f any kind. The high forest circled close about
them, dense now with foliage and underbrush, hiding even at a distance
of a few hundred yards anything that might lie within. The cavalry in
these three weeks had made one scouting expedition, but it was slight
and superficial, resulting in nothing. The generals of divisions posted
their own pickets separately, leaving numerous wide breaks in the line,
and the farmer lads, at the change of guard, invariably fired their
rifles in the air, to signify the joy of living, and because it was good
to hear the sound.

Now that he was riding away from them, these things impressed Dick more
than when he was among them. Sergeant Whitley's warning and pessimistic
words came back to him with new force, but, as he rode into the depths
of the forest, he shook off all depression. Those words, "Seventy
thousand strong!" continually recurred to him. Yes, they would be
seventy thousand strong when Buell came up, and the boys were right.
Certainly there was no Confederate force in the west that could resist
seventy thousand troops, splendidly armed, flushed with victory and led
by a man like Grant.

Seventy thousand strong! Dick's heart beat high at the unuttered words.
Why should Grant fortify? It was for the enemy, not for him, to do such
a thing. Nor was it possible that Johnston even behind defenses could
resist the impact of the seventy thousand who had been passing from one
victory to another, and who were now in the very heart of the enemy's
country.

His heart continued to beat high and fast as he rode through the green
forest. Its strong, sweet odors gave a fillip to his blood, and he
pressed his horse to new speed. He rode without interruption night and
day, save a few hours now and then for sleep, and reached the army of
Buell which deep in mud was toiling slowly forward.

Buell was not as near to Shiloh as Dick had supposed, but his march had
suffered great hindrances. Halleck, in an office far away in St. Louis,
had undertaken to manage the campaign. His orders to Buell and his
command to Grant had been delayed. Buell, who had moved to the town of
Columbia, therefore had started late through no fault of his.

Duck River, which Buell was compelled to cross, was swollen like all the
other streams of the region, by the great rains and was forty feet
deep. The railway bridge across it had been wrecked by the retreating
Confederates and he was compelled to wait there two weeks un