The best known names in the Territory of Nevada were those belonging to these long-tailed heroes of the revolver.  Orators, Governors, capitalists and leaders of the legislature enjoyed a degree of fame, but it seemed local and meagre when contrasted with the fame of such men as Sam Brown, Jack Williams, Billy Mulligan, Farmer Pease, Sugarfoot Mike, Pock Marked Jake, El Dorado Johnny, Jack McNabb, Joe McGee, Jack Harris, Six-fingered Pete, etc., etc.  There was a long list of them.  They were brave, reckless men, and traveled with their lives in their hands.  To give them their due, they did their killing principally among themselves, and seldom molested peaceable citizens, for they considered it small credit to add to their trophies so cheap a bauble as the death of a man who was “not on the shoot,” as they phrased it.  They killed each other on slight provocation, and hoped and expected to be killed themselves —­for they held it almost shame to die otherwise than “with their boots on,” as they expressed it.

I remember an instance of a desperado’s contempt for such small game as a private citizen’s life.  I was taking a late supper in a restaurant one night, with two reporters and a little printer named—­Brown, for instance—­any name will do.  Presently a stranger with a long-tailed coat on came in, and not noticing Brown’s hat, which was lying in a chair, sat down on it.  Little Brown sprang up and became abusive in a moment.  The stranger smiled, smoothed out the hat, and offered it to Brown with profuse apologies couched in caustic sarcasm, and begged Brown not to destroy him.  Brown threw off his coat and challenged the man to fight —­abused him, threatened him, impeached his courage, and urged and even implored him to fight; and in the meantime the smiling stranger placed himself under our protection in mock distress.  But presently he assumed a serious tone, and said: 

“Very well, gentlemen, if we must fight, we must, I suppose.  But don’t rush into danger and then say I gave you no warning.  I am more than a match for all of you when I get started.  I will give you proofs, and then if my friend here still insists, I will try to accommodate him.”

The table we were sitting at was about five feet long, and unusually cumbersome and heavy.  He asked us to put our hands on the dishes and hold them in their places a moment—­one of them was a large oval dish with a portly roast on it.  Then he sat down, tilted up one end of the table, set two of the legs on his knees, took the end of the table between his teeth, took his hands away, and pulled down with his teeth till the table came up to a level position, dishes and all!  He said he could lift a keg of nails with his teeth.  He picked up a common glass tumbler and bit a semi-circle out of it.  Then he opened his bosom and showed us a net-work of knife and bullet scars; showed us more on his arms and face, and said he believed he had