“Ha! This is the boy that wouldn’t sell us ammunition in Mrs. Bront’s store,” shouted one of the assassins. “I cursed you well then, old chap; but we’ll give _you_ all the ammunition you want, and more’n you’ll ask for.” Poor Friend had passed a dreadful night, (for this was now in the small hours of the morning), since he slipped down the ladder from the drill-room. He had taken refuge in Marmor’s office, from thence fled to the street; been driven back through the rear yard, leaped Dan Lemfield’s fence, escaping a shot aimed at him, hid under a pile of railroad cross-ties in Lemfield’s yard during a dreadful hour, only then to be dragged out by three men with pistols and lanterns in their hands, searching every hiding place. They took him out upon the street, and to their commander. “Who is that?” asked the lofty General. “It is Friend Robbins,” answered the boy, looking frankly into the officer’s face. “What are you doing here?” “I have not been doing anything; the men came in there, and brought me out.” “Do you belong to the militia company?” “I do, sir.” “Well, we killed one —— nigger down there to-night, and I want you to go down there and see him, and see if you know him. Two of you men take him down there.” This was done; and there upon the ground lay the dead man, his eyes wide open and staring away through the clear, white moonlight, away from the blood-stained earth towards that infinite One, before whose face the escaped soul stood, corroborating the testimony of his blood which “cried from the ground.” “Who is that?” asked one of the guards. “That’s John Carr,” replied the boy. “He’s the Town Marshal, a’n’t he?” “Yes sir.” “Well, he’ll be Town Marshal no more!” “I don’t know sir.” Friend was then conducted back to the General. “Are you ready, sir?” asked the men, each presenting his pistol. “No; don’t kill him,” said the General, “but take him yonder, and keep him till I call for him.” They took him down under a rail road trestle, and kept him half an hour surrounded by men, who amused themselves by torturing him with all sorts of alarms, questions and indignities. At the expiration of that time, General Baker rode by, and directed that he be taken to the “dead ring.” “Oh, here you are Tom,” said Gaston, approaching the corner of the Post-Master’s house. “I’ve been looking for you. You know we’ve got Watta down there.” “Yes, that’s a streak of good luck; but I wish we could only get hold of their ringleader, that Doc. I’m mighty glad we’ve got Dan Pipsie, though.” “Yes,” and the young men laughed. “I want Doc mighty bad too, but I’m thinking more about what we’re going to do with what we have got. I reckon the Court Martial is the best way. Captain Sweargon has got great respect fo’ General Baker. They shan’t let Watta and Pipsie off nohow.” “No,” said the General, who rode up at that moment and caught the last remark. “Watta and Dan Pipsie are two dangerous men, and ought to be taken care of.”