Daddy Marcum was leaning on a chair at the door, looking eagerly
at each man as he passed.

Hain't ye goin', Isom?

Somebody was standing before him twirling a rifle on its butt, a
boy near Isom's age. The whirling gun made him dizzy.

Stop it! " he cried, angrily. Old Daddy Marcum was answering the
boy's question from the door.

"Isom goin'?" he piped, proudly. "I reckon he air. Whar's yer belt,
boy? Git ready. Git ready."

Isom rose then-he could not answer sitting down-and caught at a
bedpost with one hand, while he fumbled at his throat with the
other.

"I hain't goin'."

Steve heard at the door, and whirled around. Daddy Marcum was
tottering across the floor, with one bony hand uplifted.

"You're a coward! " The name stilled every sound. Isom, with eyes
afire, sprang at the old man to strike, but somebody caught his arm
and forced him back to the bed.

"Shet up, dad," said Steve, angrily, looking sharply into Isom's
face. " Don't ye see the boy's sick? He needn't go ef he don't want
to. Time to start, boys."