Robinson had just thrown another shovelful of charcoal into the furnace under his boiler, and he held up his shovel as if ready to strike Williams, but it was never known whether he really intended to strike or not.

The three other men standing near were quite amused with the dispute of the two Englishmen, and were smiling pleasantly at their foolishness.  But little Wilkins did not smile, nor did he wait for the shovel to come down on his head; he darted under it with his open knife in the same manner as the Roman soldier went underneath the dense spears of the Pyrrhic phalanx, and set to work.  Robinson tried to parry the blows with the handle of the shovel, but he made only a poor fight; the knife was driven to the hilt into his body seven times, then he threw down his shovel, and tried to save himself behind the boiler, but it was too late; the dispute about England and the States was settled.

Wilkins took his team home, then returned to Joliet and gave himself into the custody of the squire, Hoosier Smith.  At the inquest he was committed to take his trial for murder, and did not get bail.  His wife left the farm, and with her two little boys lived in an old log hut near the gaol.  She brought with her two cows, which Wilkins milked each morning as soon as Silas let him out of prison.  I could see him every day from the window of my room, and I often passed by the hut when he was doing chores, chopping wood, or fetching water, but I never spoke to him.  He did not look happy or sociable, and I could not think of anything pleasant to say by way of making his acquaintance.  After much observation and thought I came to the conclusion that Sheriff Cunningham wanted his prisoner to go away; he would not like to hang the man; the citizens would not take Wilkins off his hands; if two fools chose to get up a little difficulty and one was killed, it was their own look-out; and anyway they were only foreigners.  The fact was Wilkins was waiting for someone to purchase his farm.

The court-house for Will County was within view of the gaol, at the other side of the street, and one day I went over to look at it.  The judge was hearing a civil case, and I sat down to listen to the proceedings.  A learned counsel was addressing the jury.  He talked at great length in a nasal tone, slowly and deliberately; he had one foot on a form, one hand in a pocket of his pants, and the other hand rested gracefully on a volume of the statutes of the State of Illinois.  He had much to say about various horses running on the prairie, and particularly about one animal which he called the “Skemelhorne horse.”  I tried to follow his argument, but the “Skemelhorne horse” was so mixed up with the other horses that I could not spot him.

Semicircular seats of unpainted pine for the accommodation of the public rose tier above tier, but most of them were empty.  There were present several gentlemen of the legal profession, but they kept silence, and never interrupted the counsel’s address.  Nor did the judge utter a word; he sat at his desk sideways, with his boots resting on a chair.  He wore neither wig nor gown, and had not even put on his Sunday go-to-meeting clothes.  Neither had the lawyers.  If there was a court crier or constable present he was indistinguishable from the rest of the audience.