“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.