The doctor’s forehead pushed up in fleshy rolls. “Dan, you should have seen that Dutchman…”

“There he is,” said Elijah. They rocked out into the Diamond, and Hud was pointing with his whip: across the way stood a loaded farm wagon with a fringe of men around it. Elijah turned for a scant second, and his eyes met Dan’s. “Talk to that old scare-cat, Dan, and you’ll believe there’s an invasion. It’s not a lot of talk any more.” He swung the heaving, gassing horse toward the hitch rack by the grocery … Those bells were still clanging, pound-pong-pong, as if they were the metal heart which kept life pumping through the whole town.

A buckeye tree grew up through the rusty brick sidewalk beyond the rack, and against the trunk of the tree a wide board had been nailed. A tall man, hammer in hand and mouth made speechless by its load of tacks, was fastening a white paper oblong to the board. In a semicircle around him more men were grouped, trying to read over his shoulder.

“Look there,” Doc said, “they’re nailing up the news.”

Mr. Pock called, “It’s a proclamation from Andy Curtin.”

The man with the hammer turned. He nodded vacantly at them; he was Julius Orcutt. Dan saw those same reddish lights in the dull eyes as they rested on him. Painstakingly, Orcutt expelled another tack from his mouth; his hammer drove it home.

There was a continual scattering of weak guffaws. “Wants a lot of soldiers already.”

“You better go, Henry. You’d make a good soldier, uh?” The men moved closer in the semicircle.

Elijah finished tethering old Salt, then turned and started rapidly across the Diamond. Only the fire bell was ringing, now; the church bells seemed worn out, but a nervous throm, throm of bludgeoned iron still made the air stagger. Before Huddlestone reached the wagonload of refugees, Bart McKosh stepped out to meet him. The veteran wore a pair of blue pantaloons pulled hastily over his soiled flannel night-shirt; one empty trouser-leg hung loose against the crutch, swaying as he moved …

At Dan’s elbow, Mr. Pock was murmuring, “Welcome to anything I got. I tell you, gentlemen, I won’t fight with ’em. If they come to town they can take my whole stock, and never hear a peep out of me. I got a growing family, and—” A patriarch with a stringy beard grunted: “Gesetz ist mächtig, mächtiger ist die Not.” There was a dry, apprehensive chuckle from the little group around the tree.