The escape of Flagg and his stepson was a sore trial to the banditti, as it made the giving of a general alarm to the settlers a certainty, and in consequence, gave promise of an uprising of the whole people in arms against their common enemies. Time was precious, and no more could be wasted on the besieged. The wagon left in the road was run down to the barn, loaded with hay and pitch pine wood, then backed up against the window of the house, Dunning says, by Major Walcott, A. B. Clark, John Tisdale, Tom Smith and James Dudley. A torch was applied and in a moment the building was a mass of flames. Champion ran out at the south end of the house, gun in hand. A hundred shots were fired at him without effect, and no doubt he thought escape was possible. But as he approached the ravine two hundred yards from the house, a dozen men fired from the brush simultaneously. Even these whistling missiles of death passed him by and he raised his gun to reply. Before he could shoot a second volley belched forth from the hidden foes and brave Champion fell--hero in the hearts of all his neighbors. Many of the assassins must have fired repeatedly into his dead body before daring to approach it, for on being prepared for burial twenty-eight bullets were found to have pierced him. Eye-witnesses differ slightly in their narratives of this exciting scene, but from a comparison of statements, the above is believed to be a correct, though short, summing up of the facts. For variety, and in order that there may lodge no charge of prejudice, the following account, from the pen of Sam T. Clover, correspondent of the Chicago Herald, who was with the regulators from the start until after the K. C. massacre, is given. Clover being in constant association with the free-booters was naturally looking through the colored glasses they had prepared for him, though no doubt trying to be impartial. He says: “The roof of the cabin was the first to catch on fire, spreading rapidly downward until the north wall was a sheet of flames. Volumes of smoke poured in at the open window from the burning wagon, and in a short time through the plastered cracks of the log house puffs of smoke worked outward. Still the doomed man remained doggedly concealed, refusing to reward them by his appearance. The cordon of sharpshooters stood ready to fire upon him the instant he started to run. Fiercer and hotter grew the flames, leaping with mad impetuosity from room to room until every part of the house was ablaze and only the dugout at the west end remained intact. “‘Reckon the cuss has shot himself,’ remarked one of the waiting marksmen. ‘No fellow could stay in that hole a minute and be alive.’