The generals of divisions posted their own pickets separately, leaving numerous wide breaks in the line, and the farmer lads, at the change of guard, invariably fired their rifles in the air, to signify the joy of living, and because it was good to hear the sound.
Now that he was riding away from them, these things impressed Dick more than when he was among them.

Sergeant Whitley's warning and pessimistic words came back to him with new force, but, as he rode into the depths of the forest, he shook off all depression.

Those words, "Seventy thousand strong!" continually recurred to him.

Yes, they would be seventy thousand strong when Buell came up, and the boys were right.
Certainly there was no Confederate force in the west that could resist seventy thousand troops, splendidly armed, flushed with victory and led by a man like Grant.
Seventy thousand strong! Dick's heart beat high at the unuttered words.
Why should Grant fortify?
It was for the enemy, not for him, to do such a thing.

Nor was it possible that Johnston even behind defenses could resist the impact of the seventy thousand who had been passing from one victory to another, and who were now in the very heart of the enemy's country.
His heart continued to beat high and fast as he rode through the green forest.