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head of the struggling man. At last John Thornton lost his grip and released the leg. But he wasn’t dead.
    â€œStand back and let me try,” yelled an impatient guerrilla nearby. “He is the hardest man to kill I ever saw.” With that, the enraged attacker let fly every ball in his weapon, striking the target three times. Thornton stumbled a few steps, then collapsed in a heap. Still doubtful, one of the Rebels reared his horse back to stomp the body, then leveled his pistol to fire again.
    â€œFor God’s sake,” shrieked the hysterical wife as she grabbed the horse’s bridle, “let him alone, he’s killed now.” Satisfied, though amazed at the time and energy needed to do it, the bushwhackers finally moved on.
    To preserve it for burial, Nancy managed to drag the body away from the fire to an open space across the street. There, she saw that her husband had a wound for almost any given place and was literally soaked in blood from head to toe. Looking closer, however, the woman saw something else—John Thornton was still alive! 40
    â€œFred, one of them damned nigger-thieving abolitionists ain’t dead yet; go and kill him.” Neither Harlow Baker nor SimeonThorp could be sure which of them had moved, but it was certain that one would soon find out.
    Since being shot, the two had lain in the street feigning death as the guerrillas rode nearby. When it was clear, they had whispered back and forth to one another describing where they were hit. Baker still had the strength to get up, but dared not. Senator Thorp, hurt much the worse, could not.
    The horse stopped beside them and they heard the Rebel dismount. When he was kicked over onto his face, Baker knew he was the one. He heard the explosion, felt a sharp sting, and in a rush all the air left his right lung. He grew dizzy and almost fainted, but through the pain Baker was still around to hear Fred congratulate himself as he rode back to his pal. 41
    This time George Todd came in person. Only a twist of fate had kept him from meeting the preacher that morning near Sibley, and Todd today wanted no stone left unturned.
    Despite this, Elizabeth Fisher, as unflappable as ever, insisted that her husband was not at home; that he had gone over the hill long ago and was by now probably well on his way to Topeka. And again the woman boldly invited the doubting Rebels to search the house. To his great relief though, Hugh Fisher did not hear the cellar door open, nor did he hear the thud of boots down the steps. He did hear, however, the breaking of chairs and shutters for kindling and a guerrilla swearing to kill his wife if she tried to extinguish the fire.
    Ignoring the threat, Elizabeth slammed the door in the raider’s face and raced to the well to fill buckets, pans, and tubs. This took time, however, and meanwhile more fires were being set. By the time she returned with the water, her two-story home was hopelessly ablaze. Running back to the front of the house, the desperate woman turned her energies toward saving the one-story kitchen and trying to keep her husband from being broiled alive. Climbing on the cookstove she doused the ceiling first. Then lugging two tables outside—setting one atop the other—Elizabeth scrambled up to the roof and threw more water on. But just as these flames were quenched much of the burning roof on the house crashed across the kitchen. Dipping up more water the woman drenched her clothing, then once again waded into the flames. But it was hopeless. At length, as the Rebels stood around the home watching her futile efforts, Elizabeth ran for more water and began flooding the kitchen floor under which her husband lay. A neighbor woman, as mystifiedas the bushwhackers, asked her why she was trying to save a piece of floor when her entire world was burning. “A memento,” she yelled back above the roar.
    But as the fire and debris fell into the kitchen even Elizabeth saw that