The pony started off at a brisk trot, and in an hour we were upon the
road, which we found crowded with troops and wagons. Pressing through
the underbrush along-side the road, we kept on at a rapid pace. We soon
heard shouts and cheers ahead of us, and in a few moments came in sight
of a farm-house, in front of which was an excited crowd. Men were
swarming in at every door and window. The yard was filled with furniture
which the troops were angrily breaking, and a considerable party was
busy tearing up the roof. I could not learn the cause of the uproar,
except that a Secessionist lived there who had killed some one. I passed
on, and in a little while arrived at Asboth's quarters.
He had established himself in an unpretending, but comfortable
farm-house, formerly owned by a German, named Brown. This house has
lately been the scene of one of those bloody outrages, instigated by
neighborhood hatred, which have been so frequent in Missouri. Old Brown
had lived here more than thirty years. He was industrious, thrifty,
and withal a skilful workman. Under his intelligent husbandry his farm
became the marvel of all that region. He had long outlived his strength,
and when the war broke out he could give to the Union nothing but
his voice and influence: these he gave freely and at all times. The
plain-spoken patriot excited the enmity of the Secessionists, and the
special hatred of one man, his nearest neighbor.
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