“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.”