The Lions of the Lord | Page 5

all
but loosened the killing clutch. This brought them close to the window,
but again he was swiftly drawn underneath. Then, as he felt his head
must burst and his senses were failing from the deadly grip at his throat,
his feet caught in the folds of the heavy curtain, and brought it down
upon them in a cloud of dust.
As the light flooded in, he saw the truth, even before his now panting
and sneezing antagonist did. Releasing the pressure from his throat
with a sudden access of strength born of the new knowledge, he
managed to gasp, though thickly and with pain, as they still strove:
"Seth Wright--wait--let go--wait, Seth--I'm Joel--Joel Rae!"
He managed it with difficulty.
"Joel Rae--Rae--Rae--don't you see?"
He felt the other's tension relax. With many a panting, puffing "Hey!"
and "What's that now?" he was loosed, and drew himself up into a chair
by the saving window. His assailant, a hale, genial-faced man of forty,
sat on the floor where the revelation of his victim's identity had
overtaken him. He was breathing hard and feeling tenderly of his neck.
This was ruffled ornamentally by a style of whisker much in vogue at
the time. It had proved, however, but an inferior defense against the
onslaught of the younger man in his frantic efforts to save his own
neck.
They looked at each other in panting amazement, until the older man
recovered his breath, and spoke:
"Gosh and all beeswax! The Wild Ram of the Mountains a-settin' on
the Lute of the Holy Ghost's stomach a-chokin' him to death. My sakes!
I'm a-pantin' like a tuckered hound--a-thinkin' he was a cussed milishy
mobocrat come to spoil his household!"

The younger man was now able to speak, albeit his breathing was still
heavy and the marks of the struggle plain upon him.
"What does it mean, Brother Wright--all this? Where are the Saints we
left here--why is the city deserted--and why this--this?"
He shook back the thick, brown hair that fell to his shoulders, tenderly
rubbed the livid fingerprints at his throat, and readjusted the collar of
his blue flannel shirt.
"Thought you was a milishy man, I tell you, from the careless way you
hollered--one of Brockman's devils come back a-snoopin', and I didn't
crave trouble, but when I saw the Lord appeared to reely want me to
cope with the powers of darkness, why, I jest gritted into you for the
consolation of Israel. You'd 'a' got your come-uppance, too, if you'd 'a'
been a mobber. You was nigh a-ceasin' to breathe, Joel Rae. In another
minute I wouldn't 'a' give the ashes of a rye-straw for your part in the
tree of life!"
"Yes, yes, man, but go back a little. Where are our people, the sick, the
old, and the poor, that we had to leave till now? Tell me, quick."
The older man sprang up, the late struggle driven from his mind, his
face scowling. He turned upon his questioner.
"Does my fury swell up in me? No wonder! And you hain't guessed
why? Well, them pitiful remnant of Saints, the sick, the old, the poor,
waitin' to be helped yender to winter quarters, has been throwed out
into that there slough acrost the river, six hundred and forty of 'em."
"When we were keeping faith by going?"
"What does a mobocrat care for faith-keepin'? Have you brought back
the wagons?"
"Yes; they'll reach the other side to-night. I came ahead and made the
lower crossing. I've seen nothing and heard nothing. Go on--tell
me--talk, man!"

"Talk?--yes, I'll talk! We've had mobs and the very scum of hell to boil
over here. This is Saturday, the 19th, ain't it? Well, Brockman marched
against this stronghold of Israel jest a week ago, with eight hundred
men. They had cannons and demanded surrender. We was a scant two
hundred fightin' men, and the only artillery we had was what we made
ourselves. We broke up an old steamboat shaft and bored out the pieces
so's they'd take a six-pound shot--but we wasn't goin' to give up. We'd
learned our lesson about mobocrat milishies. Well, Brockman, when he
got our defy, sent out his Warsaw riflemen as flankers on the right and
left, put the Lima Guards to our front with one cannon, and marched
his main body through that corn-field and orchard to the south of here
to the city lines. Then we had it hot. Brockman shot away all his
cannon-balls--he had sixty-one--and drew back while he sent to Quincy
for more. He'd killed three of our men. Sunday and Monday we
swopped a few shots. And then Tuesday, along comes a committee of a
hundred to negotiate peace. Well, Wednesday evening they signed
terms, spite of all I could do. _I'd_ 'a'