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