I would not send a boy upon such an errand, but the
demands of war are terrible and must be obeyed."
The strong grasp of the general's hand imparted fresh enthusiasm to Dick,
and for the present he did not have the slightest doubt that he would
get safely through. He wore a strong suit of home-made brown jeans,
a black felt cap with ear-flaps, and high boots. The dispatch was
pinned into a small inside pocket of his vest.
He rode quickly out of camp, giving the sentinels the pass word, and the
head of the horse was pointed west slightly by north. The ground was
now frozen and he did not have the mud to hold him back.
The horse evidently had been longing for action. Such thews and sinews
as his needed exercise. He stretched out his long neck, neighed
joyously, and broke of his own accord into an easy canter. It was a
lonely road, and Dick was glad that it was so. The fewer people he met
the better it was in every way for him.
He shared the vigor and spirit of his horse. His breath turned to smoke,
but the cold whipped his blood into a quicker torrent. He hummed
snatches of the songs that he had heard Samuel Jarvis sing, and went on
mile after mile through the high hills toward the low hills of Kentucky.
Dick did not pass many people. The ancient name of his state--the Dark
and Bloody Ground--came back to him. He knew that war in one of its
worst forms existed in this wild sweep of hills. Here the guerillas
rode, choosing their sides as suited them best, and robbing as paid them
most.
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