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.