Yes an hour would do!  And it could not interfere with his duty!  But Pendleton was a Southern stronghold.  Everybody there knew him, and they all knew, too, that he was in the service of the North.  How could he pass by without being seen and what might happen then?  The terrible conflict went on in his mind, and it was stilled only when he decided to leave it to time and chance.

He rode that day almost without interruption, securing an ample dinner, where no one chose to ask questions, accepting him at his own statement of himself and probably believing it.  He heard that a small Southern force was to the southward, probably marching toward Bowling Green, where a great Confederate army under Albert Sidney Johnston was said to be concentrated.  But the news gave him no alarm.  His own road was still leading west slightly by north.

When night came he was in the pleasant and fertile hill country, dotted with double brick houses, and others of wood, all with wide porticos, supported by white pillars.  It looked smiling and prosperous even in winter.  The war had done no ravages here, and he saw men at work about the great barns.

He slept in the house of a big farmer, who liked the frank voice and eyes of the lad, and who cared nothing for any errand upon which he might be riding.  He slept, too, without dreams, and without awakening until the morning, when he shared a solid breakfast with the family.

Dick obtained at the farmhouse a fresh supply of cold food for his saddle bags, to be held against an emergency, although it was likely now that he could obtain all he needed at houses as he passed.  Receiving the good wishes of his hosts he rode on through the hills.  The intense cold which kept troops from marching much really served him, as the detachments about the little towns stayed in their camps.

The day was quite clear, with the mercury still well below zero, but his heavy clothing kept him warm and comfortable.  His great horse showed no signs of weariness.  Apparently his sinews were made of steel.

Noon came, but Dick did not seek any farmhouse for what was called dinner in that region.  Instead he ate from his saddle bags as he rode on.  He did not wish to waste time, and, moreover, he had taken his resolution.  He would go near Pendleton.  It was on his most direct route, but he would pass in the night.

As the cold twilight descended he came into familiar regions.  Like all other young Kentuckians he was a great horseman, and with Harry Kenton and other lads of his age he had ridden nearly everywhere in a circuit of thirty miles around Pendleton.

It was with many a throb of the heart that he now recognized familiar scenes.  He knew the fields, the forests and the houses.  But he was glad that the night had come.  Others would know him, and he did not wish to be seen when he rode on such an errand.  He had been saving his horse in the afternoon, but now he pushed him forward at a much faster gait.  The great horse responded willingly and Dick felt the powerful body working beneath him, smooth and tireless like a perfect machine.