In the large assembly room the men waited in silence, some drowsing and some smoking. Only one candle threw its dim circle of light in the centre of the room, throwing the remainder into denser shadow. The flame flickered and guttered. Its wavering faintness brought out the dark strained faces in fantastic relief, and gave a weirdness to the rolling white eyeballs and expanded eyes. Two hours passed. Suddenly, from the window where big Sam and a colleague were stationed, came a warning “S-sh!” Sam had heard stealthy steps in the direction of the nearest cabin. The night was so black that he could see nothing, but he felt that developments were about to begin. He could hear more steps. Then the men heard a cry of triumph as the strikers threw themselves against the cabin doors, which yielded easily. This was succeeded from all parts by exclamations of rage and disappointment. In the assembly room the Negroes were chuckling to themselves. Mr. “Red” Cleary had planned well, but so had Sam Bowles. After the second cry there was a pause, as if the men had drawn together for consultation. Then some one approached the citadel a little way and said: “If you niggers’ll promise to leave here to-morrow morning at daylight, we’ll let you off this time. If you don’t, there won’t be any of you to leave to-morrow.” Some of the blacks were for promising, but their leader turned on them like a tiger. “You would promise, would you, and then give them a chance to whip you out of the section! Go, all of you that want to; but as for me, I’ll stay here an’ fight it out with the blackguards.” The man who had spoken from without had evidently waited for an answer. None coming, his footsteps were heard retreating, and then, without warning, there was a rattling fusillade. Some of the shots crashed through the thin pine boarding, and several men were grazed. One struck the man who stood at big Sam’s side at the window. The blood splashed into the black leader’s face, and his companion sunk to the floor with a groan. Sam Bowles moved from the window a moment and wiped the blood drops from his cheek. He looked down upon the dead man as if the deed had dazed him. Then, with a few sharp commands, he turned again to the window. Some over-zealous fool among the strikers had fired one of the huts, and the growing flames discovered their foes to the little garrison. “Put out that light,” ordered big Sam. “All of you that can, get to the two front windows—you, Toliver, an’ you, Moten, here with me. All the rest of you lay flat on the floor. Now, as soon as that light gets bright, pick out yore man,—don’t waste a shot, now—fire!” Six pistols spat fire out into the night. There were cries of pain and the noise of scurrying feet as the strikers fled pell-mell out of range. “Now, down on the floor!” commanded Sam.