“Well, I declare, if it isn’t my old friend Jones!” exclaimed Calhoun. “How do you do, Mr. Jones? Where are those five hundred armed Knights who you said would meet us here? Where is [pg 239]your hat, that you are not throwing it high in air? Why are you not shouting hallelujahs over our coming?”
Jones had stopped and was staring at Calhoun with open mouth and bulging eyes. “Bless my soul,” he at length managed to stammer, “if it isn’t Mr. Harrison!”
“Lieutenant Pennington, at your service. But, Jones, where are those Knights of the Golden Circle you promised would join us here?”
Jones hung his head. “We—we didn’t expect you to come so soon,” he managed to answer; “we didn’t have time to rally.”
“Mr. Jones, you told me this whole country would welcome us as liberators. They did welcome us back there in Corydon, but it was with lead. Sixteen of our men were killed and wounded. Mr. Jones, there will be several funerals for you to attend in Corydon.”
“It must be some of those Union Leaguers,” exclaimed Mr. Jones. “Glad they were killed; they threatened to hang me the other day.”
“They were heroes, compared to you!” hotly exclaimed Calhoun. “You and your cowardly Knights can plot in secret, stab in the dark, curse your government, but when it comes to fighting like men you are a pack of cowardly curs.”
But Mr. Jones hardly heard this fierce Phillipic; his eyes were fixed on his smoke-house, which was being entered by some more of the soldiers.
“Won’t you stop them,” he cried, wringing his [pg 240]hands; “they will take it all! Why, you are a pack of thieves!”
“Boys, don’t enter or disturb anything in the house,” cried Calhoun, turning to his men, “but take anything out of doors you can lay your hands on; horses, everything.”