John, my brother, was fourteen when the war closed and Bob under twelve.
One day in January, 1866, John, Bob and my mother drove into Independence
to mill, and to do other errands in town, one of which was to get one of
my pistols fixed.
A young fellow named Gillcreas, who had served in the militia and was
several years John’s senior, hit the boy with a piece of mackerel, and
warm words ensued.
“Why don’t you shoot him?” shouted Bob from the wagon.
John told the fellow if Cole were there he would not dare do that, and
Gillcreas said Cole should be in prison, and all Quantrell’s men with him.
Gillcreas went away, but returned to the attack, this time armed with a
heavy slungshot. In the meantime John had gotten the pistol which had
been in the wagon. Gillcreas came up to resume the fight and John shot
him dead. The slungshot was found with the thong twined about Gillcreas’
wrist.
[Illustration: John Younger]