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.