The ball crashed through the intervening glass of the store front, and burnt a scorching track across the victims face from ear to nose.
But during this time a bloody and terrible tragedy was being enacted in the bank.
A scene exhibiting a greater amount of reckless daring, and brutal ferocity; of intrepid courage, and heroic fortitude; ending in a most dastardly, and
APPALLING, SICKENING, TRAGEDY
could not be imagined than the one which was in progress in the bank while the street fight already described was going on.
Just a few moments before the raiders commenced their wild career on the streets, three men rushed into the bank, holding in their hands large pistols, the glittering barrels of which they directed toward the three gentlemen, Messrs. Heywood, Bunker and Wilcox, who occupied the desks behind the counter. Springing over the counter these desperadoes shouted out
“THROW UP YOUR HANDS,”
“we intend to rob the bank.”
“Which is the Cashier?” one demanded, and instantly approaching Heywood, commanded him to open the safe. “I am not the cashier,” was the reply.
The man then turned to Bunker, and made the same demand, but he also denied that he held that important post. The fellow next addressed the bewildered and fear-stricken Wilcox, whose terror prevented him from answering.