"I was a child of thirteen then," he said, "and I was the only one in the room who wasn't killed or crippled. It happened at night. We had suspected for a long time that a man named Laird, who was working as a farm hand for a neighbor of ours named Askew on that farm over there"--he indicated a farmhouse on a nearby hill--"was a Pinkerton man, and that he was there to watch for Frank and Jesse. Well, one night he must have decided they were at home, for the house was surrounded while we were asleep. A lot of torches were put around in the yard to give light. Then the house was set on fire in seven places and a bomb was thrown in through this window." He pointed to a window in the side of the old log wing. "It was about midnight. My mother and little brother and I were in the room. Mother kicked the bomb into the fireplace before it went off. The fuse was sputtering. Maybe she even thought of throwing the thing out of the window again. Anyhow, when it exploded it blew off her forearm and killed my little brother." "Come in the house," invited Frank James. "We've got a piece of the bomb in there." We entered the old cabin. In the fireplace marks of the explosion are still visible. The piece of the bomb which they preserve is a bowl-shaped bit of iron, about the size of a bread-and-butter plate. "What was their idea in throwing the bomb?" I asked. "As near as we know," replied Frank James, "the Pinkertons figured that Jesse and I were sleeping in the front part of the house. You see, there's a little porch running back from the main house to the door of the old cabin. They must have figured that when the bomb went off we would run out on the porch to see what was the matter. Then they were going to bag us." "Well, did you run out?" "Evidently not," said Frank James. "Were you there?" I asked. "Some think we were and some think not," he said. An old man who had been constable of the township at the time the James boys were on the warpath had come up and joined us. "How about Askew?" I suggested. "I should have thought he would have been afraid to harbor a Pinkerton man." The old man nodded. "You'd of thought so, wouldn't you?" he agreed. "Askew was shot dead three months after the bomb throwing. He was carrying a pail of milk from the stable to the house when he got three bullets in the face." "Who killed him?" I asked. The old constable allowed his eyes to drift ruminatively over the neighboring hillsides before replying. Frank James and his half brother, who were standing by, also heard my question, and they, too, became interested in the surrounding scenery. "Well-l," said the old constable at last, "that's always been a question." * * * * * Mr. Samuels told me details concerning the death of Jesse James.