"Jest git a peek at 'em through the window, miss--'ma'm' I should say, on'y I don't allus remember right, as you might say. Ther's twenty an' more o' the lowest down bums ever I see outside a State penitentiary. They're sure the most ter'blest lot ever I did see. An' they got 'emselves fixed up wi' guns an' knives, an' what not an' sech, till you can't see the color o' their clothes fer the dirt on 'em. I'll swar' to goodness, as the sayin' is, they ain't never see no water sence they was christened, if they ever was christened, which I don't believe no gospel preacher would ever so demean himself. An' as fer soap, say, they couldn't even spell it if you was to hand 'em the whole soap fact'ry literature of a fi'-cent daily noos-sheet. They're jest ter'ble, an' it seems to me we sure need a reg'ment o' United States Cavalry settin' around on horses an' field guns to pertect us, ef we're to farm this one-hossed layout. They're 'bad men,' mum, miss--which I made a mistake ag'in--that's wot they are. I've read about 'em in the fi'-cent comics, so I sure know 'em when I see 'em. You can't never make no mistake. They're jest goin' to shoot us all up to glory, an' they'll dance around on our corpses, same as if they was nuthin', nor no account anyways."
In spite of her recent shock Joan found herself smiling at the strange mixture of fear and anger in the old woman's manner. But she felt it necessary to check her flow of wild accusations. She guessed easily enough who the men were that were approaching the house, but their object remained a mystery.
"You're hasty. You mustn't judge these people by their appearance. They're----"
But the feverish tongue was promptly set clacking again.
"An' wot, I asks, is they to be judged by if not by wot they are? They jest come along a-yowlin', an' a-shootin' off'n their guns an' things, same as they allus do when they's on the war-path. Scalps, that's wot they's after. Scalps, no more an' no less. An' to think o' me at my time o' life a-fallin' a prey to Injuns, as you might say. Oh, if on'y my pore George D. Ransford was alive! He'd 'a' give 'em scalps. He was a man, sure, even though he did set around playin' poker all night when I was in labor with my twins. He was a great fighter was George D.--as the marks on my body ken show to this very day."
At that instant there was a terrific knocking at the door which opened directly into the parlor in which the waiting women were standing, and the farm-wife jumped and staggered back, and, finally, collapsed into an adjacent chair.