Old Spicer South would ten years ago have put a bandage on his wound
and gone about his business, but now he tossed under his patchwork
quilt, and Brother Spencer expressed grave doubts for his recovery.
With his counsel unavailable Wile McCager, by common consent, assumed
something like the powers of a regent and took upon himself the duties
to which Samson should have succeeded.

That a Hollman should have been able to elude the pickets and
penetrate the heart of South territory to Spicer South's cabin, was
both astounding and alarming. The war was on without question now, and
there must be council. Wile McCager had sent out a summons for the
family heads to meet that afternoon at his mill. It was Saturday--"mill
day"--and in accordance with ancient custom the lanes would be more
traveled than usual.

Those men who came by the wagon road afforded no unusual spectacle,
for behind each saddle sagged a sack of grain. Their faces bore no
stamp of unwonted excitement, but every man balanced a rifle across his
pommel. None the less, their purpose was grim, and their talk when they
had gathered was to the point.

Old McCager, himself sorely perplexed, voiced the sentiment that the
others had been too courteous to express. With Spicer South bed-ridden
and Samson a renegade, they had no adequate leader. McCager was a solid
man of intrepid courage and honesty, but grinding grist was his
avocation, not strategy and tactics. The enemy had such masters of
intrigue as Purvy and Judge Hollman.