Ten miles more, and many hostile bayonets gleam ahead. A serious fight, this, perhaps--so back drops the advance, this time as a reserve; up gallops the column into single rank and dismounts, while the flank companies, deploying as skirmishers, cover the whole front, one man out of each set of fours and the corporals holding the horses in the rear. The "Bull Pups" bark and the Rebel yell rings as the line--the files two yards apart--"a long flexible line curving forward at each extremity"--slips forward at a half run. This time the Yankees charge. From every point of that curving line pours a merciless fire, and the charging men in blue recoil--all but one. (War is full of grim humor.) On comes one lone Yankee, hatless, red-headed, pulling on his reins with might and main, his horse beyond control, and not one of the enemy shoot as he sweeps helplessly into their line. A huge rebel grabs his bridle-rein. "I don't know whether to kill you now," he says, with pretended ferocity, "or wait till the fight is over." "For God's sake, don't kill me at all!" shouts the Yankee. "I'm a dissipated character, and not prepared to die." Shots from the right flank and rear, and the line is thrown about like a rope. But the main body of the Yankees is to the left. "Left face! Double-quick!" is the ringing order, and, by magic, the line concentrates in a solid phalanx and sweeps forward. This was the way Morgan fought. And thus, marching and fighting, he went his triumphant way into the land of the enemy, without sabres, without artillery, without even the "Bull Pups," sometimes--fighting infantry, cavalry, artillery with only muzzle-loading rifles, pistols, and shotguns; scattering Home Guards like turkeys; destroying railroads and bridges; taking towns and burning Government stores, and encompassed, usually, with forces treble his own. This was what Morgan did on a raid, was what he had done, what he was starting out now to do again. Darkness threatens, and the column halts to bivouac for the night on the very spot where, nearly a year before, Morgan's Men first joined Johnston's army, which, like a great, lean, hungry hawk, guarded the Southern border. Daniel Dean was a war-worn veteran now. He could ride twenty hours out of the twenty-four; he could sleep in his saddle or anywhere but on picket duty, and there was no trick of the trade in camp, or on the march, that was not at his finger's end. Fire first! Nobody had a match, the leaves were wet and the twigs soggy, but by some magic a tiny spark glows under some shadowy figure, bites at the twigs, snaps at the branches, and wraps a log in flames.