hit the girl.
Shoot!"

Willetts and Ross Schofield were still standing on the roof, at the
edge, out of the smoke, and both fired at the same time. 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. It was after one of these victories that a
shout of warning was raised behind him, and Mr. Wilkerson, by grace of
the god Bacchus, rolling out of the way in time to save his life, saw
a horse dash by him--a big, black horse whose polished flanks were
dripping with lather. Warren Smith was the rider. He was waving a slip
of yellow paper high in the air.

He rode up the slope, and drew rein beyond the burning buildings, just
ahead of those foremost in the pursuit. He threw his horse across the
road to oppose their progress, rose in his stirrups, and waved the paper
over his head. "Stop!" he roared, "Give me one minute. Stop!" He had a
grand voice; and he was known in many parts of the State for the great
bass roar with which he startled his juries. To be heard at a distance
most men lift the pitch of their voices; Smith lowered his an octave
or two, and the result was like an earthquake playing an organ in a
catacomb.

"Stop!" he thundered. "Stop!"