between this fellow and Manning, the scoundrel keeping himself well under
cover, but a ball from Wheeler’s musket struck the fellow in the leg, half
way above the knee.
He at once changed his pistol to the left hand and grasped the wounded
limb with the right, still trying to get at Manning. Finding himself
getting weak, he turned and limped off up the street, but, seeing Bates
with a pistol in his hand, he sent a ball whizzing toward that gentleman,
grazing the side of his cheek and the bridge of his nose, and burying
itself in a collar-box in the store.
Mr. Bates says he feels the ring of that ball in his ear still, and the
ball, he says, he will ever keep as a souvenir of the hottest day
Northfield ever saw.
The man limped away, and when he got opposite to Mr. Morris’ store, he
cried out to his retreating companions, “My God, boys, you are not going
to leave—I am shot!”
One of the party, riding a sorrel horse with a light tail and mane, turned
and took the wounded man up behind him.