He
had come at just the moment before the moment that would have been too
late. They all heard him. They all knew, too, he was not trying to save
the Cross-Roads as a matter of duty, because he had given that up before
the mob left Plattville. Indeed, it was a question if, at the last, he had
not tacitly approved; and no one feared indictments for the day's work. It
would do no harm to listen to what he had to say. The work could wait; it
would "keep" for five minutes. They began to gather around him, excited,
flushed, perspiring, and smelling of smoke. Hartley Bowlder, won by Lige's
desperation and intrepidity, was helping the latter tie up his head; no
one else was hurt.
"What is it?" they clamored impatiently. "Speak quick!" There was another
harmless shot from a fugitive, and then the Cross-Roaders, divining that
the diversion was in their favor, secured themselves in their decrepit
fastnesses and held their fire. Meanwhile, the flames crackled cheerfully
in Plattville ears. No matter what the prosecutor had to say, at least the
Skillett saloon and homestead were gone, and Bob Skillett and one other
would be sick enough to be good for a while.
"Listen," cried Warren Smith, and, rising in his stirrups again, read the
missive in his hand, a Western Union telegraph form. "Warren Smith,
Plattville," was the direction.
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