take me out to shoot me, Yank?
You ARE a damned Yank." A hoarse growl rose behind them and the giant
lifted himself on one elbow, swaying his head from side to side.

"Let that boy alone!" Dan nodded back at him confidently.

"That's all right, Jerry. This Yank's a friend of mine." His brow
wrinkled. "At any rate he looks like somebody I know. He's goin' to
give me something to eat and get me well--like hell," he added to
himself--passing off into unconsciousness again. Chad had the lad
carried to his own tent, had him stripped, bathed, and bandaged and
stood looking down at him. It was hard to believe that the broken, aged
youth was the red-cheeked, vigorous lad whom he had known as Daniel
Dean. He was ragged, starved, all but bare-footed, wounded, sick, and
yet he was as undaunted, as defiant, as when he charged with Morgan's
dare-devils at the beginning of the war. Then Chad went back to the
hospital--for a blanket and some medicine.

"They are friends," he said to the Confederate surgeon, pointing at a
huge gaunt figure.

"I reckon that big fellow has saved that boy's life a dozen times. Yes,
they're mess-mates."

And Chad stood looking down at Jerry Dillon, one of the giant
twins--whose name was a terror throughout the mountains of the middle
south. Then he turned and the surgeon followed.

There was a rustle of branches on one side when they were gone, and at
the sound the wounded man lifted his head. The branches parted and the
oxlike face of Yankee Jake peered through. For a full minute, the two
brothers stared at each other.

"I reckon you got me, Jake," said Jerry.

"I been lookin' fer ye a long while," said Jake, simply, and he smiled
strangely as he moved slowly forward and looked down at his enemy--his
heavy head wagging from side to side. Jerry was fumbling at his belt.
The big knife flashed, but Jake's hand was as quick as its gleam, and
he had the wrist that held it. His great fingers crushed together, the
blade dropped on the ground, and again the big twins looked at each
other. Slowly, Yankee Jake picked up the knife. The other moved not a
muscle and in his fierce eyes was no plea for mercy. The point of the
blade moved slowly down--down over the rebel's heart, and was thrust
into its sheath again. Then Jake let go the wrist.

"Don't tech it agin," he said, and he strode away. The big fellow lay
blinking. He did not open his lips when, in a moment, Yankee Jake
slouched in with a canteen of