“The young feller stepped close to the New Salem man and raised his whip for a blow.  Quick as lightnin’ Traylor grabbed him and threw him ag’in’ the barn door, keewhack!  He hit so hard the boards bent and the whole barn roared and trembled.  The other feller tried to get his pistol out of its holster, but Brimstead, who stood beside him, grabbed it, and I got his hoss by the bits and, we both held on.  The young feller lay on the ground shakin’ as if he had the ague.  Ye never see a man so spylt in a second.  Traylor picked him up.  His right arm was broke and his face and shoulder bruised some.  Ye’d a thought a steam engyne had blowed up while he was puttin’ wood in it.  He was kind o’ limp and the mad had leaked out o’ him.

“‘I reckon I better find a doctor,’ he says.

“‘You get into my wagon and I’ll take ye to a good one,’ says Traylor.

“Just then Stephen Nuckles, the circuit minister, rode in with the big bloodhound that follers him around.

“The other slaver had got off his hoss in the scrimmage.  Traylor started for him.  The slaver began to back away and suddenly broke into a run.  The big dog took after him with a kind of a lion roar.  We all began yelling at the dog.  We made more noise than you’d hear at the end of a hoss race.  It scairt the young feller.  He put on more steam and went up the ladder to the roof of the woodshed like a chased weasel.  The dog stood barkin’ as if he had treed a bear.  Traylor grabbed the ladder and pulled it down.

“‘You stay there till I get away an’ you’ll be safe,’ said he.

“The man looked down and swore and shook his fist and threatened us with the law.

“Mr. Nuckles rode close to the woodshed and looked up at him.

“‘My brother, I fear you be not a Christian,’ he said.

“He swore at the minister.  That settled him.

“‘What’s all this erbout?’ Mr. Nuckles asked me.

“‘He and his friend are from Missouri,’ I says.  ‘They’re lookin’ for some runaway slaves an’ they come here and pitched into us, and one got throwed ag’in’ the barn an’ the other clum to the roof.’

“‘I reckon he better stay thar till he gits a little o’ God’s grace in his soul,’ says the minister.

“Then he says to the dog:  ’Ponto, you keep ‘im right thar.’

“The dog appeared to understand what was expected of him.

“The minister got off his hoss and hitched him and took off his coat and put it on the ground.

“‘What you goin’ to do?’ I says.

“‘Me?’ says the minister.  ‘I be goin’ to rassle with Satan for the soul o’ that ‘ar man, an’ if you keep watch I reckon you’ll see ’at the ground’ll be scratched up some ‘fore I git through.’

“He loosened his collar an’ knelt on his coat and began to pray that the man’s soul would see its wickedness and repent.  You could have heard him half a mile away.

“Mr. Traylor drove off with the damaged slaver settin’ beside him and the saddle hoss hitched to the rear axle.  I see my chance an’ before that prayer ended I had got the fugitives under some hay in my wagon and started off with them on my way to Livingston County.  I could hear the prayin’ until I got over the hill into Canaan barrens.  At sundown I left them in good hands thirty miles up the road.”