Harry succeeded in clearing the village in safety, and, when about half a mile away, halted and looked back. Porter's men were already leaving the place, and Harry saw they had quite a number of prisoners. Porter halted in an open meadow near the edge of the village, and the prisoners were gathered together.

"My God!" groaned Harry. "Are they going to murder them all?"

But the prisoners were not murdered. They were all paroled with the exception of four, to whom allusion has been made.

Harry watched until he saw the paroled men start back to the village, and the guerrillas riding away. He drew a long breath of relief. The fact was, McNeil held so many of Porter's men prisoners that the guerrilla chieftain dare not command such wholesale murder.

"What is to be done now?" asked Harry of himself. "I know," he cried suddenly. "If I can make Monticello before night, McNeil can get to Whaley's Mill nearly as quickly as Porter. I'll make Monticello or die in the attempt."

Thus saying, he turned his horse to the north and rode swiftly away. He had gone some distance when he suddenly drew rein. "Great guns!" he exclaimed. "I have forgotten Bruno. He will stay by that blanket until he starves."

He reined in his horse and sat a moment in deep thought. "It's no use," he sighed. "It's full five miles. I can never go back and make Monticello in time. Poor Bruno! I won't let him suffer for more than a day or two."

His mind made up, Harry rode on at as swift a pace as his horse could stand. Residents along the road gazed in wonder as Harry dashed past. Most of them took him for a guerrilla fleeing from his foes, and looked in vain for blue-coated pursuers. A number hailed him and two or three sent a ball after him on receiving no answer.

When about half way to Monticello three rough-looking men blocked the road, demanding his name and the reason of his haste.

"I'm carrying the news to the boys," he explained. "Porter captured Palmyra this morning."

"Yo' un don't say. But who air yo' un carryin' the news to?"

"To Sam Dodds. Porter wanted him to rally all the boys he could and join him at Whaley's Mill."

This was a guess by Harry. He only knew Dodds was a leader among the guerrillas in that section of the country.

"That's a lie. Sam Dodds is with Porter and—" The guerrilla never got further. Harry's revolver cracked and the fellow rolled from his horse. Bending low over his horse's neck, Harry was off like a shot.

For a moment the other two guerrillas were dazed by the unlooked-for attack, then drawing their revolvers sent ball after ball after Harry, who, as they fired, felt a sharp pain in his left arm, but he only urged his horse to greater speed.

One of the guerrillas sprang from his horse and went to his fallen companion. "Dead as a doornail," he exclaimed. "Shot through the heart. Jack, let's after that boy. I reckon one of us winged him, for I saw him winch. We 'uns can come back and see to poor Collins heah, after we catch him. I reckon that young devil was the famous boy scout of the Merrill Hoss. I've heard Porter say he'd give a thousand dollars for him dead or alive."

Without further parley, leaving their dead companion lying in the road, the two guerrillas mounted their horses and started in pursuit. Harry by this time had gained a good lead, but the guerrillas' horses were fresh, and they gained on him rapidly. As dark as it now looked for Harry, his being pursued proved to be his salvation, for he had not gone more than two miles when six guerrillas blocked the road.

"Halt and give an account of yo'self!" they cried.

Without checking his horse, Harry shouted, "Yanks! Yanks!"

The guerrillas saw the cloud of dust raised by Harry's pursuers and wheeling their horses fled with him. Harry now had company he did not relish, but not for long. Coming to a cross road which led into a wood they turned into it crying out to Harry to do the same, but to their amazement he kept right on.

"Reckon he's so skeered he didn't notice," said one.

"Hold," said another, "thar's only two comin' an' they don't look like Yanks. If they be, we 'uns can tend to them."

Drawing their weapons they waited for the two to come up, when they found they were two of their own gang. Explanations were made and there were curses loud and deep.

"We 'uns air losing time," cried one of the first two. "The feller's hoss must be badly winded. We 'uns can catch him."

The leader of the six shook his head. "No," he exclaimed, with an oath, "it's all off. Thar is a scouting party of Yanks up the road. They chased us. That's the reason we 'uns are down heah. That feller will fall in with them before we 'uns can ketch him."

So, much to their chagrin, the guerrillas gave up the chase and went to attend to their dead comrade.

About five miles from Monticello Harry overtook the scouting party, now on their way back to that city. Taking Harry for a guerrilla, they ordered him to surrender, which he did very willingly.

Harry was white with dust, blood was dripping from his left hand and his horse, white with foam, stood trembling.

The lieutenant in charge of the party rode up. "Well, young man," he began, then stopped and gazed in wonder.

"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed. "It's Harry Semans. Harry, what's up?"

"Porter is on the warpath. He has captured Palmyra," gasped Harry.

The news was astounding.

"When?" cried the lieutenant.

"This morning. But I have no time to talk. Give me a fresh horse. I must see McNeil."

"But your hand, my boy. Let me send one of the boys with the news."

"No, no!" cried Harry. "I must see McNeil. The wound is nothing. It is nothing but a scratch."

Harry took a horse from one of the troop, and accompanied by the lieutenant and three men rode post-haste for Monticello, leaving the troop to come more leisurely.

General McNeil was greatly surprised by the news. He had supposed Porter's band to be entirely dispersed.

"You say the garrison did not surrender?" asked McNeil.

"No, but Porter plundered the town and took every Union man in the place prisoner. From what I could see he paroled all, or most of them."

"God help Andrew Allsman if they captured him," exclaimed McNeil; "but if Porter dares—" The General said no more, but his jaws came together with a snap.

Harry now told the whole story and ended with: "General, they are to rendezvous at Whaley's Mill. You can catch them if you act promptly. It's not much farther to Whaley's Mill from here than it is from Palmyra; and Porter has no idea you can get there nearly as quickly as he."

McNeil lost no time. Fortunately there was a battalion of the Merrill Horse at Monticello, and he could muster five hundred men for the pursuit.

"I wish you could be with us," said the General to Harry.

"I certainly shall be," answered Harry.

"But your wound, and thirty-six hours without sleep or rest," said the General.

"My wound is nothing," said Harry, "but that reminds me it has not been dressed, and that I am nearly famished, but I will be ready as soon as you are."

"Only cut deep enough to make it bleed freely," said the surgeon, as he dressed Harry's arm. "You will be all right in a week."

"I'm all right now, except a lame arm and an empty stomach," laughed Harry, "and I will attend to the stomach now."

It was not long before McNeil, at the head of five hundred stout troopers, was on his way to Whaley's Mill, every man eager for the conflict. But as Harry rode there came to him the thought of Bruno. His first impulse was to turn back and ride for Palmyra, but he knew how dangerous it would be, and then he felt his duty was to continue with McNeil. It would not make more than a day's difference, and if he started alone, the probabilities were he would never get to Palmyra, so with a heavy heart he rode on.

All through the night they rode. Porter, never dreaming McNeil could reach him so quickly, went into camp at Whaley's Mill to await supplies and reinforcements.

The next day McNeil was on him like a thunderbolt. Never was there a surprise more complete. Many of the guerrillas cut the halters of their horses and without saddles or bridles galloped furiously away. Frequently two men were seen on one horse, digging in their heels and urging him to the utmost speed.

The relentless Merrill Horse were after them, cutting, shooting and taking prisoners those who threw down their arms and begged for mercy. For two days the pursuit was kept up, and at last in desperation Porter cried to the men who had kept with him, "Every man for himself." And every man for himself it was. The band was totally dispersed.

When Porter saw all hope was lost, he paroled three of the four prisoners he had kept; but Andrew Allsman was held, and from that day all authentic news of him ceases.[11]

Porter did not rally his band; he collected as many as he could and fled south into Arkansas, where he held a commission as colonel in a regiment of provisional troops. Owing to this pursuit six days had elapsed before Harry could get back to Palmyra. During this period the thought of Bruno keeping his lonely watch over that blanket caused Harry many a sharp pain. More than once he thought of deserting and going to the relief of the animal. Those of the officers who knew the story laughed at Harry's fears, saying no dog would stay and watch a blanket until he starved, but Harry knew better.

Upon reaching Palmyra he rode with all haste to the fair grounds where he had left Bruno. He found the dog lying with his head and forepaws on the blanket, his eyes closed. So still he lay, so gaunt he looked, that Harry's heart gave a great bound; he feared he was dead. But the moment Harry's footsteps were heard, Bruno gave a hoarse growl and staggered to his feet, every hair on his back bristling. But no sooner did he see who it was than he gave a joyful bark and attempted to spring forward to meet him, but fell from weakness.

In a moment Harry's arms were around his neck and he was weeping like a child. The dog licked his hands and his face in an ecstasy of joy.

"Bruno, Bruno, to love me like this, after I left you to starve and die," sobbed Harry, "but I couldn't help it, if the guerrillas had seen you they would never have let you live. They would rather have your life than mine, and Bruno you are worth a dozen of me."

If ever a dog was cared for and fed tidbits, it was Bruno, and in a few days he showed no signs of his fast.

The taking of Palmyra was a humiliating affair to General McNeil. That the town in which he made his headquarters should be raided, every Union citizen in it captured, one shot down and another carried off, and in all probability murdered, was a bitter pill for him to swallow.

He had often declared that if any more murders were committed in his district he would shoot ten guerrillas for every man murdered. Had the time come for him to make that threat good?

McNeil was not naturally a cruel man; to his friends he was one of the kindest and most generous of men, but to his foes he was relentless. He believed that the guerrillas of Missouri had broken every law of civilized warfare, and were entitled to no mercy. But now that the time had come for him to make his threats good, he hesitated. He arose and paced his room. "No, no," he murmured, "I cannot do it. There must be some way out of it."

Just then his provost marshal, Colonel W. R. Strachan, entered the room. Strachan was a coarse featured man and his heavy jaw showed him to be a man of determined will. His countenance showed marks of dissipation, for he was a heavy drinker, and this served to further brutalize his nature. That he was cruel could be seen in every lineament of his face. But he was a man of marked executive ability, and when occasion demanded he wielded a facile and ready pen. His defence of McNeil in a New York paper showed him to be a man possessing ability of the highest order.

Such was the man who came into the presence of McNeil at this critical moment. He stood and regarded McNeil as if he would read his very thoughts, and then remarked, cynically, "I haven't seen anything of that proclamation of yours yet, General."

McNeil started as if stung. He hesitated and then said, "Strachan, I can't make up my mind. It seems so cold blooded."

"The Rebels say you dare not," sneered Strachan.

McNeil flushed. "I allow no man to question my courage," he answered hotly.

"Pardon me, General, it is not your physical courage they question. That is above criticism. It is your moral courage, the courage to do right, because it wrings your heart to do right. You feel for the ten men you doom to die, but, Great God! look at their crimes. Does not the blood of the Union men murdered by Porter's gang cry for vengeance? Think of that. Think of Carter, and Preston, and Pratt, and Spieres, and Carnegy, and Aylward—but why enumerate every one of these men murdered by these assassins. Now they come and, right under our very eyes, carry off Allsman, to be foully dealt with—and yet General McNeil hesitates."[12]

"Say no more, Strachan," cried McNeil, "the proclamation will be forthcoming."

A cruel smile played around the lips of Strachan as he saluted his superior and departed.

The next morning a proclamation appeared, directed to Joseph C. Porter, saying that if Andrew Allsman was not returned before the end of ten days ten of his followers held as prisoners would be taken out and shot.

The proclamation was posted on the door of the court house and soon a motley crowd gathered around to read it. Some read it with satisfaction, some with lowering brows, but the most with jeers.

"McNeil will never do it. It's only a bluff," declared a sullen-looking man.

A tall, lank, cadaverous native ejected a mouthful of tobacco juice and drawled, "Directed to Joe Porter, is it? That's a mistake; the General should have directed it to the devil. He's the only one who can return ole Allsman."

"Think so, do you?" said a soldier, who, overhearing the remark, laid a heavy hand on the fellow's shoulder. "Come along with me."

Protesting vehemently, the fellow was taken to prison. This episode ended public criticism.

There were not many in Palmyra who believed Porter could return Allsman if he wanted to; the universal belief was that he had been murdered. What would McNeil do when the man was not returned, was the question. The general belief was that the proclamation was only a bluff to try and scare Porter; so the people of Palmyra went about their business disregarding the ominous cloud hanging over them.

As the days slipped by and Allsman was not returned and no explanation made, McNeil began to be uneasy. He caused the proclamation to be made throughout all Northeast Missouri. He even sent Harry on a dangerous ride to deliver a copy to the wife of Porter, and to beg her to get a copy to her husband, if she knew where he was.

She replied she did not know where he was. The fact was, Porter had fled south, as has been noted, but McNeil did not know this.

No representations were made to McNeil that Allsman had been paroled by Porter, as was afterwards claimed by Porter and his friends, and that he was afterwards murdered by unknown parties. His proclamation was utterly ignored.

The ninth day arrived and Strachan sought his chief. "Well," he growled, "the time is up tomorrow and Allsman has not been returned. He will not be. We might as well prepare for the execution."

"Is there any way out of this, Strachan?" asked McNeil, with much feeling. "I hate this."

"Going to show the white feather?" sneered Strachan.

"No, but what if I issue a proclamation that if the men who actually murdered Allsman are given up these ten men will be spared?"

"They will pay just as much attention to it as they did to your first proclamation," said Strachan. "General, if you do not carry out your proclamation there is not a Union man in the State whose life will be safe, and their blood will be on your hands. You will be cursed by every loyal citizen, and your enemies will despise you as a coward. Better, far better, you had never issued any proclamation."

McNeil felt the force of Strachan's reasoning. It would have been better if no proclamation had been made. To go back on it, and at the eleventh hour, would proclaim him weak and vacillating, and the effect might be as Strachan said.

"Go ahead, Strachan. I will not interfere," he said abruptly, and turned away.

Strachan departed highly elated, and repaired to a carpenter shop, where he ordered ten rough coffins made. The village suddenly awoke to the fact that the execution would take place. Then faces grew pale, and all jeering ceased. McNeil was besieged by applicants imploring him to stay the execution. Among these were a number of Union men. But McNeil remained obdurate; his mind was made up.

Strachan picked out ten men among the prisoners and they were told that on the morrow they must die. Why Strachan picked the ten men he did will never be known. They were not chosen by lot.

Among the ten men was a William S. Humphrey. Mrs. Humphrey had arrived in Palmyra the evening before the execution, not knowing her husband was to die. When told of his fate she was horrified, and in the early morning she sought Strachan to plead for his life, but was rudely repulsed. Then with tottering footsteps she wended her way to the headquarters of General McNeil. He received her kindly, but told her he would not interfere.

Half fainting she was borne from the room. Her little nine-year-old daughter had accompanied her as far as the door. Catching sight of the child, she cried with tears streaming down her face, "Go, child, go to General McNeil, kneel before him and with uplifted hands beg him to spare your father. Tell him what a good man he is. How he had refused to go with Porter after he had taken the oath."

The little girl obeyed. She made her way to General McNeil; she knelt before him; she raised her little hands imploringly; with the tears streaming down her face she sobbed, "Oh, General McNeil, don't have papa shot. He never will be bad any more. He promised and he will not break that promise. Don't have him shot. Think of me as your little girl pleading for your life."

She could say no more, but lay sobbing and moaning at his feet. The stern man trembled like a leaf; tears gathered in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

"Poor child! Poor child!" he murmured, as he gently raised her. Then turning to his desk he wrote an order and, handing it to an officer, said, "Take that to Colonel Strachan."

The order read:

Colonel Strachan:

If the fact can be established that Humphrey was in Palmyra when Porter was here and refused to leave, reprieve him and put no one in his place.

McNeil.

When the order was delivered to Colonel Strachan he raved like a madman. He had had ten coffins made, and though the heavens fell, they should be filled. Like Shylock, he demanded his pound of flesh.

"For God's sake!" said Captain Reed to Strachan, "if you must have the tenth victim, take a single man."

Strachan stalked to the prison and glancing over the prisoners called out, "Hiram Smith."

A young man, twenty-two years of age, stepped forward.

"Is your name Hiram Smith?" asked Strachan.

"It is," was the answer.

"You are to be shot this afternoon."

The young man drew himself up, gazed blankly at Strachan for a moment, and then without a word turned and walked across the room to where a bucket of water was standing. Taking a drink he turned around with the remark, "I can die just as easily as I took that drink of water." And this young man knew he had but two hours to live.[13]

The time came and amid the groans and sobs of the populace, the ten men were taken to the fair grounds, where seated on their coffins, they bravely faced their executioners.

The firing squad consisted of thirty soldiers, three to a man. A few hundred pale faced spectators looked on. The fatal order was given and the volley rang out.

From the spectators there burst a cry of horror. Strong men turned away, unable to look. Many of the firing squad were nervous and their aim was bad; others had shot high on purpose—they had no heart in the work. Of the ten men, only three had been killed outright. Six lay on the ground, writhing in agony; one sat on his coffin, untouched.

"Take your revolvers and finish the job," thundered Strachan.

Harry, who had witnessed the scene, fled from it in horror, as did most of the spectators. It was a scene that those who lived in Palmyra will never forget. The fair grounds was never again used as such. It was a place accursed.[14]