He turned upon Dick a face distorted with pain and anxiety, and the boy quickly said:
“Uncle George, I have every reason to believe that Harry is alive and well.”
“What do you know? What have you heard about him?”
“I have not merely heard. I have seen him and talked with him. It was after the Second Manassas, when we were both with burial parties, and met on the field. I was at Antietam, and he, of course, was there, too, as he is with Stonewall Jackson. I did not see him in that battle, but I learned from a prisoner who knew him that he had escaped unwounded, and had gone with Lee’s army into Virginia.”
“I thank God once more, Dick, that you were moved to come by my house. To know that both Harry and you are alive and well is joy enough for one man.”
“But it is likely, sir, that we’ll soon meet in battle,” said Dick.
“So it would seem.”
And that was all that either said about his army. There was no attempt to obtain information by direct or indirect methods. This was a family meeting.
“You have a horse, of course,” said Colonel Kenton.
“Yes, sir. He is on the lawn, tied to your fence. His hoofs may now be in a flower bed.”
“It doesn’t matter, Dick. People are not thinking much of flower beds nowadays. My own horse is further down the lawn between the pines, and as he is an impatient beast it is probable that he has already dug up a square yard or two of turf with his hoofs. How did you get in, Dick?”
“You forgot about the front door, sir, and left it open six or seven inches. I thought some plunderer was within and entered, to find you.”
“I must have been watched over to-night when forgetfulness was rewarded so well. Dick, we’ve found out what we came for and neither should linger here. Do you need anything?”
“Nothing at all, sir.”
“Then we’ll go.”
Colonel Kenton carefully closed and fastened the window and door again and the two mounted their horses, which they led into the road.
“Dick,” said the colonel, “you and I are on opposing sides, but we can never be enemies.”
Then, after a strong handclasp, they rode away by different roads, each riding with a lighter heart.
CHAPTER XII. THROUGH THE BLUEGRASS
Dick’s horse had had a good rest, and he was fighting for his head before they were clear of the outskirts of Pendleton. When the road emerged once more into the deep woods the boy gave him the rein. It was well past midnight now, and he wished to reach the army before dawn.
Soon the great horse was galloping, and Dick felt exhilaration as the cool air of early October rushed past. The heat in both east and west had been so long and intense, that year, that the coming of autumn was full of tonic. Yet the uncommon dryness, the least rainy summer and autumn in two generations, still prevailed. The hoofs of Dick’s horse left a cloud of dust behind him. The leaves of the trees were falling already, rustling dryly as they fell. Brooks that were old friends of his and that he had never known to go dry before were merely chains of yellow pools in a shallow bed.
He watered his horse at one or two of the creeks that still flowed in good volume, and then went on again, sometimes at a gallop. He passed but one horseman, a farmer who evidently had taken an unusually early start for a mill, as a sack of corn lay across his saddle behind him. Dick nodded but the farmer stared open-mouthed at the youth in the blue uniform who flew past him.
Dick never looked back and by dawn he was with the army. He found Colonel Winchester taking breakfast under the thin shade of an oak, and joined him.
“What did you find, Dick?” asked the colonel, striving to hide the note of anxiety in his voice.
“I found all right at the house, but I did not see mother.”
“What had become of her?”