The yell rang loudly in the ears of old Wilkerson, who had remained back

in the road, and at the same instant he heard another shout behind him.

Mr. Wilkerson had not shared in the attack, but, greatly preoccupied with

his own histrionic affairs, was proceeding up the pike alone--except for

the unhappy yellow mongrel, still dragged along by the slip-noose--and

alternating, as was his natural wont, from one fence to the other;

crouching behind every bush to fire an imaginary rifle at his dog, and

then springing out, with triumphant bellowings, to fall prone upon the

terrified animal. It was after one of these victories that a shout of

warning was raised behind him, and Mr. Wilkerson, by grace of the god

Bacchus, rolling out of the way in time to save his life, saw a horse dash

by him--a big, black horse whose polished flanks were dripping with

lather. Warren Smith was the rider. He was waving a slip of yellow paper

high in the air.

He rode up the slope, and drew rein beyond the burning buildings, just

ahead of those foremost in the pursuit. He threw his horse across the road

to oppose their progress, rose in his stirrups, and waved the paper over

his head. "Stop!" he roared, "Give me one minute. Stop!" He had a grand

voice; and he was known in many parts of the State for the great bass roar

with which he startled his juries. To be heard at a distance most men lift

the pitch of their voices; Smith lowered his an octave or two, and the

result was like an earthquake playing an organ in a catacomb.

"Stop!" he thundered. "Stop!"

In answer, one of the flying Cross-Roaders turned and sent a bullet

whistling close to him. The lawyer paused long enough to bow deeply in

satirical response; then, flourishing the paper, he roared again: "Stop! A

mistake! I have news! Stop, I say! Homer has got them!"

To make himself heard over that tempestuous advance was a feat; for him,

moreover, whose counsels had so lately been derided, to interest the

pursuers at such a moment enough to make them listen--to find the word--

was a greater; and by the word, and by gestures at once vehemently

imperious and imploring, to stop them was still greater; but he did it. He

had come at just the moment before the moment that would have been too

late. They all heard him. They all knew, too, he was not trying to save

the Cross-Roads as a matter of duty, because he had given that up before

the mob left Plattville. Indeed, it was a question if, at the last, he had

not tacitly approved; and no one feared indictments for the day's work. It

would do no harm to listen to what he had to say. The work could wait; it

would "keep" for five minutes. They began to gather around him, excited,

flushed, perspiring, and smelling of smoke. Hartley Bowlder, won by Lige's

desperation and intrepidity, was helping the latter tie up his head; no

one else was hurt.




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