The thought of what might issue from it by night was unpleasant, and the legends of the Cross-Roads, together with an unshapen threat, easily fancied in the atmosphere of the place, made Miss Sherwood shiver as though a cold draught had crossed her.
"It is so sinister!" she exclaimed.

"And so unspeakably mean! This is where they live, the people who hate him, is it?
The 'White-Caps' ?" "They are just a lot of rowdies," replied Briscoe.

"You have your rough corners in big cities, and I expect there are mighty few parts of any country that don't have their tough neighborhoods, only Six-Cross-Roads happens to be worse than most.

They choose to call themselves 'White-Caps,' but I guess it's just a name they like to give themselves.
Usually White-Caps are a vigilance committee going after rascalities the law doesn't reach, or won't reach, but these fellows are not that kind.
They got together to wipe out their grudges--and sometimes they didn't need any grudge and let loose their deviltries just for pure orneriness; setting haystacks afire and such like; or, where a farmer had offended them, they would put on their silly toggery and take him out at midnight and whip him and plunder his house and chase the horses and cattle into his corn, maybe.

They say the women went with them on their raids." "And he was the first to try to stop them ?" "Well, you see our folks are pretty long-suffering," Briscoe replied, apologetically.