Instantly ten or twelve men leaped from their
hiding-places along the fences of both fields, and, firing hurriedly and
harmlessly into the scattered ranks of the oncoming mob, broke for the
shelter of the houses, where their fellows were posted. Taken on the
flanks and from the rear, there was but one thing for them to do to keep
from being hemmed in and shot or captured. (They excessively preferred
being shot.) With a wild, high, joyous yell, sounding like the bay of
young hounds breaking into view of their quarry, the Plattville men
followed.
The most eastward of the debilitated edifices of Six-Cross-Roads was the
saloon, which bore the painted legends: on the west wall, "Last Chance";
on the east wall, "First Chance." Next to this, and separated by two or
three acres of weedy vacancy from the corners where the population centred
thickest, stood-if one may so predicate of a building which leaned in
seven directions-the house of Mr. Robert Skillett, the proprietor of the
saloon. Both buildings were shut up as tight as their state of repair
permitted. 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.
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