In the imperfect light the guards mistook him for one of us who had jumped from the train.

They all fired, and the unlucky negro fell, pierced by a score of bullets.
That night we camped in the open field.

When morning came we saw, a few hundred yards from us, a Stockade of rough logs, with guards stationed around it.

It was another prison pen.

They were just bringing the dead out, and two men were tossing the bodies up into the four-horse wagon which hauled them away for burial.