house. It was already half a square from the oncoming fire, but on the
northern side of the street, just out of its probable track and not in
great danger except from sparks. But it was old and roofed with shingles;
a decrepit Creole cottage sitting under dense cedars in a tangle of rose
and honeysuckle vines, and strangely beautified by a flood of smoke-dimmed
yellow sunlight.

As I hurried forward, several men and boys came from the opposite
direction at a run and an engine followed them, jouncing and tilting
across the sidewalk opposite the little asylum, into a yard, to draw from
a fresh well. Their leader was a sight that drew all eyes. He was coatless
and hatless; his thin cotton shirt, with its sleeves rolled up to the
elbows, was torn almost off his shaggy breast, his trousers were drenched
with water and a rude bandage round his head was soaked with blood. He
carried an axe. The throng shut him from my sight, but I ran to the spot
and saw him again standing before the engine horses with his back close to
their heads. A strong, high board fence shut them off from the well and
against it stood the owner of the property, pale as death, guarding the
precious water with a shotgun at full cock. I heard him say:

"The first fellow that touches this fence----"

But he did not finish. Quicker than his gun could flash and bang
harmlessly in the air the man before him had dropped the axe and leaped
upon him with the roar of a lion. The empty gun flew one way and its owner
another and almost before either struck the ground the axe was swinging
and crashing into the fence.

As presently the engine rolled through the gap and shouting men backed her
to the edge of the well, the big axeman paused to wipe the streaming sweat