"That's easily explained," said the scout who had dashed upon the public square. "They are looking for a large body of reinforcements from the south, and Mayo knows what to expect if he should run, panic-stricken, into them. His only hope was in making a stand."
"Where is Perdue?" the Major asked, looking about, from one tree to another.
"He fell back yonder in the field," old Gid answered. "I ran to him, but he must have been dead by the time he hit the ground."
The Major said nothing. He stood leaning against a tree looking toward Jim and four other men coming with the heavy door.
"And old Billy," said Gid, "is——"
The Major turned about. "Well," he broke in.
"You know," said Gid, "we used to say that he always had a blot of ink on his head. But now he's lying back yonder with a spot of blood where the ink was."
The Major called to Jim: "Put it down there." And then speaking to Gid he added: "That scoundrel must pay for this. Don't shoot him—don't even break his legs—I want to see them dangle in front of the court-house door."
With a chisel and a hammer the giant worked, on his knees, and it was almost like cutting through solid iron. The echo of his heavy blows rumbled afar off throughout the timber-land.
The detail of men came with the log, the body of a cypress tree, one end smoothly rounded. Jim took his measurements and proceeded with his work. Once he had to drag the door to a better-sheltered spot. Bullets from the church were pecking up the dirt about him. Three times the piece of timber was tried, to find that the hole in the door was not quite large enough, but at last it went through and the giant smiled at the neatness of the work. And now the ram was ready. The firing from the church had fallen and all was silent.