says, with pretended
ferocity, "or wait till the fight is over."

"For God's sake, don't kill me at all!" shouts the Yankee. "I'm a
dissipated character, and not prepared to die."

Shots from the right flank and rear, and the line is thrown about like
a rope. But the main body of the Yankees is to the left.

"Left face! Double-quick!" is the ringing order, and, by magic, the
line concentrates in a solid phalanx and sweeps forward.

This was the way Morgan fought.

And thus, marching and fighting, he went his triumphant way into the
land of the enemy, without sabres, without artillery, without even the
"Bull Pups," sometimes--fighting infantry, cavalry, artillery with only
muzzle-loading rifles, pistols, and shotguns; scattering Home Guards
like turkeys; destroying railroads and bridges; taking towns and
burning Government stores, and encompassed, usually, with forces treble
his own.

This was what Morgan did on a raid, was what he had done, what he was
starting out now to do again.

Darkness threatens, and the column halts to bivouac for the night on
the very spot where, nearly a year before, Morgan's Men first joined
Johnston's army, which, like a great, lean, hungry hawk, guarded the
Southern border.

Daniel Dean was a war-worn veteran now. He could ride twenty hours out
of the twenty-four; he could sleep in his saddle or anywhere but on
picket duty, and there was no trick of the trade in camp, or on the
march, that was not at his finger's end.

Fire first! Nobody had a match, the leaves were wet and the twigs
soggy, but by some magic a tiny spark glows under some shadowy figure,
bites at the twigs, snaps at the branches, and wraps a log in flames.

Water next! A tin cup rattles in a bucket, and another shadowy figure
steals off into the darkness, with an instinct as unerring as the skill
of a water-witch with a willow wand. The Yankees chose open fields for
camps, but your rebel took to the woods. Each man and his chum picked a
tree for a home, hung up canteens and spread blankets at the foot of
it. Supper--Heavens, what luck--fresh beef! One man broils it on coals,
pinning pieces of fat to it to make gravy; another roasts it on a
forked stick, for Morgan carried no cooking utensils on a raid.

Here, one man made up bread in an oilcloth (and every Morgan's man had
one soon after they were issued to the Federals); another worked up
corn-meal into dough in the scooped-out half of a pumpkin; one baked
bre