ess was mainly due to Colonel Duke.

"Why don't some one shoot Basil Duke through the head, and blow out John
Morgan's brains?" exclaimed a disgusted Federal officer, after a fruitless
effort to catch Morgan.

But the officer was mistaken; both had brains. Like Grant and Sherman they
worked hand in hand, and one needed the other. Together they were
invincible.

Before leaving Knoxville Morgan picked out twenty-five men, mounted on the
best and fleetest horses, and placed them in the command of Calhoun
Pennington. They were to be the scouts of the command, and well did they
do their duty. More than once did they save Morgan from heavy loss by
ascertaining the movements of the enemy.

Morgan left Knoxville July 4th. His route lay directly west over the
Cumberland Mountains to Sparta, a distance of one hundred and four miles.
This, in spite of the rough roads, he made in three days. Many of the
mountaineers of East Tennessee clung to the Union, and much of the way he
had to ride through almost as hostile a country as if raiding through the
North. The utmost vigilance had to be used, and Calhoun, with his scouts,
was kept well in front to see that the road was clear.

On the second day's march there was the crack of a rifle from a
mountainside, and one of the scouts tumbled from his horse dead. A little
cloud of smoke up the mountain showed from where the shot was fired. With
a cry of rage the scouts sent a volley where the little cloud was seen,
then springing from their horses, clambered up the mountain to hunt down
the murderer; but their search was fruitless.

About a mile beyond where the shooting took place they came to a rough log
cabin, surrounded by a few acres of comparatively smooth ground. A small
patch of corn and potatoes was growing near the cabin, and an old man with
tangled gray hair and beard was hoeing in the field. An old woman sat in
the door calmly smoking a corn-cob pipe. Neither seemed to notice the
soldiers as they came riding up.

"You, man, come here!" sternly called Calhoun.

The mountaineer deliberately laid down his hoe, and slowly came to where
Calhoun was. He seemed to be in no hurry, nor did he appear to be
disturbed.

"What is your name?" demanded Calhoun.

"Nichols--Jim Nichols," drawled the man.

"Are you well acquainted around here?" demanded Calhoun.

"Hev lived heah goin' on twenty years," was the answer.

"We have just had a man shot, by one of you skulking mountaineers