n 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--"

A few near him, as they stood waiting, began to take up the burden of
the song, singing in slow time like a dirge; then those further away
took it up; it spread, reached the leaders; they,