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.