This was even more common than the guards shooting men at the Creek crossing.
One day I saw "Dick Allen's Raiders," eleven in number, attack a man wearing the uniform of Ellett's Marine Brigade.

He was a recent comer, and alone, but he was brave.

He had come into possession of a spade, by some means or another, and he used this with delightful vigor and effect.
Two or three times he struck one of his assailants so fairly on the head and with such good will that I congratulated myself that he had killed him.

Finally, Dick Allen managed to slip around behind him unnoticed, and striking him on the head with a slung-shot, knocked him down, when the whole crowd pounced upon him to kill him, but were driven off by others rallying to his assistance.
The proceeds of these forays enabled the Raiders to wax fat and lusty, while others were dying from starvation.

They all had good tents, constructed of stolen blankets, and their headquarters was a large, roomy tent, with a circular top, situated on the street leading to the South Gate, and capable of accommodating from seventy-five to one hundred men.
All the material for this had been wrested away from others.