They were coming.
She stepped quickly out of the tangle, and darted up the road, running
with the speed of a fleet little terrier, not opening her lips, not
calling out, but holding her two thin hands high above her head. That was
all. But Birnam wood was come to Dunsinane at last, and the messenger
sped. Out of the weeds in the corners of the snake fence, in the upper
part of the rise, silently lifted the heads of men whose sallowness became
a sickish white as the child flew by.
The mob was carefully organized. They had taken their time and had
prepared everything deliberately, knowing that nothing could stop them. No
one had any thought of concealment; it was all as open as the light of
day, all done in the broad sunshine. Nothing had been determined as to
what was to be done at the Cross-Roads more definite than that the place
was to be wiped out. That was comprehensive enough; the details were quite
certain to occur. They were all on foot, marching in fairly regular ranks.
In front walked Mr. Watts, the man Harkless had abhorred in a public
spirit and befriended in private--to-day he was a hero and a leader,
marching to avenge his professional oppressor and personal brother. Cool,
unruffled, and, to outward vision, unarmed, marching the miles in his
brown frock coat and generous linen, his carefully creased trousers neatly
turned up out of the dust, he led the way. On one side of him were the two
Bowlders, on the other was Lige Willetts, Mr. Watts preserving peace
between the two young men with perfect tact and sang-froid.
They kept good order and a similitude of quiet for so many, except far to
the rear, where old Wilkerson was bringing up the tail of the procession,
dragging a wretched yellow dog by a slip-noose fastened around the poor
cur's protesting neck, the knot carefully arranged under his right ear. In
spite of every command and protest, Wilkerson had marched the whole way
uproariously singing, "John Brown's Body."
The sun was in the west when they came in sight of the Cross-Roads, and
the cabins on the low slope stood out angularly against the radiance
beyond. As they beheld the hated settlement, the heretofore orderly ranks
showed a disposition to depart from the steady advance and rush the
shanties. Willetts, the Bowlders, Parker, Ross, Schofield, and fifty
others did, in fact, break away and set a sharp pace up the slope.
Watts tried to call them back. "What's the use your gettin' killed?" he
shouted.
"Why not?" answered Lige, who, like the others, was increasing his speed
when old "Wimby" rose up suddenly from the roadside ahead of them, and
motioned them frantically to go back. "They're laid out along the fence,
waitin' fer ye," he warned them. "Git out the road. Come by the fields.
Per the Lord's sake, spread!" Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, he
dropped down into the weeds again. Lige and those with him paused, and the
whole body came to a halt while the leaders consulted. There was a sound
of metallic clicking and a thin rattle of steel. From far to the rear came
the voice of old Wilkerson: "John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the ground,
John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the ground--"