As they were furthest to the east, they formed the nearest shelter, and to them the Cross-Roaders bent their flight, though they stopped not here, but disappeared behind Skillett's shanty, putting it between them and their pursuers, whose guns were beginning to speak.

The fugitives had a good start, and, being the picked runners of the Cross-Roads, they crossed the open, weedy acres in safety and made for their homes.

Every house had become a fort, and the defenders would have to be fought and torn out one by one.

As the guns sounded, a woman in a shanty near the forge began to scream, and kept on screaming.
On came the farmers and the men of Plattville.

They took the saloon at a run; battered down the crazy doors with a fence-rail, and swarmed inside like busy insects, making the place hum like a hive, but with the hotter industries of destruction.