"I had news from there about a month ago, Dick," he replied. "Your
mother was well then, as I have no doubt she is now. The place was not
troubled by guerillas who are hanging on the fringe of the armies here
in Eastern, or in Southern and Western Kentucky. The war for the
present at least has passed around Pendleton. Colonel Kenton was at
Bowling Green with Albert Sidney Johnston, and his son, Harry, your
cousin, is still in the East."
It was a rapid and condensed statement, but it was very satisfying to
Dick who now rode on for a long time in silence. The road was as bad as
a road could be. Snow and ice were mixed with the deep mud which pulled
hard at the hoofs of their horses. The country was rough, sterile,
and inhabited but thinly. They rode many miles without meeting a
single human being. About the third hour they saw a man and a boy on
a hillside several hundred yards away, but when Captain Markham and a
chosen few galloped towards them they disappeared so deftly among the
woods that not a trace of them could be found.
"People in this region are certainly bashful," said Captain Markham with
a vexed laugh. "We meant them no harm, but they wouldn't stay to see
us."
"But they don't know that," said Dick with the familiarity of kinship,
even though distant. "I fancy that the people hereabouts wish both
Northerners and Southerners would go away."
Two miles further on they came to a large, double cabin standing back
a little distance from the road.
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