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.
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