tion that, as he fell past the second story window, he, seeing a party inside playing seven up, and noticing that the dealer was turning the Jack from the bottom of the deck, called out "None of that!" It is ten to one that if the owner of that black-hearted mule is still living, and ever reads the above truthful account of his adventure, he will sue me for damages for libel on account of the insinuation as to the manner of the death of the animal.
It is only two or three years since an old and valued friend, a kind-hearted, energetic and determined frontiersman, to whom I am indebted for many an act of true politeness and hospitality in a country where such words have something more than a conventional meaning, wrote to me as follows:
Dear Col.:—We have had a very unpleasant affair here this week. Dick Snelling, whom you will remember, got on a spree, and being told that a Chileno, or a Portuguese, had threatened his life, got a shot-gun and started hunting him on the street. He unfortunately met a man who looked like the man he was hunting for, and shot him dead, and in the excitement of the moment scalped him. Now, you know that I never favored scalping white men, but Dick is as good a fellow as ever lived, and if he had not been drunk he would not have done it. He has got a nice family, and for his sake and for theirs I would not like to see an exaggerated account of the affair get into the papers. Will you oblige by seeing that no sensational account of it is given in San Francisco? Your friend,
