can hold
the enemy in check until you get well away."

Morgan demurred. "The sacrifice will be too great," he said.

"You must, you shall consent. We will force you," the cry went up from the
whole command as from one man.

Morgan bowed his head, he could not speak. In silence he took Calhoun's
hand, tears gathered in his eyes, the first tears Calhoun ever saw there.
There was a strong clasp, a clasp which seemed to say "It may be the
last," then, wheeling his horse, Morgan galloped swiftly away, followed by
less than half of his six hundred.

There was not a moment to lose, for the Federals were already charging
down with triumphant cheers, confident of an easy victory. Calhoun had
posted his men well, and a withering volley sent the Federals reeling
back. They charged again, only to recoil before the fierce fire of the
Confederates. There was now a lull in the fighting. Calhoun saw that they
were flanking him on the right and left. "Charge!" he shouted, and the
little band were soon in the midst of their enemies. The Federals closed
in around them. There was no way to retreat. Calhoun's men, seeing how
hopeless the fight was, began to throw down their arms.

"Surrender," cried a fine-looking officer to Calhoun, who, well in front,
was fighting like a demon. Even in that hell of battle Calhoun knew the
officer. It was Mark Crawford, the captain whose horse he had captured in
Tennessee, and whom he afterwards took prisoner at Cave City. But the
captain was wearing the shoulder-straps of a major now.

"Never!" shouted Calhoun, in answer to the summons to surrender, and with
sword in hand, he spurred forward to engage Crawford in single combat. But
that officer had a revolver in his hand, and he raised it and fired.

Calhoun felt as if he had been struck on the head with a red-hot iron. He
reeled in his saddle, and then fell forward on his horse's neck. His sword
dropped from his nerveless hand. His horse, wild with fear and not feeling
the restraining hand of a master, broke through the ranks of the Federals,
and bore him out of the conflict.

Still clinging to the neck of his horse and the horn of his saddle, he
kept his seat. He straightened himself up, but the blood streaming over
his face blinded him, and he saw not where he was going. Neither did he
realize what had happened, for the shock of his wound had rendered him
half-unconscious. His mind began to wander. He was a soldier no longer,
but a boy back in