After dinner, Doc. Mills took the shot-gun and one of the revolvers--which he usually carried--and went down the creek a short distance to shoot some quail. During his absence, and about four o’clock in the evening, Wild Bill saw the two McCandlas boys, accompanied by eight others, riding up the road towards him. Bill at once withdrew into the dugout and prepared to defend the place. Coming around in front of the dugout, Jim McCandlas hallooed to Bill, telling him to come out and deliver the horses. To this Bill returned an insulting reply. The mounted party then left their horses and began an onslaught on the door with a log which they used as a battering ram. Bill stood behind the old blanket, rifle in hand, and revolver and knife lying on the table. It required but a few strokes to break the door, and the crowd of cut-throats, headed by Jim McCandlas, rushed in. The old yager was discharged, and the leader fell with a hole in his heart as large as a silver half-dollar. Bill seized his revolver and shot three more before any of them had reached him. The most terrible scene then followed. Every man was like a wounded lion; the six others jumped at Bill like harpies that had tasted blood. He was borne down upon the table, but his right hand was cutting right and left; the blood was gushing from his forehead, where he had been struck with a rifle, which almost blinded him; he cut two others down, and Jack McCandlas leaped upon him with an immense dirk drawn to cut Bill’s throat. By a rare stroke of luck, Bill placed the muzzle of his pistol over McCandlas’ heart and fired. The knife in McCandlas’ hand dropped harmlessly upon Bill, and the man jumped into the air and fell dead, rolling over Bill and falling off the table to the floor. During this time the others, who had life in them, were firing their pistols at Bill whenever opportunity presented, but their numbers gave him the advantage. There was but little light in the room, and it was only the ones next to Bill that could do him any injury, the others being fearful of killing their own party. Six of the number had now been killed and two others badly wounded. They began to retreat, and though Bill was apparently bleeding at every pore, he now pressed the fighting. The two who remained unharmed reached their horses, and, leaping into the saddle, fled as though they were being pursued by one who was shielded with the panoply of invulnerability. The two wounded ran down the hill, but one was cut so badly that he fell beside the root of a large tree, and was unable to go further. At this juncture Doc. Mills came back, and, when half-way up the hill, he was met by Bill, who grabbed the loaded shot-gun, and, placing the muzzle to the head of the wounded man, blew his brains out. The other one, whose name was Jolly, managed to elude Bill and reach Manhattan, where, in a few days thereafter, he died, but not until he had told the story of the fight substantially as here related.