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.