his heart beat fast and his eyes swept both sides
of the road. Both houses even the Deans'--were shuttered and closed--both
tenantless. He saw not even a negro cabin that showed a sign of life.

On he went at a gallop toward Lexington. Not a single rebel flag had he seen
since he left the Ohio, nor was he at all surprised; the end could not be far
off, and there was no chance that the Federals would ever again lose the
State.

On the edge of the town he overtook a Federal officer. It was Harry Dean, pale
and thin from long imprisonment and sickness. Harry had been with Sherman, had
been captured again, and, in prison, had almost died with fever. He had come
home to get well only to find his sister and mother sent as exiles to Canada.
Major Buford was still in prison, Miss Lucy was dead, and Jerome Conners
seemed master of the house and farm. General Dean had been killed, had been
sent home, and was buried in the garden. It was only two days after the
burial, Harry said, that Margaret and her mother had to leave their home. Even
the bandages that Mrs. Dean had brought out to Chad's wounded sergeant, that
night he had captured and lost Dan, had been brought up as proof that she and
Margaret were aiding and abetting Confederates. Dan had gone to join Morgan
and Colonel Hunt over in southwestern Virginia, where Morgan had at last got a
new command only a few months before. Harry made no word of comment, but
Chad's heart got bitter as gall as he listened. And this had happened to the
Deans while he was gone to serve them. But the bloody Commandant of the State
would be removed from power--that much good had been done--as Chad learned
when he presented himself, with a black face, to his general.

"I could not help it," said the General, quickly. "He seems to have hated the
Deans." And again read the despatches slowly. "You have done good work. There
will be less trouble now." Then he paused. "I have had a letter from General
Grant. He wants you on his staff." Again he paused, and it took the three past
years of discipline to help Chad keep his self-control. "That is, if I have
nothing particular for you to do. He seems to know what you have done and to
suspect that there may be something more here for you to do. He's right. I
want you to destroy Daws Dillon and his band. There will be no peace until he
is out of the way. You know the mountains better than anybody. You are the man
for the work. You will take one company from Wolford's regiment--he has been
reinstated, you know--and go at once. When you have finished that--you can go
to General Grant." The General smiled. "You are rather young to be so near a
major--perhaps."

A major! The quick joy of the thought left him when he went down the stairs to
the portico and saw Harry Dean's thin, sad face, and thought of the new grave
in the Deans' garden and those two lonely women in exile. There was one small
grain of consolation. It was his old enemy, Daws Dillon, who had slain Joel
Turner; Daws who had almost ruined Major Buford and had sent him to
prison--Daws had played no small part in the sorrows of the Deans, and on the
heels of Daws Dillon he soon would be.

"I suppose I am to go with you," said Harry.

"Why, yes," said Chad, startled; "how did you know?"

"I didn't know. How far is Dillon's hiding-place from where Morgan is?"

"Across the mountains." Chad understood suddenly. "You won't have to go," he
said, quickly.

"I'll go where I am ordered," said Harry Dean.



CHAPTER 26. BROTHER AGAINST BROTHER AT LAST

It was the first warm day of spring and the sunshine was very soothing to
Melissa as she sat on the old porch early in the afternoon. Perhaps it was a
memory of childhood, perhaps she was thinking of the happy days she and Chad
had spent on the river bank long ago, and perhaps it was the sudden thought
that, with the little they had to eat in the house and that little the same
three times a day, week in and week out, Mother Turner, who had been ailing,
would like to have some fish; perhaps it was the primitive hunting instinct
that, on such a day, sets a country boy's fingers itching for a squirrel rifle
or a cane fishing-pole, but she sprang from her seat, leaving old Jack to doze
on the porch, and, in half an hour, was crouched down behind a boulder below
the river bend, dropping a wriggling worm into a dark, still pool. As she sat
there, contented and luckless, the sun grew so warm that she got drowsy and
dozed--how long she did not know--but she awoke with a start and with a
frightened sense that someone was near her, though she could hear no sound.
But she lay still--her heart beating high--and so sure that her instinct was
true that she was not even surprised when she heard a voice in the thicket
above--a low voice, but one she knew perfectly well:

"I tell you he's a-comin' up the river now. He's a-goin' to stay with ole Ham
Blake ter-night over the mountain an' he'll be a-comin' through Hurricane Gap
'bout daylight termorrer or next day, shore. He's got a lot o' men, but we can
layway 'em in the Gap an' git away all right." It was Tad Dillon
speaking--Daws Dillon, his brother, answered:

"I don't want to kill anybody but that damned Chad--Captain Chad BUFORD, he
calls hisself."

"Well, we can git him all right. I heerd that they was a-lookin' fer us an'
was goin' to ketch us if they could."

"I wish I knowed that was so," said Daws with an oath. "Nary a one of 'em
would git away alive if I just knowed it was so. But we'll git CAPTAIN Chad
Buford, shore as hell! You go tell the boys to guard the Gap ter-night. They
mought come through afore day." And then the noise of their footsteps fainted
out of hearing and Melissa rose and sped back to the house.

From behind a clump of bushes above where she had sat, rose the gigantic
figure of Rebel Jerry Dillon. He looked after the flying girl with a grim
smile and then dropped his great bulk down on the bed of moss where he had
been listening to the plan of his enemies and kinsmen. Jerry had made many
expeditions over from Virginia lately and each time he had gone back with a
new notch on the murderous knife that he carried in his belt. He had but two
personal enemies alive now--Daws Dillon, who had tried to have him shot, and
his own brother, Yankee Jake. This was the second time he had been over for
Daws, and after his first trip he had persuaded Dan to ask permission from
General Morgan to take a company into Kentucky and destroy Daws and his band,
and Morgan had given him leave, for Federals and Confederates were chasing
down these guerillas now--sometimes even joining forces to further their
common purpose. Jerry had been slipping through the woods after Daws, meaning
to crawl close enough to kill him and, perhaps, Tad Dillon too, if necessary,
but after hearing their plan he had let them go, for a bigger chance might be
at hand. If Chad Buford was in the mountains looking for Daws, Yankee Jake was
with him. If he killed Daws now, Chad and his men would hear of his death and
would go back, most likely--and that was the thought that checked his finger
on the trigger of his pistol. Another thought now lifted him to his feet with
surprising quickness and sent him on a run down the river where his horse was
hitched in the bushes. He would go over the mountain for Dan. He could lead
Dan and his men to Hurricane Gap by daylight. Chad Buford could fight it out
with Daws and his gang, and he and Dan would fight it out with the men who
won--no matter whether Yankees or guerillas. And a grim smile stayed on Rebel
Jerry's face as he climbed.

On the porch of the Turner cabin sat Melissa with her hands clinched and old
Jack's head in her lap. There was no use worrying Mother Turner--she feared
even to tell her--but what should she do? She might boldly cross the mountain
now, for she was known to be a rebel, but the Dillons knowing, too, how close
Chad had once been to the Turners might suspect and stop her. No, if she went
at all, she must go after nightfall--but how would she get away from Mother
Turner, and how could she make her way, undetected through Hurricane Gap? The
cliffs were so steep and close together in one place that she could hardly
pass more than forty feet from the road on either side and she could not pass
that close to pickets and not be heard. Her brain ached with planning and she
was so absorbed as night came on that several times old Mother Turner
querulously asked what was ailing her and why she did not pay more heed to her
work, and the girl answered her patiently and went on with her planning.
Before dark, she knew what she would do, and after the old mother was asleep,
she rose softly and slipped out the door without awakening even old Jack, and
went to the barn, where she got the sheep-bell that old Beelzebub used to wear
and with the clapper caught in one hand, to keep the bell from tinkling, she
went swiftly down the road toward Hurricane Gap. Several times she had to dart
into the bushes while men on horseback rode by her, and once she came near
being caught by three men on foot--all hurrying at Daws Dillon's order to the
Gap through which she must go. When the road turned from the river, she went
slowly along the edge of it, so that if discovered, she could leap with one
spring into the bushes. It was raining--a cold drizzle that began to chill her
and set her to coughing so that she was half afraid that she might disclose
herself. At the mouth of the Gap she saw a fire on one side of the road and
could hear talking, but she had no difficulty passing it, on the other side.
But on, where the Gap narrowed--there was the trouble. It must have been an
hour before midnight when she tremblingly neared the narrow defile. The rain
had ceased, and as she crept around a boulder she could see, by the light of
the moon between two black clouds, two sentinels beyond. The crisis was at
hand now. She slipped to one side of the road, climbed the cliff as high as
she could and crept about it. She was past one picket now, and in her
eagerness one foot slipped and she half fell. She almost held her breath and
lay still.

"I hear somethin' up thar in the bresh," shouted the second picket. "Halt!"

Melissa tinkled the sheep-bell and pushed a bush to and fro as though a sheep
or a cow might be rubbing itself, and the picket she had passed laughed aloud.

"Goin' to shoot ole Sally Perkins's cow, air you?" he said, jeeringly. "Yes, I
heerd her," he added, lying; for, being up all the night before, he had
drowsed at his post. A moment later, Melissa moved on, making considerable
noise and tinkling her bell constantly. She was near the top now and when she
peered out through the bushes, no one was in sight and she leaped into the
road and fled down the mountain. At the foot of the spur another ringing cry
smote the darkness in front of her:

"Halt! Who goes there?"

"Don't shoot!" she cried, weakly. "It's only me."

"Advance, 'Me,'" said the picket, astonished to hear a woman's voice. And then
into the light of his fire stepped a shepherdess with a sheep-bell in her
hand, with a beautiful, pale, distressed face, a wet, clinging dress, and
masses of yellow hair surging out of the shawl over her head. The ill startled
picket dropped the butt of his musket to the ground and stared.

"I want to see Ch--, your captain," she said, timidly.

"All right," said the soldier, courteously. "He's just below there and I guess
he's up. We are getting ready to start now. Come along."

"Oh, no!" said Melissa, hurriedly. "I can't go down there." It had just struck
her that Chad must not see her; but the picket thought she naturally did not
wish to face a lot of soldiers in her bedraggled and torn dress, and he said
quickly:

"All right. Give me your message and I'll take it to him." He smiled. "You can
wait here and stand guard."

Melissa told him hurriedly how she had come over the mountain and what was
going on over there, and the picket with a low whistle started down toward his
camp without another word.

Chad could not doubt the accuracy of the information--the picket had names and
facts.

"A girl, you say?"

"Yes, sir"--the soldier hesitated--"and a very pretty one, too. She came over
the mountain alone and on foot through this darkness. She passed the pickets
on the other side--pretending to be a sheep. She had a bell in her hand." Chad
smiled--he knew that trick.

"Where is she?"

"She's standing guard for me."

The picket turned at a gesture from Chad and led the way. They found no
Melissa. She had heard Chad's voice and fled up the mountain. Before daybreak
she was descending the mountain on the other side, along the same way,
tinkling her sheep-bell and creeping past the pickets. It was raining again
now and her cold had grown worse. Several times she had to muffle her face
into her shawl to keep her cough from betraying her. As she passed the ford
below the Turner cabin, she heard the splash of many horses crossing the river
and she ran on, frightened and wondering. Before day broke she had slipped
into her bed without arousing Mother Turner, and she did not get up that day,
but lay ill abed.

The splashing of those many horses was made by Captain Daniel Dean and his
men, guided by Rebel Jerry. High on the mountain side they hid their horses in
a ravine and crept toward the Gap on foot--so that while Daws with his gang
waited for Chad, the rebels lay in the brush waiting for him. Dan was merry
over the prospect:

"We will just let them fight it out," he said, "and then we'll dash in and
gobble 'em both up. That was a fine scheme of yours, Jerry."

Rebel Jerry smiled: there was one thing he had not told his captain--who those
rebels were. Purposely he had kept that fact hidden. He had seen Dan purposely
refrain from killing Chad Buford once and he feared that Dan might think his
brother Harry was among the Yankees. All this Rebel Jerry failed to
understand, and he wanted nothing known now that might stay anybody's hand.
Dawn broke and nothing happened. Not a shot rang out and only the smoke of the
guerillas' fire showed in the peaceful mouth of the Gap. Dan wanted to attack
the guerillas, but Jerry persuaded him to wait until he could learn how the
land lay, and disappeared in the bushes. At noon he came back.

"The Yankees have found out Daws is thar in the Gap," he said, "an' they are
goin' to slip over before day ter-morrer and s'prise him. Hit don't make no
difference to us, which s'prises which--does it?"

So the rebels kept hid through the day in the bushes on the mountain side, and
when Chad slipped through the Gap next morning, before day, and took up the
guerilla pickets, Dan had moved into the same Gap from the other side, and was
lying in the bushes with his men, near the guerillas' fire, waiting for the
Yankees to make their attack. He had not long to wait. At the first white
streak of dawn overhead, a shout rang through the woods from the Yankees to
the startled guerillas.

"Surrender!" A fusillade followed. Again:

"Surrender!" and there was a short silence, broken by low curses from the
guerillas, and a stern Yankee voice giving short, quick orders. The guerillas
had given up. Rebel Jerry moved restlessly at Dan's side and Dan cautioned
him.

"Wait! Let them have time to disarm the prisoners," he whispered.

"Now," he added, a little while later--"creep quietly, boys."

Forward they went like snakes, creeping to the edge of the brush whence they
could see the sullen guerillas grouped on one side of the fire--their arms
stacked, while a tall figure in blue moved here and there, and gave orders in
a voice that all at once seemed strangely familiar to Dan.

"Now, boys," he said, half aloud, "give 'em a volley and charge."

At his word there was a rattling fusillade, and then the rebels leaped from
the bushes and dashed on the astonished Yankees and their prisoners. It was
pistol to pistol at first and then they closed to knife thrust and musket
butt, hand to hand--in a cloud of smoke. At the first fire from the rebels
Chad saw his prisoner, Daws Dillon, leap for the stacked arms and disappear. A
moment later, as he was emptying his pistol at his charging foes, he felt a
bullet clip a lock of hair from the back of his head and he turned to see Daws
on the farthest edge of the firelight levelling his pistol for another shot
before he ran. Like lightning he wheeled and when his finger pulled the
trigger, Daws sank limply, his grinning, malignant face sickening as he fell.

The tall fellow in blue snapped his pistol at Dan, and as Dan, whose pistol,
too, was empty, sprang forward and closed with him, he heard a triumphant yell
behind him and Rebel Jerry's huge figure flashed past him. With the same
glance he saw among the Yankees another giant--who looked like another
Jerry--saw his face grow ghastly with fear when Jerry's yell rose, and then
grow taut with ferocity as he tugged at his sheath to meet the murderous knife
flashing toward him. The terrible Dillon twins were come together at last, and
Dan shuddered, but he saw no more, for he was busy with the lithe Yankee in
whose arms he was closed. As they struggled, Dan tried to get his knife and
the Yankee tugged for his second pistol each clasping the other's wrist. Not a
sound did they make nor could either see the other's face, for Dan had his
chin in his opponent's breast and was striving to bend him backward. He had
clutched the Yankee's right hand, as it went back for his pistol, just as the
Yankee had caught his right in front, feeling for his knife. The advantage
would have been all Dan's except that the Yankee suddenly loosed his wrist and
gripped him tight about the body in an underhold, so that Dan could not whirl
him round; but he could twist that wrist and twist it he did, with both hands
and all his strength. Once the Yankee gave a smothered groan of pain and Dan
heard him grit his teeth to keep it back. The smoke had lifted now, and, when
they fell, it was in the light of the fire. The Yankee had thrown him with a
knee-trick that Harry used to try on him when they were boys, but something
about the Yankee snapped, as they fell, and he groaned aloud. Clutching him by
the throat, Dan threw him oft--he could get at his knife now.

"Surrender!" he said, hoarsely.

His answer was a convulsive struggle and then the Yankee lay still.

"Surrender!" said Dan again, lifting his knife above the Yankee's breast, "or,
damn you, I'll--"

The Yankee had turned his face weakly toward the fire, and Dan, with a cry of
horror, threw his knife away and sprang to his feet. Straightway the Yankee's
closed eyes opened and he smiled faintly.

"Why, Dan, is that you?" he asked. "I thought it would come," he added,
quietly, and then Harry Dean lapsed into unconsciousness.

Thus, at its best, this fratricidal war was being fought out that daybreak in
one little hollow of the Kentucky mountains and thus, at its worst, it was
being fought out in another little hollow scarcely twenty yards away, where
the giant twins--Rebel Jerry and Yankee Jake--who did know they were brothers,
sought each other's lives in mutual misconception and mutual hate.

There were a dozen dead Federals and guerillas around the fire, and among them
was Daws Dillon with the pallor of death on his face and the hate that life
had written there still clinging to it like a shadow. As Dan bent tenderly
over his brother Harry, two soldiers brought in a huge body from the bushes,
and he turned to see Rebel Jerry Dillon. There were a half a dozen rents in
his uniform and a fearful slash under his chin--but he was breathing still.
Chad Buford had escaped and so had Yankee Jake.



CHAPTER 27. AT THE HOSPITAL OF MORGAN'S MEN

In May, Grant simply said--Forward! The day he crossed the Rapidan, he said it
to Sherman down in Georgia. After the battle of the Wilderness he said it
again, and the last brutal resort of hammering down the northern buttress and
sea-wall of the rebellion--old Virginia--and Atlanta, the keystone of the
Confederate arch, was well under way. Throughout those bloody days Chad was
with Grant and Harry Dean was with Sherman on his terrible trisecting march to
the sea. For, after the fight between Rebels and Yankees and Daws Dillon's
guerilla band, over in Kentucky, Dan, coming back from another raid into the
Bluegrass, had found his brother gone. Harry had refused to accept a parole
and had escaped. Not a man, Dan was told, fired a shot at him, as he ran. One
soldier raised his musket, but Renfrew the Silent struck the muzzle upward.

In September, Atlanta fell and, in that same month, Dan saw his great leader,
John Morgan, dead in Tennessee. In December, the Confederacy toppled at the
west under Thomas's blows at Nashville. In the spring of '65, one hundred and
thirty-five thousand wretched, broken-down rebels, from Richmond to the Rio
Grande, confronted Grant's million men, and in April, Five Forks was the
beginning of the final end everywhere.

At midnight, Captain Daniel Dean, bearer of dispatches to the great
Confederate General in Virginia, rode out of abandoned Richmond with the
cavalry of young Fitzhugh Lee. They had threaded their way amid troops,
trains, and artillery across the bridge. The city was on fire. By its light,
the stream of humanity was pouring out of town--Davis and his cabinet,
citizens, soldiers, down to the mechanics in the armories and workshops. The
chief concern with all was the same, a little to eat for a few days; for, with
the morning, the enemy would come and Confederate money would be as mist. Afar
off the little fleet of Confederate gunboats blazed and the thundering
explosions of their magazines split the clear air. Freight depots with
supplies were burning. Plunderers were spreading the fires and slipping like
ghouls through red light and black shadows. At daybreak the last retreating
gun rumbled past and, at sunrise, Dan looked back from the hills on the
smoking and deserted city and Grant's blue lines sweeping into it.

Once only he saw his great chief--the next morning before day, when he rode
through the chill mist and darkness to find the head-quarters of the
commanding General--two little fires of rubbish and two ambulances--with Lee
lying on a blanket under the open sky. He rose, as Dan drew near, and the
firelight fell full on his bronzed and mournful face. He looked so sad and so
noble that the boy's heart was wrenched, and as Dan turned away, he said,
brokenly:

"General, I am General Dean's son, and I want to thank you--" He could get no
farther. Lee laid one hand on his shoulder.

"Be as good a man as your father was, my boy," he said, and Dan rode back the
pitiable way through the rear of that noble army of Virginia--through ranks of
tattered, worn, hungry soldiers, among the broken debris of wagons and
abandoned guns, past skeleton horses and skeleton men.

All hope was gone, but Fitz Lee led his cavalry through the Yankee lines and
escaped. In that flight Daniel Dean got his only wound in the war--a bullet
through the shoulder. When the surrender came, Fitz Lee gave up, too, and led
back his command to get Grant's generous terms. But all his men did not go
with him, and among the cavalrymen who went on toward southwestern Virginia
was Dan--making his way back to Richard Hunt--for now that gallant Morgan was
dead, Hunt was general of the old command.

Behind, at Appomattox, Chad was with Grant. He saw the surrender--saw Lee look
toward his army, when he came down the steps after he had given up, saw him
strike his hands together three times and ride Traveller away through the
profound and silent respect of his enemies and the tearful worship of his own
men. And Chad got permission straightway to go back to Ohio, and he mustered
out with his old regiment, and he, too, started back through Virginia.

Meanwhile, Dan was drawing near the mountains. He was worn out when he reached
Abingdon. The wound in his shoulder was festering and he was in a high fever.
At the camp of Morgan's Men he found only a hospital left--for General Hunt
had gone southward--and a hospital was what he most needed now. As he lay,
unconscious with fever, next day, a giant figure, lying near, turned his head
and stared at the boy. It was Rebel Jerry Dillon, helpless from a sabre cut
and frightfully scarred by the fearful wounds his brother, Yankee Jake, had
given him. And thus, Chadwick Buford, making for the Ohio, saw the two strange
messmates, a few days later, when he rode into the deserted rebel camp.

All was over. Red Mars had passed beyond the horizon and the white Star of
Peace already shone faintly on the ravaged South. The shattered remnants of
Morgan's cavalry, pall-bearers of the Lost Cause--had gone South--bare-footed
and in rags--to guard Jefferson Davis to safety, and Chad's heart was wrung
when he stepped into the little hospital they had left behind--a space cleared
into a thicket of rhododendron. There was not a tent--there was little
medicine--little food. The drizzling rain dropped on the group of ragged sick
men from the branches above them. Nearly all were youthful, and the youngest
was a mere boy, who lay delirious with his head on the root of a tree. As Chad
stood looking, the boy opened his eyes and his mouth twitched with pain.

"Hello, you damned Yankee." Again his mouth twitched and again the old
dare-devil light that Chad knew so well kindled in his hazy eyes.

"I said," he repeated, distinctly, "Hello, you damned Yank. DAMNED Yank I
said." Chad beckoned to two men.

"Go bring a stretcher."

The men shook their heads with a grim smile--they had no stretcher.

The boy talked dreamily.

"Say, Yank, didn't we give you hell in--oh, well, in lots o' places. But
you've got me." The two soldiers were lifting him in their arms. "Goin' to
take me to prison? Goin' to take me out to shoot me, Yank? You ARE a damned
Yank." A hoarse growl rose behind them and the giant lifted himself on one
elbow, swaying his head from side to side.

"Let that boy alone!" Dan nodded back at him confidently.

"That's all right, Jerry. This Yank's a friend of mine." His brow wrinkled.
"At any rate he looks like somebody I know. He's goin' to give me something to
eat and get me well--like hell," he added to himself--passing off into
unconsciousness again. Chad had the lad carried to his own tent, had him
stripped, bathed, and bandaged and stood looking down at him. It was hard to
believe that the broken, aged youth was the red-cheeked, vigorous lad whom he
had known as Daniel Dean. He was ragged, starved, all but bare-footed,
wounded, sick, and yet he was as undaunted, as defiant, as when he charged
with Morgan's dare-devils at the beginning of the war. Then Chad went back to
the hospital--for a blanket and some medicine.

"They are friends," he said to the Confederate surgeon, pointing at a huge
gaunt figure.

"I reckon that big fellow has saved that boy's life a dozen times. Yes,
they're mess-mates."

And Chad stood looking down at Jerry Dillon, one of the giant twins--whose
name was a terror throughout the mountains of the middle south. Then he turned
and the surgeon followed.

There was a rustle of branches on one side when they were gone, and at the
sound the wounded man lifted his head. The branches parted and the oxlike face
of Yankee Jake peered through. For a full minute, the two brothers stared at
each other.

"I reckon you got me, Jake," said Jerry.

"I been lookin' fer ye a long while," said Jake, simply, and he smiled
strangely as he moved slowly forward and looked down at his enemy--his heavy
head wagging from side to side. Jerry was fumbling at his belt. The big knife
flashed, but Jake's hand was as quick as its gleam, and he had the wrist that
held it. His great fingers crushed together, the blade dropped on the ground,
and again the big twins looked at each other. Slowly, Yankee Jake picked up
the knife. The other moved not a muscle and in his fierce eyes was no plea for
mercy. The point of the blade moved slowly down--down over the rebel's heart,
and was thrust into its sheath again. Then Jake let go the wrist.

"Don't tech it agin," he said, and he strode away. The big fellow lay
blinking. He did not open his lips when, in a moment, Yankee Jake slouched in
with a canteen of water. When Chad came back, one giant was drawing on the
other a pair of socks. The other was still silent and had his face turned the
other way. Looking up, Jake met Chad's surprised gaze with a grin.

A day later, Dan came to his senses. A tent was above him, a heavy blanket was
beneath him and there were clothes on his body that felt strangely fresh and
clean. He looked up to see Chad's face between the flaps of the tent.

"D'you do this?"

"That's all right," said Chad. "This war is over." And he went away to let Dan
think it out. When he came again, Dan held out his hand silently.



CHAPTER 28. PALL-BEARERS OF THE LOST CAUSE

The rain was falling with a steady roar when General Hunt broke camp a few
days before. The mountain-tops were black with thunderclouds, and along the
muddy road went Morgan's Men--most of them on mules which had been taken from
abandoned wagons when news of the surrender came--without saddles and with
blind bridles or rope halters--the rest slopping along through the yellow mud
on foot--literally--for few of them had shoes; they were on their way to
protect Davis and join Johnston, now that Lee was no more. There was no
murmuring, no faltering, and it touched Richard Hunt to observe that they were
now more prompt to obedience, when it was optional with them whether they
should go or stay, than they had ever been in the proudest days of the
Confederacy.

Threatened from Tennessee and cut off from Richmond, Hunt had made up his mind
to march eastward to join Lee, when the news of the surrender came. Had the
sun at that moment dropped suddenly to the horizon from the heaven above them,
those Confederates would have been hardly more startled or plunged into deeper
despair. Crowds of infantry threw down their arms and, with the rest, all
sense of discipline was lost. Of the cavalry, however, not more than ten men
declined to march south, and out they moved through the drenching rain in a
silence that was broken only with a single cheer when ninety men from another
Kentucky brigade joined them, who, too, felt that as long as the Confederate
Government survived, there was work for them to do. So on they went to keep up
the struggle, if the word was given, skirmishing, fighting and slipping past
the enemies that were hemming them in, on with Davis, his cabinet, and General
Breckinridge to join Taylor and Forrest in Alabama. Across the border of South
Carolina, an irate old lady upbraided Hunt for allowing his soldiers to take
forage from her barn.

"You are a gang of thieving Kentuckians," she said, hotly; "you are afraid to
go home, while our boys are surrendering decently."

"Madam!"--Renfrew the Silent spoke--spoke from the depths of his once
brilliant jacket--"you South Carolinians had a good deal to say about getting
up this war, but we Kentuckians have contracted to close it out."

Then came the last Confederate council of war. In turn, each officer spoke of
his men and of himself and each to the same effect; the cause was lost and
there was no use in prolonging the war.

"We will give our lives to secure your safety, but we cannot urge our men to
struggle against a fate that is inevitable, and perhaps thus forfeit all hope
of a restoration to their homes and friends."

Davis was affable, dignified, calm, undaunted.

"I will hear of no plan that is concerned only with my safety. A few brave men
can prolong the war until this panic has passed, and they will be a nucleus
for thousands more."

The answer was silence, as the gaunt, beaten man looked from face to face. He
rose with an effort.

"I see all hope is gone," he said, bitterly, and though his calm remained, his
bearing was less erect, his face was deathly pale and his step so infirm that
he leaned upon General Breckinridge as he neared the door--in the bitterest
moment, perhaps, of his life.

So, the old Morgan's Men, so long separated, were united at the end. In a
broken voice General Hunt forbade the men who had followed him on foot three
hundred miles from Virginia to go farther, but to disperse to their homes; and
they wept like children.

In front of him was a big force of Federal cavalry; retreat the way he had
come was impossible, and to the left, if he escaped, was the sea; but
dauntless Hunt refused to surrender except at the order of a superior, or
unless told that all was done that could be done to assure the escape of his
President. That order came from Breckinridge.

"Surrender," was the message. "Go back to your homes, I will not have one of
these young men encounter one more hazard for my sake."

That night Richard Hunt fought out his fight with himself, pacing to and fro
under the stars. He had struggled faithfully for what he believed still
believed, and would, perhaps, always believe, was right. He had fought for the
broadest ideal of liberty as he understood it, for citizen, State and nation.
The appeal had gone to the sword and the verdict was against him. He would
accept it. He would go home, take the oath of allegiance, resume the law, and,
as an American citizen, do his duty. He had no sense of humiliation he had no
apology to make and would never have--he had done his duty. He felt no
bitterness, and had no fault to find with his foes, who were brave and had
done their duty as they had seen it; for he granted them the right to see a
different duty from what he had decided was his. And that was all.

Renfrew the Silent was waiting at the smouldering fire. He neither looked up
nor made any comment when General Hunt spoke his determination. His own face
grew more sullen and he reached his hand into his breast and pulled from his
faded jacket the tattered colors that he once had borne.

"These will never be lowered as long as I live," he said, "nor afterwards if I
can prevent it." And lowered they never were. On a little island in the
Pacific Ocean, this strange soldier, after leaving his property and his
kindred forever, lived out his life among the natives with this bloodstained
remnant of the Stars and Bars over his hut, and when he died, the flag was
hung over his grave, and above that grave to-day the tattered emblem still
sways in southern air.

. . . . . .

A week earlier, two Rebels and two Yankees started across the mountain
together--Chad and Dan and the giant Dillon twins--Chad and Yankee Jake afoot.
Up Lonesome they went toward the shaggy flank of Black Mountain where the
Great Reaper had mowed down Chad's first friends. The logs of the cabin were
still standing, though the roof was caved in and the yard was a tangle of
undergrowth. A dull pain settled in Chad's breast, while he looked, and as
they were climbing the spur, he choked when he caught sight of the graves
under the big poplar.

There was the little pen that he had built over his foster-mother's
grave--still undisturbed. He said nothing and, as they went down the spur,
across the river and up Pine Mountain, he kept his gnawing memories to
himself. Only ten years before, and he seemed an old, old man now. He
recognized the very spot where he had slept the first night after he ran away
and awakened to that fearful never-forgotten storm at sunrise, which lived in
his memory now as a mighty portent of the storms of human passion that had
swept around him on many a battlefield. There was the very tree where he had
killed the squirrel and the rattlesnake. It was bursting spring now, but the
buds of laurel and rhododendron were unbroken. Down Kingdom Come they went.
Here was where he had met the old cow, and here was the little hill where Jack
had fought Whizzer and he had fought Tad Dillon and where he had first seen
Melissa. Again the scarlet of her tattered gown flashed before his eyes. At
the bend of the river they parted from the giant twins. Faithful Jake's face
was foolish when Chad took him by the hand and spoke to him, as man to man,
and Rebel Jerry turned his face quickly when Dan told him that he would never
forget him, and made him promise to come to see him, if Jerry ever took
another raft down to the capital. Looking back from the hill, Chad saw them
slowly moving along a path toward the woods--not looking at each other and
speaking not at all.

Beyond rose the smoke of the old Turner cabin. On the porch sat the old Turner
mother, her bonnet in her hand, her eyes looking down the river. Dozing at her
feet was Jack--old Jack. She had never forgiven Chad, and she could not
forgive him now, though Chad saw her eyes soften when she looked at the
tattered butternut that Dan wore. But Jack--half-blind and aged--sprang
trembling to his feet when he heard Chad's voice and whimpered like a child.
Chad sank on the porch with one arm about the old dog's neck. Mother Turner
answered all questions shortly.

Melissa had gone to the "Settlemints." Why? The old woman would not answer.
She was coming back, but she was ill. She had never been well since she went
afoot, one cold night, to warn some YANKEE that Daws Dillon was after him.
Chad started. It was Melissa who had perhaps saved his life. Tad Dillon had
stepped into Daws's shoes, and the war was still going on in the hills. Tom
Turner had died in prison. The old mother was waiting for Dolph and Rube to
come back--she was looking for them every hour, day and night She did not know
what had become of the school-master--but Chad did, and he told her. The
school-master had died, storming breastworks at Gettysburg. The old woman said
not a word.

Dan was too weak to ride now. So Chad got Dave Hilton, Melissa's old
sweetheart, to take Dixie to Richmond--a little Kentucky town on the edge of
the Bluegrass--and leave her there and he bought the old Turner canoe. She
would have no use for it, Mother Turner said--he could have it for nothing;
but when Chad thrust a ten dollar Federal bill into her hands, she broke down
and threw her arms around him and cried.

So down the river went Chad and Dan--drifting with the tide--Chad in the
stern, Dan lying at full length, with his head on a blue army-coat and looking
up at the over-swung branches and the sky and the clouds above them--down,
through a mist of memories for Chad--down to the capital.

And Harry Dean, too, was on his way home--coming up from the far South--up
through the ravaged land of his own people, past homes and fields which his
own hands had helped to lay waste.



CHAPTER 29. MELISSA AND MARGARET

The early spring sunshine lay like a benediction over the Dean household, for
Margaret and her mother were home from exile. On the corner of the veranda sat
Mrs. Dean, where she always sat, knitting. Under the big weeping willow in the
garden was her husband's grave. When she was not seated near it, she was there
in the porch, and to it her eyes seemed always to stray when she lifted them
from her work.

The mail had just come and Margaret was reading a letter from Dan, and, as she
read, her cheeks flushed.

"He took me into his own tent, mother, and put his own clothes on me and
nursed me like a brother. And now he is going to take me to you and Margaret,
he says, and I shall be strong enough, I hope, to start in a week. I shall be
his friend for life."

Neither mother nor daughter spoke when the girl ceased reading. Only Margaret
rose soon and walked down the gravelled walk to the stile.

Beneath the hill, the creek sparkled. She could see the very pool where her
brothers and the queer little stranger from the mountains were fishing the day
he came into her life. She remembered the indignant heart-beat with which she
had heard him call her "little gal," and she smiled now, but she could recall
the very tone of his voice and the steady look in his clear eyes when he
offered her the perch he had caught. Even then his spirit appealed
unconsciously to her, when he sturdily refused to go up to the house because
her brother was "feelin' hard towards him." How strange and far away all that
seemed now! Up the creek and around the woods she strolled, deep in memories.
For a long while she sat on a stone wall in the sunshine--thinking and
dreaming, and it was growing late when she started back to the house. At the
stile, she turned for a moment to look at the old Buford home across the
fields. As she looked, she saw the pike-gate open and a woman's figure enter,
and she kept her eyes idly upon it as she walked on toward the house. The
woman came slowly and hesitatingly toward the yard. When she drew nearer,
Margaret could see that she wore homespun, home-made shoes, and a poke-bonnet.
On her hands were yarn half-mits, and, as she walked, she pushed her bonnet
from her eyes with one hand, first to one side, then to the other--looking at
the locusts planted along the avenue, the cedars in the yard, the sweep of
lawn overspread with springing bluegrass. At the yard gate she stopped,
leaning over it--her eyes fixed on the stately white house, with its mighty
pillars. Margaret was standing on the steps now, motionless and waiting, and,
knowing that she was seen, the woman opened the gate and walked up the
gravelled path--never taking her eyes from the figure on the porch. Straight
she walked to the foot of the steps, and there she stopped, and, pushing her
bonnet back, she said, simply:

"Are you Mar-ga-ret?" pronouncing the name slowly and with great distinctness.

Margaret started.

"Yes," she said.

The girl merely looked at her--long and hard. Once her lips moved:

"Mar-ga-ret," and still she looked. "Do you know whar Chad is?"

Margaret flushed.

"Who are you?"

"Melissy."

Melissa! The two girls looked deep into each other's eyes and, for one
flashing moment, each saw the other's heart--bared and beating--and Margaret
saw, too, a strange light ebb slowly from the other's face and a strange
shadow follow slowly after.

"You mean Major Buford?"

"I mean Chad. Is he dead?"

"No, he is bringing my brother home."

"Harry?"

"No--Dan."

"Dan--here?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"As soon as my brother gets well enough to travel. He is wounded."

Melissa turned her face then. Her mouth twitched and her clasped hands were
working in and out. Then she turned again.

"I come up here from the mountains, afoot jus' to tell ye--to tell YOU that
Chad ain't no"-- she stopped suddenly, seeing Margaret's quick flush--"CHAD'S
MOTHER WAS MARRIED. I jus' found it out last week. He ain't no--"--she started
fiercely again and stopped again. "But I come here fer HIM--not fer YOU. YOU
oughtn't to 'a' keered. Hit wouldn't 'a' been his fault. He never was the same
after he come back from here. Hit worried him most to death, an' I know hit
was you--YOU he was always thinkin' about. He didn't keer 'cept fer you."
Again that shadow came and deepened. "An' you oughtn't to 'a' keered what he
was--and that's why I hate you," she said, calmly--"fer worryin' him an' bein'
so high-heeled that you was willin' to let him mighty nigh bust his heart
about somethin' that wasn't his fault. I come fer him--you understand--fer
HIM. I hate YOU!"

She turned without another word, walked slowly back down the walk and through
the gate. Margaret stood dazed, helpless, almost frightened. She heard the
girl cough and saw now that she walked as if weak and ill. As she turned into
the road, Margaret ran down the steps and across the fields to the turnpike.
When she reached the road-fence the girl was coming around the bend her eyes
on the ground, and every now and she would cough and put her hand to her
breast. She looked up quickly, hearing the noise ahead of her, and stopped as
Margaret climbed the low stone wall and sprang down.

"Melissa, Melissa! You mustn't hate me. You mustn't hate ME." Margaret's eyes
were streaming and her voice trembled with kindness. She walked up to the girl
and put one hand on her shoulder. "You are sick. I know you are, and you must
come back to the house."

Melissa gave way then, and breaking from the girl's clasp she leaned against
the stone wall and sobbed, while Margaret put her arms about her and waited
silently.

"Come now," she said, "let me help you over. There now. You must come back and
get something to eat and lie down." And Margaret led Melissa back across the
fields.



CHAPTER 30. PEACE

It was strange to Chad that he should be drifting toward a new life down the
river which once before had carried him to a new world. The future then was no
darker than now, but he could hardly connect himself with the little fellow in
coon-skin cap and moccasins who had floated down on a raft so many years ago,
when at every turn of the river his eager eyes looked for a new and thrilling
mystery.

They talked of the long fight, the two lads, for, in spite of the war-worn
look of them, both were still nothing but boys--and they talked with no
bitterness of camp life, night attacks, surprises, escapes, imprisonment,
incidents of march and battle. Both spoke little of their boyhood days or the
future. The pall of defeat overhung Dan. To him the world seemed to be nearing
an end, while to Chad the outlook was what he had known all his life--nothing
to begin with and everything to be done. Once only Dan voiced his own trouble:

"What are you going to do, Chad--now that this infernal war is over? Going
into the regular army?"

"No," said Chad, decisively. About his own future Dan volunteered nothing--he
only turned his head quickly to the passing woods, as though in fear that Chad
might ask some similar question, but Chad was silent. And thus they glided
between high cliffs and down into the lowlands until at last, through a little
gorge between two swelling river hills, Dan's eye caught sight of an orchard,
a leafy woodland, and a pasture of bluegrass. With a cry he raised himself on
one elbow.

"Home! I tell you, Chad, we're getting home!" He closed his eyes and drew the
sweet air in as though he were drinking it down like wine. His eyes were
sparkling when he opened them again and there was a new color in his face. On
they drifted until, toward noon, the black column of smoke that meant the
capital loomed against the horizon. There Mrs. Dean was waiting for them, and
Chad turned his face aside when the mother took her son in her arms. With a
sad smile she held out her hand to Chad.

"You must come home with us," Mrs. Dean said, with quiet decision.

"Where is Margaret, mother?" Chad almost trembled when he heard the name.

"Margaret couldn't come. She is not very well and she is taking care of
Harry."

The very station had tragic memories to Chad. There was the long hill which he
had twice climbed--once on a lame foot and once on flying Dixie--past the
armory and the graveyard. He had seen enough dead since he peered through
those iron gates to fill a dozen graveyards the like in size. Going up in the
train, he could see the barn where he had slept in the hayloft the first time
he came to the Bluegrass, and the creek-bridge where Major Buford had taken
him into his carriage. Major Buford was dead. He had almost died in prison,
Mrs. Dean said, and Chad choked and could say nothing. Once, Dan began a
series of eager questions about the house and farm, and the servants and the
neighbors, but his mother's answers were hesitant and he stopped short. She,
too, asked but few questions, and the three were quiet while the train rolled
on with little more speed than Chad and Dixie had made on that long ago
night-ride to save Dan and Rebel Jerry. About that ride Chad had kept Harry's
lips and his own closed, for he wished no such appeal as that to go to
Margaret Dean. Margaret was not at the station in Lexington. She was not well
Rufus said; so Chad would not go with them that night, but would come out next
day.

"I owe my son's life to you, Captain Buford," said Mrs. Dean, with trembling
lip, "and you must make our house your home while you are here. I bring that
message to you from Harry and Margaret. I know and they know now all you have
done for us and all you have tried to do."

Chad could hardly speak his thanks. He would be in the Bluegrass only a few
days, he stammered, but he would go out to see them next day. That night he
went to the old inn where the Major had taken him to dinner. Next day he hired
a horse from the livery stable where he had bought the old brood mare, and
early in the afternoon he rode out the broad turnpike in a nervous tumult of
feeling that more than once made him halt in the road. He wore his uniform,
which was new, and made him uncomfortable--it looked too much like waving a
victorious flag in the face of a beaten enemy--but it was the only stitch of
clothes he had, and that he might not explain.

It was the first of May. Just eight years before, Chad with a burning heart
had watched Richard Hunt gayly dancing with Margaret, while the dead
chieftain, Morgan, gayly fiddled for the merry crowd. Now the sun shone as it
did then, the birds sang, the wind shook the happy leaves and trembled through
the budding heads of bluegrass to show that nature had known no war and that
her mood was never other than of hope and peace. But there were no fat cattle
browsing in the Dean pastures now, no flocks of Southdown sheep with frisking
lambs The worm fences had lost their riders and were broken down here and
there. The gate sagged on its hinges; the fences around yard and garden and
orchard had known no whitewash for years; the paint on the noble old house was
cracked and peeling, the roof of the barn was sunken in, and the cabins of the
quarters were closed, for the hand of war, though unclinched, still lay heavy
on the home of the Deans. Snowball came to take his horse. He was respectful,
but his white teeth did not flash the welcome Chad once had known. Another
horse stood at the hitching-post and on it was a cavalry saddle and a rebel
army blanket, and Chad did not have to guess whose it might be. From the
porch, Dan shouted and came down to meet him, and Harry hurried to the door,
followed by Mrs. Dean. Margaret was not to be seen, and Chad was glad--he
would have a little more time for self-control. She did not appear even when
they were seated in the porch until Dan shouted for her toward the garden; and
then looking toward the gate Chad saw her coming up the garden walk bare-
headed, dressed in white, with flowers in her hand; and walking by her side,
looking into her face and talking earnestly, was Richard Hunt. The sight of
him nerved Chad at once to steel. Margaret did not lift her face until she was
half-way to the porch, and then she stopped suddenly.

"Why, there's Major Buford," Chad heard her say, and she came on ahead,
walking rapidly. Chad felt the blood in his face again, and as he watched
Margaret nearing him--pale, sweet, frank, gracious, unconscious--it seemed
that he was living over again another scene in his life when he had come from
the mountains to live with old Major Buford; and, with a sudden prayer that
his past might now be wiped as clean as it was then, he turned from Margaret's
hand-clasp to look into the brave, searching eyes of Richard Hunt and feel his
sinewy fingers in a grip that in all frankness told Chad plainly that between
them, at least, one war was not quite over yet.

"I am glad to meet you, Major Buford, in these piping times of peace."

"And I am glad to meet you, General Hunt--only in times of peace," Chad said,
smiling.

The two measured each other swiftly, calmly. Chad had a mighty admiration for
Richard Hunt. Here was a man who knew no fight but to the finish, who would
die as gamely in a drawing-room as on a battle-field. To think of him--a
brigadier-general at twenty-seven, as undaunted, as unbeaten as when he heard
the first bullet of the war whistle, and, at that moment, as good an American
as Chadwick Buford or any Unionist who had given his life for his cause! Such
a foe thrilled Chad, and somehow he felt that Margaret was measuring them as
they were measuring each other. Against such a man what chance had he?

He would have been comforted could he have known Richard Hunt's thoughts, for
that gentleman had gone back to the picture of a ragged mountain boy in old
Major Buford's carriage, one court day long ago, and now he was looking that
same lad over from the visor of his cap down his superb length to the heels of
his riding-boots. His eyes rested long on Chad's face. The change was
incredible, but blood had told. The face was highly red, clean, frank, nobly
handsome; it had strength and dignity, and the scar on his cheek told a story
that was as well known to foe as to friend.

"I have been wanting to thank you, not only for trying to keep us out of that
infernal prison after the Ohio raid, but for trying to get us out. Harry here
told me. That was generous."

"That was nothing," said Chad. "You forget, you could have killed me once
and--and you didn't." Margaret was listening eagerly.

"You didn't give me time," laughed General Hunt.

"Oh, yes, I did. I saw you lift your pistol and drop it again. I have never
ceased to wonder why you did that."

Richard Hunt laughed. "Perhaps I'm sorry sometimes that I did," he said, with
a certain dryness.

"Oh, no, you aren't, General," said Margaret.

Thus they chatted and laughed and joked together above the sombre tide of
feeling that showed in the face of each if it reached not his tongue, for,
when the war was over, the hatchet in Kentucky was buried at once and buried
deep. Son came back to father, brother to brother, neighbor to neighbor;
political disabilities were removed and the sundered threads, unravelled by
the war, were knitted together fast. That is why the postbellum terrors of
reconstruction were practically unknown in the State. The negroes scattered,
to be sure, not from disloyalty so much as from a feverish desire to learn
whether they really could come and go as they pleased. When they learned that
they were really free, most of them drifted back to the quarters where they
were born, and meanwhile the white man's hand that had wielded the sword went
just as bravely to the plough, and the work of rebuilding war-shattered ruins
began at once. Old Mammy appeared, by and by, shook hands with General Hunt
and made Chad a curtsey of rather distant dignity. She had gone into exile
with her "chile" and her "ole Mistis" and had come home with them to stay,
untempted by the doubtful sweets of freedom. "Old Tom, her husband, had
remained with Major Buford, was with him on his deathbed," said Margaret, "and
was on the place still, too old, he said, to take root elsewhere."

Toward the middle of the afternoon Dan rose and suggested that they take a
walk about the place. Margaret had gone in for a moment to attend to some
household duty, and as Richard Hunt was going away next day he would stay, he
said, with Mrs. Dean, who was tired and could not join them. The three walked
toward the dismantled barn where the tournament had taken place and out into
the woods. Looking back, Chad saw Margaret and General Hunt going slowly
toward the garden, and he knew that some crisis was at hand between the two.
He had hard work listening to Dan and Harry as they planned for the future,
and recalled to each other and to him the incidents of their boyhood. Harry
meant to study law, he said, and practise in Lexington; Dan would stay at home
and run the farm. Neither brother mentioned that the old place was heavily
mortgaged, but Chad guessed the fact and it made him heartsick to think of the
struggle that was before them and of the privations yet in store for Mrs. Dean
and Margaret.

"Why don't you, Chad?"

"Do what?"

"Stay here and study law," Harry smiled. "We'll go into partnership."

Chad shook his head. "No," he said, decisively. "I've already made up my mind.
I'm going West."

"I'm sorry," said Harry, and no more; he had learned long ago how useless it
was to combat any purpose of Chadwick Buford.

General Hunt and Margaret were still away when they got back to the house. In
fact, the sun was sinking when they came in from the woods, still walking
slowly, General Hunt talking earnestly and Margaret with her hands clasped
before her and her eyes on the path. The faces of both looked pale, even that
far away, but when they neared the porch, the General was joking and Margaret
was smiling, nor was anything perceptible to Chad when he said good-by, except
a certain tenderness in his tone and manner toward Margaret, and one fleeting
look of distress in her clear eyes. He was on his horse now, and was lifting
his cap.

"Good-by, Major," he said. "I'm glad you got through the war alive. Perhaps
I'll tell you some day why I didn't shoot you that morning." And then he rode
away, a gallant, knightly figure, across the pasture. At the gate he waved his
cap and at a gallop was gone.

After supper, a heaven-born chance led Mrs. Dean to stroll out into the lovely
night. Margaret rose to go too, and Chad followed. The same chance, perhaps,
led old Mammy to come out on the porch and call Mrs. Dean back. Chad and
Margaret walked on toward the stiles where still hung Margaret's
weather-beaten Stars and Bars. The girl smiled and touched the flag.

"That was very nice of you to salute me that morning. I never felt so bitter
against Yankees after that day. I'll take it down now," and she detached it
and rolled it tenderly about the slender staff.

"That was not my doing,?" said Chad, "though if I had been Grant, and there
with the whole Union army, I would have had it salute you. I was under orders,
but I went back for help. May I carry it for you?"

"Yes," said Margaret, handing it to him. Chad had started toward the garden,
but Margaret turned him toward the stile and they walked now down through the
pasture toward the creek that ran like a wind-shaken ribbon of silver under
the moon.

"Won't you tell me something about Major Buford? I've been wanting to ask, but
I simply hadn't the heart. Can't we go over there tonight? I want to see the
old place, and I must leave to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" said Margaret. "Why--I--I was going to take you over there
to-morrow, for I--but, of course, you must go to-night if it is to be your
only chance."

And so, as they walked along, Margaret told Chad of the old Major's last days,
after he was released from prison, and came home to die. She went to see him
every day, and she was at his bedside when he breathed his last. He had
mortgaged his farm to help the Confederate cause and to pay indemnity for a
guerilla raid, and Jerome Conners held his notes for large amounts.

"The lawyer told me that he believed some of the notes were forged, but he
couldn't prove it. He says it is doubtful if more than the house and a few
acres will be left." A light broke in on Chad's brain.

"He told you?"

Margaret blushed. "He left all he had to me," she said, simply.

"I'm so glad," said Chad.

"Except a horse which belongs to you. The old mare is dead."

"Dear old Major!"

At the stone fence Margaret reached for the flag.

"We'll leave it here until we come back," she said, dropping it in a shadow.
Somehow the talk of Major Buford seemed to bring them nearer together--so near
that once Chad started to call her by her first name and stopped when it had
half passed his lips. Margaret smiled.

"The war is over," she said, and Chad spoke eagerly:

"And you'll call me?"

"Yes, Chad."

The very leaves over Chad's head danced suddenly, and yet the girl was so
simple and frank and kind that the springing hope in his breast was as quickly
chilled.

"Did he ever speak of me except about business matters?"

"Never at all at first," said Margaret, blushing again incomprehensively, "but
he forgave you before he died."

"Thank God for that!"

"And you will see what he did for you--the last thing of his life."

They were crossing the field now.

"I have seen Melissa," said Margaret, suddenly. Chad was so startled that he
stopped in the path.

"She came all the way from the mountains to ask if you were dead, and to tell
me about--about your mother. She had just learned it, she said, and she did
not know that you knew. And I never let her know that I knew, since I supposed
you had some reason for not wanting her to know."

"I did," said Chad, sadly, but he did not tell his reason. Melissa would never
have learned the one thing from him as Margaret would not learn the other now.

"She came on foot to ask about you and to defend you against--against me. And
she went back afoot. She disappeared one morning before we got up. She seemed
very ill, too, and unhappy. She was coughing all the time, and I wakened one
night and heard her sobbing, but she was so sullen and fierce that I was
almost afraid of her. Next morning she was gone. I would have taken her part
of the way home myself. Poor thing!" Chad was walking with his head bent.

"I'm going down to see her before I go West."

"You are going West--to live?"

"Yes."

They had reached the yard gate now which creaked on rusty hinges when Chad
pulled it open. The yard was running wild with plantains, the gravelled walk
was overgrown, the house was closed, shuttered, and dark, and the spirit of
desolation overhung the place, but the ruin looked gentle in the moonlight.
Chad's throat hurt and his eyes filled.

"I want to show you now the last thing he did," said Margaret. Her eyes
lighted with tenderness and she led him wondering down through the tangled
garden to the old family graveyard.

"Climb over and look, Chad," she said, leaning over the wall.

There was the grave of the Major's father which he knew so well; next that, to
the left, was a new mound under which rested the Major himself. To the right
was a stone marked "Chadwick Buford, born in Virginia, 1750, died in
Kentucky"--and then another stone marked simply:

Mary Buford.

"He had both brought from the mountains," said Margaret, softly, "and the last
time he was out of the house was when he leaned here to watch them buried
there. He said there would always be a place next your mother for you. 'Tell
the boy that,' he said." Chad put his arms around the tombstone and then sank
on one knee by his mother's grave. It was strewn with withered violets.

"You--YOU did that, Margaret?"

Margaret nodded through her tears.

. . . . . . .


The wonder of it! They stood very still, looking for a long time into each
other's eyes. Could the veil of the hereafter have been lifted for them at
that moment and they have seen themselves walking that same garden path, hand
in hand, their faces seamed with age to other eyes, but changed in not a line
to them, the vision would not have added a jot to their perfect faith. They
would have nodded to each other and smiled--"Yes, we know, we know!" The
night, the rushing earth, the star-swept spaces of the infinite held no
greater wonder than was theirs--they held no wonder at all. The moon shone,
that night, for them; the wind whispered, leaves danced, flowers nodded, and
crickets chirped from the grass for them; the farthest star kept eternal lids
apart just for them and beyond, the Maker himself looked down, that night,
just to bless them.

Back they went through the old garden, hand in hand. No caress had ever passed
between these two. That any man could ever dare even to dream of touching her
sacred lips had been beyond the boy's imaginings--such was the reverence in
his love for her--and his very soul shook when, at the gate, Margaret's eyes
dropped from his to the sabre cut on his cheek and she suddenly lifted her
face.

"I know how you got that, Chad," she said, and with her lips she gently
touched the scar. Almost timidly the boy drew her to him. Again her lips were
lifted in sweet surrender, and every wound that he had known in his life was
healed.

. . . . . .

"I'll show you your horse, Chad."

They did not waken old Tom, but went around to the stable and Chad led out a
handsome colt, his satiny coat shining in the moonlight like silver. He lifted
his proud head, when he saw Margaret, and whinnied.

"He knows his mistress, Margaret--and he's yours."

"Oh, no, Chad."

"Yes," said Chad, "I've still got Dixie."

"Do you still call her Dixie?"

"All through the war."

Homeward they went through the dewy fields.

"I wish I could have seen the Major before he died. If he could only have
known how I suffered at causing him so much sorrow. And if you could have
known "

"He did know and so did I--later. All that is over now."

They had reached the stone wall and Chad picked up the flag again.

"This is the only time I have ever carried this flag, unless I--unless it had
been captured."

"You had captured it, Chad."

"There?" Chad pointed to the stile and Margaret nodded.

"There--here everywhere."

Seated on the porch, Mrs. Dean and Harry and Dan saw them coming across the
field and Mrs. Dean sighed.

"Father would not say a word against it, mother," said the elder boy, "if he
were here."

"No," said Dan, "not a word."

"Listen, mother," said Harry, and he told the two about Chad's ride for Dan
from Frankfort to Lexington. "He asked me not to tell. He did not wish
Margaret to know. And listen again, mother. In a skirmish one day we were
fighting hand to hand. I saw one man with his pistol levelled at me and
another with his sabre lifted on Chad. He saw them both. My pistol was empty,
and do you know what he did? He shot the man who was about to shoot me instead
of his own assailant. That is how he got that scar. I did tell Margaret that."

"Yes, you must go down in the mountain first," Margaret was saying, "and see
if there is anything you can do for the people who were s' good to you--and to
see Melissa. I am worried about her."

"And then I must come back to you?"

"Yes, you must come back to see me once more if you can. And then some day you
will come again and buy back the Major's farm "--she stopped, blushing. "I
think that was his wish Chad, that you and I--but I would never let him say
it."

"And if that should take too long?"

"I will come to you, Chad," said Margaret.

Old Mammy came out on the porch as they were climbing the stile.

"Ole Miss," she said, indignantly, "my Tom say that he can't get nary a
triflin' nigger to come out hyeh to wuk, an' ef that cawnfiel' ain't ploughed
mighty soon, it's gwine to bu'n up."

"How many horses are there on the place, Mammy?" asked Dan.

"Hosses!" sniffed the old woman. "They ain't NARY a hoss--nothin' but two ole
broken-down mules."

"Well, I'll take one and start a plough myself," said Harry.

"And I'll take the other," said Dan.

Mammy groaned.

. . . . . .

And still the wonder of that night to Chad and Margaret!

"It was General Hunt who taught me to understand--and forgive. Do you know
what he said? That every man, on both sides, was right--who did his duty."

"God bless him," said Chad.



CHAPTER 31. THE WESTWARD WAY

Mother Turner was sitting in the porch with old Jack at her feet when Chad and
Dixie came to the gate--her bonnet off, her eyes turned toward the West. The
stillness of death lay over the place, and over the strong old face some
preternatural sorrow. She did not rise when she saw Chad, she did not speak
when he spoke. She turned merely and looked at him with a look of helpless
suffering. She knew the question that was on his lips, for she dumbly motioned
toward the door and then put her trembling hands on the railing of the porch
and bent her face down on them. With sickening fear, Chad stepped on the
threshold--cap in hand--and old Jack followed, whimpering. As his eyes grew
accustomed to the dark interior, he could see a sheeted form on a bed in the
corner and, on the pillow, a white face.

"Melissa!" he called, brokenly. A groan from the porch answered him, and, as
Chad dropped to his knees, the old woman sobbed aloud.

In low tones, as though in fear they might disturb the dead girl's sleep, the
two talked on the porch. Brokenly, the old woman told Chad how the girl had
sickened and suffered with never a word of complaint. How, all through the
war, she had fought his battles so fiercely that no one dared attack him in
her hearing. How, sick as she was, she had gone, that night, to save his life.
How she had nearly died from the result of cold and exposure and was never the
same afterward. How she worked in the house and in the garden to keep their
bodies and souls together, after the old hunter was shot down and her boys
were gone to the war. How she had learned the story of Chad's mother from old
Nathan Cherry's daughter and how, when the old woman forbade her going to the
Bluegrass, she had slipped away and gone afoot to clear his name. And then the
old woman led Chad to where once had grown the rose-bush he had brought
Melissa from the Bluegrass, and pointed silently to a box that seemed to have
been pressed a few inches into the soft earth, and when Chad lifted it, he saw
under it the imprint of a human foot--his own, made that morning when he held
out a rose-leaf to her and she had struck it from his hand and turned him, as
an enemy, from her door.

Chad silently went inside and threw open the window to let the last sunlight
in: and he sat there, with his face as changeless as the still face on the
pillow, sat there until the sun went down and the darkness came in and closed
softly about her. She had died, the old woman said, with his name on her lips.

. . . . . .

Dolph and Rube had come back and they would take good care of the old mother
until the end of her days. But. Jack--what should be done with Jack? The old
dog could follow him no longer. He could live hardly more than another year,
and the old mother wanted him--to remind her, she said, of Chad and of
Melissa, who had loved him. He patted his faithful old friend tenderly and,
when he mounted Dixie, late the next afternoon, Jack started to follow him.

"No, Jack," said Chad, and he rode on, with his eyes blurred. On the top of
the steep mountain he dismounted, to let his horse rest a moment, and sat on a
log, looking toward the sun. He could not go back to Margaret and
happiness--not now. It seemed hardly fair to the dead girl down in the valley.
He would send Margaret word, and she would understand.

Once again he was starting his life over afresh, with his old capital, a
strong body and a stout heart. In his breast still burned the spirit that had
led his race to the land, had wrenched it from savage and from king, had made
it the high temple of Liberty for the worship of freemen--the Kingdom Come for
the oppressed of the earth--and, himself the unconscious Shepherd of that
Spirit, he was going to help carry its ideals across a continent Westward to
another sea and on--who knows--to the gates of the rising sun. An eagle swept
over his head, as he rose, and the soft patter of feet sounded behind him. It
was Jack trotting after him. He stooped and took the old dog in his arms.

"Go back home, Jack!" he said.

Without a whimper, old Jack slowly wheeled, but he stopped and turned again
and sat on his haunches--looking back.

"Go home, Jack!" Again the old dog trotted down the path and once more he
turned.

"Home, Jack!" said Chad.

The eagle was a dim, black speck in the band of yellow that lay over the rim
of the sinking sun, and after its flight, horse and rider took the westward
way.





End of Project Gutenberg Etext The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come by Fox