Now it was the sharp spit of revolvers, cracking in deadly chorus.

All I knew occurred directly before me.

A dozen or fifteen leaped to the porch floor, swinging a huge log against the barricaded door.

I heard the crash of it as it fell inward, the cry of men underneath.

There was a rush of feet behind; the flame of revolvers seemed to sear my face, and the log lay on the porch floor, dead men clinging to it, and not a living gray-jacket showing under the smoke..