free, for the taller of the two, Robinson, is badly wounded and under
cover, while Leonard Pierce is in jail.

For a long time that particular neighborhood has been troubled with bad
Negroes, and the neighbors were complaining to the Sixth Precinct police
about them. But of late Pierce and Robinson had been camping on a door
step on the street, and the people regarded their actions as suspicious.
It got to such a point that some of the residents were afraid to go to
bed, and last night this was told Sergeant Aucoin, who was rounding up
his men. He had just picked up Officers Mora and Cantrell, on Washington
Avenue and Dryades Street, and catching a glimpse of the blacks on the
steps, he said he would go over and warn the men to get away from the
street. So the patrolmen followed, and Sergeant Aucoin asked the smaller
fellow, Pierce, if he lived there. The answer was short and impertinent,
the black saying he did not, and with that both Pierce and Robinson drew
up to their full height.

For the moment the sergeant did not think that the Negroes meant fight,
and he was on the point of ordering them away when Robinson slipped his
pistol from his pocket. Pierce had his revolver out, too, and he fired
twice, point blank at the sergeant, and just then Robinson began
shooting at the patrolmen. In a second or so the policemen and blacks
were fighting with their revolvers, the sergeant having a duel with
Pierce, while Cantrell and Mora drew their line of fire on Robinson, who
was working his revolver for all he was worth. One of his shots took
Mora in the right hip, another caught his index finger on the right
hand, and a third struck the small finger of the left hand. Poor Mora
was done for; he could not fight any more, but Cantrell kept up his
fire, being answered by the big black. Pierce's revolver broke down, the
cartridges snapping, and he threw up his hands, begging for quarter.