General Beauregard’s kind words touched Calhoun deeply. “Thank you, General,” he replied, with feeling. “I trust I shall never prove myself unworthy of your good opinion. May God bless you, and crown your efforts with victory!” After parting with Beauregard, Calhoun lost no time in reporting to Morgan. He found his chief in command of about four hundred men, rough, daring fellows who would follow their leader wherever he went. A more superb body of rough-riders was never formed. Calhoun was introduced to the officers of the squadron, and when it became known that he was going back to Kentucky to recruit for the command—although many of the officers wondered why their chief had selected one so young—they gave him a hearty welcome. But when it became known that he was the son of Judge Pennington, of Danville, that he had already won renown as a daring scout, and had been offered a position on the staff of General Beauregard, their welcome was doubly enthusiastic. To this welcome there was one exception. One of Morgan’s officers, Captain P. C. Conway, had applied to Morgan for permission to go back to Kentucky on this same duty, and had been refused. He was a short, thickset, red-faced man with a very pompous air. His weakness was liquor; yet he was a brave, efficient officer. What he considered an affront was never forgiven, for he was of a revengeful disposition. It was consistent with his character that he should become a mortal enemy of Calhoun. When he was introduced to Calhoun he merely bowed, and did not offer to give his hand. “I believe I have heard of Captain Conway,” said Calhoun, with a smile. “I have heard a cousin of mine speak of him.” “Why, yes,” spoke up Morgan, with a twinkle in his eye, “Captain, Lieutenant Pennington is a cousin of your particular friend, Captain Fred Shackelford, of the Yankee army.” Conway fairly turned purple with rage. “Lieutenant Pennington has no reason to be proud of his relationship to that sneak and spy,” he snorted. “I have no more reason to love my cousin than you,” replied Calhoun, with some warmth. “He may have played the spy; so have I; but sneak he is not, and I would thank you not to use the term again, traitor though he is to the South and his native state.” Conway glared at him for a moment, but there was something in Calhoun’s eye which told him that if he repeated the term it might cause trouble, so he snapped: “Well, spy and traitor, if those terms suit you better; but it may be of interest to you to know that I have sworn to see that precious cousin of yours hanged, and”—with a fearful oath—“I will see that he is.” With these words he turned on his heel and stalked away. “Shackelford’s name has the same effect on Conway that a red rag has on a mad bull,” laughed Morgan. “He can never forget that trick your cousin played on him.”