Then he told us his
story. They had not tarred his face, except a spot on his forehead,
where, he said, they had stuck a bunch of cotton as large as his two
fists. The road to Ocena, as our post-office was called, ran up the
bluff now known to Atchison people as Sam Kingstown. On the top of
that ridge he had stopped, and pulled off his coat of tar and cotton,
put on his clothes and come home.
A few evenings after that, we heard that a company of South
Carolinians had camped near Mr. May's house. Father said they had
probably come after either himself or Caleb May. So he went up to Mr.
May's, to see what to do about it. After he left, uncle nailed shakes
over the window, and cleaned up his old flint-lock musket, and loaded
it carefully. Aunt moulded bullets, while mother got the ax and
butcher knife, and then stuffed rags in the cracks, and brought in the
half-bushel to turn over the light, so that they could not see where
to shoot. Then we all took turns standing out in the darkness at the
corner of the house, to keep watch, and listen for the sound of guns
from Mr.
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