till about four in the evening for the combatants, bets being high all this thne 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 recherche 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
