take care to let my readers know that my friend was one of the crack shots of America, and was wont while he lived in Tucson to drive a ten-penny nail into an adobe wall every day before he would go into the house to eat his evening meal. At the present moment he was living at the "Shoo Fly," and was one of the most highly respected members of the mess that gathered there. He stood not less than six feet three in his stockings, was extremely broad-shouldered, powerful, muscular, and finely knit; dark complexion, black hair, eyes keen as briars and black as jet, fists as big as any two fists to be seen in the course of a day; disputatious, somewhat quarrelsome, but not without very amiable qualities. His bravery, at least, was never called in question. He was no longer United States marshal, but was holding the position of Mail Inspector, and the manner in which he discharged his delicate and dangerous duties was always commendable and very often amusing.
"You see, it 's jest like this," he once remarked to the postmaster of one of the smallest stations in his jurisdiction, and in speaking the inspector's voice did not show the slightest sign of anger or excitement—"you see, the postmaster-general is growling at me because there is so much thieving going on along this line, so that I'm gittin' kind o' tired 'n' must git th' whole bizz off mee mind; 'n' ez I've looked into the whole thing and feel satisfied that you're the thief, I think you'd better be pilin' out o' here without any more nonsense."
The postmaster was gone inside of twelve hours, and there was no more stealing on that line while Duffield held his position. Either the rest of the twelve dollars per annum postmasters were an extremely honest set, or else they were scared by the mere presence of Duffield. He used to be very fond of showing his powerful muscle, and would often seize one of the heavy oak chairs in the "Congress Hall" bar-room in one hand, and lift it out at arm's length; or take some of the people who stood near him and lift them up, catching hold of the feet only.
How well I remember the excitement which arose in Tucson the day that "Waco Bill" arrived in town with a wagon train on its way to Los Angeles. Mr. "Waco Bill" was a "tough" in the truest sense of the term, and being from half to three-quarters full of the worst liquor to be found in Tucson—and I hope I am violating no confidence when I say that some of the vilest coffin
