"I left Judge Briscoe's, and went west on the pike to a big tree. It

rained, and I stepped under the tree for shelter. There was a man on the

other side of the fence. It was Bob Skillett. He was carrying his gown and

hood--I suppose it was that--on his arm. Then I saw two others a little

farther east, in the middle of the road; and I think they had followed me

from the Briscoes', or near there. They had their foolish regalia on, as

all the rest had,--there was plenty of lightning to see. The two in the

road were simply standing there in the rain, looking at me through the

eye-holes in their hoods. I knew there were others--plenty--but I thought

they were coming from behind me--the west.

"I wanted to get home--the court-house yard was good enough for me--so I

started east, toward town. I passed the two gentlemen; and one fell down

as I went by him, but the other fired a shot as a signal, and I got his

hood off his face for it--I stopped long enough--and it was Force Johnson.

I know him well. Then I ran, and they followed. A little ahead of me I saw

six or eight of them spread across the road. I knew I'd have a time

getting through, so I jumped the fence to cut across the fields, and I lit

in a swarm of them--it had rained them just where I jumped. I set my back

to the fence, but one of the fellows in the road leaned over and smashed

my head in, rather--with the butt of a gun, I believe. I came out from the

fence and they made a little circle around me. No one said anything. I saw

they had ropes and saplings, and I didn't want that, exactly, so I went

into them. I got a good many hoods off before it was over, and I can swear

to quite a number besides those I told you."

He named the men, slowly and carefully. Then he went on: "I think they

gave up the notion of whipping. We all got into a bunch, and they couldn't

clear to shoot without hitting some of their own: and there was a lot of

gouging and kicking--one fellow nearly got my left eye, and I tried to

tear him apart and he screamed so that I think he was hurt. Once or twice

I thought I might get away, but somebody hammered me over the head and

face again, and I got dizzy; and then they all jumped away from me

suddenly, and Bob Skillett stepped up--and--shot me. He waited for a good

flurry of lightning, and I was slow tumbling down. Some one else fired a

shot-gun, I think--I can't be sure--about the same time, from the side. I

tried to get up, but I couldn't, and then they got together, for a

consultation. The man I had hurt--I didn't recognize him--came and looked

at me. He was nursing himself all over; and groaned; and I laughed, I--at

any rate, my arm was lying stretched out on the grass, and he stamped his

heel into my hand, and after a little of that I quit feeling.




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