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.