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A militia command, 300 strong, came out to capture us, but they did not risk an attack until nearly midnight. Capt. Quantrell, John Jarrette, and I were sleeping together when the alarm was given, the sentry’s challenge, “Who are you?” followed by a pistol shot. We were up on the instant.

Only there are guerrillas left here and there, about the borders and in corners, unsubdued, Forrest docks, and Quantrell grass, and Beauregard pig-weeds. This first hoeing is a gigantic task: it is your first trial of strength with the never-sleeping forces of Nature. Several times, in its progress, I was tempted to do as Adam did, who abandoned his garden on account of the weeds.

As Quantrell and his men rode away in the direction of Dave Daily’s neighborhood, I told Elkins to hit out West until he came to the Kansas City and Harrisonville road, and then, under cover of night, he could go either way. I shook his hand goodbye, slapped him on the shoulder, and have never seen him since.

Purdee on the Blackwater in Johnson county, 310 men answered August 16, 1863, to the summons of Capt. Quantrell to hear the report of Lieut. Taylor’s reconnaissance. The lieutenant’s report was encouraging. The city itself was poorly garrisoned; the camp beyond was not formidable; the streets were wide.

England had Hereward; America, Harry Lee; and, when the South is ready to acknowledge Mosby and Quantrell of the same feather, it will be time for France to blush for her franc-tireurs. Noble and ignoble, patriots and cowards, the justified and the misguided wore the straight képi and the sheepskin jacket. All figs in Spain are not poisoned.

He stopped in his tracks, staring dangle-jawed at the immense city facing them. "There it is," he said quietly. "Sure. Let's go, eh?" Alan felt a sudden burst of impatience and started heading toward the approach to the bridge. But after three or four paces he realized Quantrell was not with him.

"Level, now: are you coming back or are you going over the way Steve did?" "You ought to know me better than that. I've got reasons for going out, but they're not Steve's reasons." "I hope so." Quantrell came up to them, and it seemed to Alan that there was something unconvincing about his broad grin. He looked nervous. Alan wondered whether he looked the same way. "All set?" Quantrell asked.

The first thing Alan saw was the majestic floating curve of the bridge. Then he saw the Earther city, a towering pile of metal and masonry that seemed to be leaping up into the sky ahead of them, completely filling the view. Alan pointed to the bridge-mouth. "That's where we go across, isn't it?" But Quantrell hung back.

Captain Joseph C. Lea, the staunch friend of Pat Garrett, and the man who first brought him forward as a candidate for sheriff of Lincoln county, died February 8, 1904, at Roswell, where he lived for a long time. Lea was said to have been a Quantrell man in the Lawrence massacre. Much of the population of that region had a history that was never written.

The deeds of Lane and Brown, of Quantrell and Hamilton, are not surpassed in terror in the history of any land. Osceola, Marais du Cygne, Lawrence these names warrant a shudder even to-day.