"Not long," said Morgan, grimly. "In fact, I guess we'll be moving along now."
And he did—back to Dixie with his prisoners, tearing up railroads, burning bridges and trestles, and pursued by enough Yankees to have eaten him and his entire command if they ever could have caught him. As they passed into Dixie, "Lightning" captured a telegraph office and had a last little fling at his Yankee brethren.
"Head-quarters, Telegraph Dept. of Ky., Confederate States of America"—thus he headed his General Order No.—to the various Union authorities throughout the State.
"Hereafter," he clicked, grinning, "an operator will destroy telegraphic instruments and all material in charge when informed that Morgan has crossed the border. Such instances of carelessness as lately have been exhibited in the Bluegrass will be severely dealt with.
"By order of LIGHTNING,
"Gen. Supt. C. S. Tel. Dept."
Just about that time Chad Buford, in a Yankee hospital, was coming back from the land of ether dreams. An hour later, the surgeon who had taken Dan's bullet from his shoulder, handed him a piece of paper, black with faded blood and scarcely legible.
"I found that in your jacket," he said. "Is it important?"
Chad smiled.
"No," he said. "Not now."