The fugitives did not
turn; they kept on running, and they had nearly reached the other side of
the field, when suddenly, without any premonitory gesture, the elder
Skillett dropped flat on his face. The Cross-Roaders stood by each other
that day, for four or five men ran out of the nearest shanty into the
open, lifted the prostrate figure from the ground, and began to carry it
back with them. But Mr. Skillett was alive; his curses were heard above
all other sounds. Lige and Schofield fired again, and one of the rescuers
staggered. Nevertheless, as the two men slid down from the roof, the
burdened Cross-Readers were seen to break into a run; and at that, with
another yell, fiercer, wilder, more joyous than the first, the Plattville
men followed.
The yell rang loudly in the ears of old Wilkerson, who had remained back
in the road, and at the same instant he heard another shout behind him.
Mr. Wilkerson had not shared in the attack, but, greatly preoccupied with
his own histrionic affairs, was proceeding up the pike alone--except for
the unhappy yellow mongrel, still dragged along by the slip-noose--and
alternating, as was his natural wont, from one fence to the other;
crouching behind every bush to fire an imaginary rifle at his dog, and
then springing out, with triumphant bellowings, to fall prone upon the
terrified animal.
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