The saints by this time were in the wildest state of excitement, and running in every direction, many of the men taking refuge in an old blacksmith shop not far from the mill. The leader of the mob, numbering two hundred and forty, fired his gun, and after a pause of a few seconds about a hundred shots were fired into the old blacksmith shop, and at those fleeing for the protection of the woods. The mob then rode up to the shop and fired through the space between the logs until, as they thought, all had been killed or mortally wounded. They then entered, and among the dead and dying found Sardius Smith, a lad about twelve years old, who in his fear had crawled under the bellows for safety. He was dragged from his place of concealment by a Mr. Glaze, who placed the muzzle of his gun near the boy's head and literally shot off the top of it. The inhuman wretch afterwards shamelessly boasted of his damning deed. His brother, Alma, a boy of eight summers, was shot through the hip. He had seen his father and brother shot down, and fearing if he moved the heartless wretches would shoot him again, he remained quiet among the dead until he heard the voice of his mother gently calling his name in the darkness. She nursed him tenderly, prayerfully, and under the inspiration of heaven made such a collection of herbs and barks with which she dressed his wound that he recovered, grew to manhood, lived to a reasonably good old age, and lately died at Coalville, Summit County, Utah. Thomas McBride, an old gray haired veteran of the American Revolution, was met by a number of the mob in front of Mr. Haun's house. The old man, trembling with age rather than from fear, surrendered his gun, saying: "Spare my life, I am a Revolutionary soldier." But the inhuman wretch to whom he made this simple, pathetic appeal, sufficient to have moved adamantine hearts, shot the veteran down with his own gun, and then a Mr. Rogers, of Daviess County, fell upon him and hacked him to pieces with an old corn cutter. And there lay the veteran soldier of the Revolution, covered with a score of unsightly wounds, either of which alone had been fatal--his brains oozing from his cracked skull, and his white hairs crimsoned with his gore! Oh, a hard fate to overtake one of that noble band, who gave the best years of his life to his country's service, that liberty might survive oppression!