The first man they reached was not dead. He was still groaning, and the breath was coming in great, quick gasps. A pistol was placed at his breast and every chamber was emptied. “He’s dead now,” laughed one of the crowd. Other men, wounded, bleeding, moaning and begging, were caught, turned over and pistols emptied into their bodies. But the shooting had made so much noise that the mob concluded its safety lay in flight. The Negroes were quickly examined and with a parting shot and a volley of oaths of warning the mob left the warehouse and rushed to their horses. The men ran from the warehouse to the little spot in the center of the town, where horses are tied by countrymen and merchants. They mounted quickly and began their ride for life. With a sweeping of falling and echoing hoofs the cavalrymen dashed down the principal street at breakneck speed. Mr. Henry Beckman, who lives a few hundred yards beyond the scene of the murders, heard the firing and ran from his house to the railroad tracks. The horsemen, using the lash and urging their horses to their highest speed, dashed into view. “Hello,” said Beckman, “what does all that firing mean?” Beckman was answered with an oath and told to get into his hole as quickly as possible. “If you don’t, we’ll kill you on the spot,” was the warning. Beckman flew for life, ran through the yard and entered the house as quickly as possible. Dr. Hal L. Johnson saw a crowd of men on foot running down the sidewalk. He hailed them, but there was no response. “There must have been more than one hundred men on horses,” said Mr. Beckman this morning, in telling the Journal of his wild night experience with the mob. When the mob left, the guards, who had been held against the warehouse wall at the points of guns and pistols, turned their faces toward the scene of carnage and death. The furniture in the room had been splintered and wrecked with bullets and the contortions of the Negroes. On the floor, near the center of the room, were two Negroes, still tied with the rope, locked in each other’s embrace. Near their bodies streams of blood were dyeing red the floor and spreading out in pools. Just beyond were two more bodies. These Negroes were dead, too. Near the fireplace was John Bigby, twisting and writhing in his agony. Blood was spouting from a number of wounds. Under the beds and tables and piles of furniture were other bodies, every prisoner apparently dead, except Bigby, who was fast regaining consciousness. The guards opened the door cautiously, but there was no sign of the mob, save the echoing footfalls on the country road. CHAPTER II. TORTURED AND BURNED ALIVE.