"Gentlemen," he said, in a clear, far-carrying voice, "there is no
need of an armed congregation at this court-house. I call on you in the
name of the law to lay aside your arms or scatter."
There was murmur which for an instant threatened to become a roar, but
trailed into a chorus of derisive laughter.
Samson went to the hotel, accompanied by Callomb. A half-hour later,
the two were back at the court-house, with a half-dozen companions. The
yard was empty. Samson carried his father's rifle. In that half-hour a
telegram, prepared in advance, had flashed to Frankfort.
"Mob holds court-house--need troops."
And a reply had flashed back: "Use local company--Callomb commanding." So that form of law was met.
The court-house doors were closed, and its windows barricaded. The
place was no longer a judicial building. It was a fortress. As Samson's
party paused at the gate, a warning voice called: "Don't come no nigher!"
The body-guard began dropping back to shelter.
"I demand admission to the court-house to make arrests," shouted the
new Sheriff. In answer, a spattering of rifle reports came from the
jail windows. Two of the Souths fell. At a nod from Samson, Callomb
left on a run for the hotel. The Sheriff himself took his position in a
small store across the street, which he reached unhurt under a
desultory fire.
Then, again, silence settled on the town, to remain for five minutes
unbroken. The sun glared mercilessly on clay streets, now as empty as a
cemetery. A single horse incautiously hitched at the side of the
courthouse switched its tail against the assaults of the flies.
Otherwise, there was no outward sign of life. Then, Callomb's newly
organized force of ragamuffin soldiers clattered down the street at
double time. For a moment or two after they came into sight, only the
massed uniforms caught the eyes of the intrenched Hollmans, and an
alarmed murmur broke from the court-house. They had seen no troops
detrain, or pitch camp. These men had sprung from the earth as
startlingly as Jason's crop of dragon's teeth. But, when the command
rounded the shoulder of a protecting wall to await further orders, the
ragged stride of their marching, and the all-too-obvious bearing of the
mountaineer proclaimed them native amateurs. The murmur turned to a
howl of derision and challenge. They were nothing more nor less than
South, masquerading in the uniforms of soldiers.
"What orders?" inquired Callomb briefly, joining Samson in the store.
"Demand surrender once more--then take the courthouse and jail," was
the short reply.