death, made a last stand in a small building, 1210 Saratoga Street,
and, still defying his pursuers, fought a mob of twenty thousand people,
single-handed and alone, killing three more men, mortally wounding two
more and seriously wounding nine others. Unable to get to him in his
stronghold, the besiegers set fire to his house of refuge. While the
building was burning Charles was shooting, and every crack of his
death-dealing rifle added another victim to the price which he had placed
upon his own life. Finally, when fire and smoke became too much for flesh
and blood to stand, the long sought for fugitive appeared in the door,
rifle in hand, to charge the countless guns that were drawn upon him.
With a courage which was indescribable, he raised his gun to fire again,
but this time it failed, for a hundred shots riddled his body, and he fell
dead face fronting to the mob. This last scene in the terrible drama is
thus described in the _Times-Democrat_ of July 26:

Early yesterday afternoon, at 3 o'clock or thereabouts, Police Sergeant
Gabriel Porteus was instructed by Chief Gaster to go to a house at No.
1210 Saratoga Street, and search it for the fugitive murderer, Robert
Charles. A private "tip" had been received at the headquarters that the
fiend was hiding somewhere on the premises.

Sergeant Porteus took with him Corporal John R. Lally and Officers
Zeigel and Essey. The house to which they were directed is a small,
double frame cottage, standing flush with Saratoga Street, near the
corner of Clio. It has two street entrances and two rooms on each side,
one in front and one in the rear. It belongs to the type of cheap little
dwellings commonly tenanted by Negroes.

Sergeant Porteus left Ziegel and Essey to guard the outside and went
with Corporal Lally to the rear house, where he found Jackson and his
wife in the large room on the left. What immediately ensued is only
known by the Negroes. They say the sergeant began to question them about
their lodgers and finally asked them whether they knew anything about
Robert Charles. They strenuously denied all knowledge of his
whereabouts.

The Negroes lied. At that very moment the hunted and desperate murderer
lay concealed not a dozen feet away. Near the rear, left-hand corner of
the room is a closet or pantry, about three feet deep, and perhaps eight
feet long. The door was open and Charles was crouching, Winchester in
hand,