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“That was the year I lost my pard, Dick Elsen. We was at camp near Fort Fetterman. We called a man ‘Red’—his name was Jim Capse. Drink was at the bottom of it. Red he sees my pard passing a saloon, and he says, ‘Hello, where did you come from? Come and have a drink!’ Pard says, ‘No, I don’t want nothing!’ ‘Oh, come along and have a drink!’ Dick says, ‘No, thanks, pard, I’m not drinking to-night.’ ‘Well, I guess you’ll have a drink with me’; and Red pulls out his six shooter. Dick wasn’t quick enough about throwing up his hands, and he gets killed. Then Irish Mike says to Red, ‘You better hit the breeze,’ but we ketched him—a telegraph pole was handy—I says, ‘Have you got anything to say?’ ‘You write to my mother and tell her that, a horse fell on me. Don’t tell her that I got hung,’ Red says; and we swung him.”
By the time he had thus proudly stretched out his three dead men before my imagination, in a setting of innumerable shooting scraps and horse stealings, the hunters returned—my day with the multi-murderous cook was over—and nothing had happened.
It is only fair to quote Nimrod’s reply to one who criticised him for leaving me thus:
“Humph! Do you think I don’t know those wild mountaineers? They are perfectly chivalrous, and I could feel a great deal safer in leaving my wife in care of that desperado than with one of your Eastern dudes.”