SPECIMEN OF NEVADA HUMOR.

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way between the ring and the town they were found, sitting flat on the ground with a gallon measure of whisky between them, and each a clay pipe in his mouth. One was backing Buck and the other Leetingham. Both were naked as the day they were born, having bet all their valuables, then their hats, and one article of clothing after another, piling them up in a heap, till nothing was left but their pipes, which they were in the act of betting when found. As they were too drunk to stand, they were not disturbed. Meantime the fight was growing more furious. It had been asserted that Buck winked at about the same time that Leetingham had done so, and the seconds were about to call it a draw and advance and sponge them off when Buck made a mouth at Leetingham. Leetingham could no longer be restrained, and established rules had no meaning for him. He advanced a step toward Buck, and thrust his tongue out at him. The fight was now a regular rough and tumble. Leetingham continued to advance upon Buck, punishing him severely in the manner we have stated, till both were far out of the ring, the crowd following and cheering for Leetingham. This continued to be the position of this brilliant and stubbornly contested affair till half-past nine o'clock, two to one being offered on Leetingham, with no takers. Leetingham now made an attempt to take a chew of tobacco, but in doing so made a bad mistake, as the moment his tongue was in his mouth, Buck seeing his chance, at once thrust forth his own, and having thus turned the tables on his antagonist, caused him to retreat. In going backward, Leetingham fell into a shaft some 280 feet in depth. A windlass was procured, and he was hoisted out. On reaching the surface he was still unconquered. Placing his thumb upon his nose, he made a charge upon Buck, twirling his fingers savagely. At noon, the fight being still in this position, the spectators all went to town to dinner. Returning about one o'clock, they searched

till about four in the evening for the combatants, bets being high all this time on Leetingham, when they were at last found on a rocky point projecting over the surging waters of the Carson. Leetingham was crouched upon the farthest projecting point of a crag, begging pitifully for quarter, while Buck was seated complacently before him, triumphantly pulling down the lower lid of his left eye with his unsparing right forefinger." This very funny and instructive story was doubtless by Goodman.

Ferrend-major, they used to call him, in recherché affairs every second must have a title if he has nothing else-Ferrend had many calls of this kind during the early days of Nevada. He was easily found, smelling blood from afar, and was always ready to assist at a funeral of this sort. One day in Wood and Wilson's saloon, Jack Hunter knocked Bill Pitcher down. Pitcher arose, found Ferrend, and challenged Hunter. The latter assented, and named dragoon sixshooters, next morning at sunrise, at the ravine below the Gould and Curry mill, all of which was satisfactory. But when Hunter specified that all the chambers of the revolvers should be loaded, and that after the word was given firing should continue, if possible, until the six shots were discharged. Ferrend regarded it murderous, which strikes one unlearned in the technicalities of refined murder as the irony of duelling; since why should they fight, if not to kill, and after one was killed, what did it matter how many extra bullet-holes were made in his carcass? Nevertheless, it was voted barbarous; killing should be done genteelly, and with decorum. Placed in position, the word was given, and simultaneously the two weapons rang one report. "I think I can stand another shot," said Hunter, but before the seconds could reload he fainted, having been shot through the hips. Three days afterward he died.

A duel was fought by two distinguished French gentlemen in the vicinity of Lone Mountain cemetery

THE CODE IN PRISON.

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in April 1869 with swords. Amidst circlings, and divers jumping-jack manœuvrs, they pricked each other until the blood began to flow, when they concluded they did not like it, and went home.

A duel was fought with Kentucky rifles, thirty paces, wheel and fire, at Los Angeles the 25th of March, 1870. The high contending principals were John B. Wilson, son of a senator, and Charles E. Beane, journalistic scribe; cause, wine and politics, a common but unhealthy mixture. Taking with them a surgeon, which signified blood, the belligerents gat themselves beyond the city limits, and prepared each for the other's death. Wilson was the challenger. At the signal Wilson turned quickly and pulled, but the gun refused to fire, and Beane magnanimously withheld his shot. Re-loading Wilson's piece the order was again given and both fired. Beane was unharmed but Wilson dropped his gun, his honor satisfied. A flesh wound was found in the left arm. Then followed a scene of sweet reconciliation, and the heroes departed to their homes.

Confinement does not always wring all passion from the man, and the inmates of prisons deem their right to cut and kill each other in a gentlemanly way as good as that of prize-fighters, judges, and legislators. Peter Hanley and John O'Brien lived at San Quentin, lived there upon compulsion. One day, it was the 4th of June, 1877, as for their sins they were carrying the hod, they indulged in an argument upon the moral character of a Barbary coast bar-keeper. Waxing warm in their dispute, and unable to injure each other with words, they agreed to settle the discussion with knives, which they forthwith secured for that purpose from one of the shops. Retiring to a secluded spot behind one of the new buildings, they engaged in some really cutting arguments, until the alarm was given and they were separated. O'Brien was badly injured. Hanley was gashed somewhat about the face, but not so badly as to be unable to endure

twenty-five lashes, which were administered upon the bare back. It is a pity that judges, senators, editors, and others of that stripe, could not have had some of the same medicine administered to them.

Two old and respected inhabitants of Mariposa county, old enough to know better, and respected enough to do better, met informally and fought with shotguns in September 1877. David Evans living six miles from Hornitos was one, and Moses V. Northrup the other. Seven or eight years before Evans' barn was burned, and he said that Northrup did it; said so gently at first and then more positively, and kept saying so for seven years, until the latter became tired of hearing it. So one day he called upon his enemy with a shotgun and told Evans to bring out his and meet him on equal terms. Evans soon appeared with his gun and asked, "Are you ready?" "Ready," said Northrup, and the two men fired almost simultaneously. Evans was killed, while Northrup remained unharmed. Thus the God of battles adjudged Northrup innocent of having fired Evans' barn. A plain, practical, common-sense solution of a question which never otherwise might have been solved.

CHAPTER XXV.

TALES OF THE TIMES.

How indestructively the Good grows, and propagates itself, even among the weedy entanglements of Evil.

-Sartor Resartus.

Or tales of the times I have enough at hand to fill volumes. I can only give brief specimens. Nowhere in the world's business did fortune ever turn her wheel more tauntingly; dealing right and left sudden and unfamiliar changes, her ways being outside of ordinary experiences, so that the shrewdest heads were little better than those supporting ass-ears for interpreting the future. A hundred instances might be cited; in fact every man of those days was the hero of an unwritten romance. Bootblack and banker alike might give each his remarkable history, only the former would perhaps far exceed the latter in incident and vivid interest. What a thousand and one tales they would have made, could some seer have read and repeated them, the life's doings and changes of all those varied characters in the gulches and in the towns; clerks, cooks, merchants, mechanics, gamblers, preachers, doctors, and the rest!

With the great emigration to Oregon in 1846 came Simeon Pettigrove, distantly related, I cannot now exactly say how, to that Pettigrove who once owned the ground that Portland stands on, and who should have been one of the richest and most influential men of that rich and hospitable city, instead of chinking glasses during his latter days with Van Bokkelen and Swan in the hotel at Port Townsend.

CAL. INT. Poc. 50

(785)