The tale is even told of cootie fights during long, rainy winter evenings which must be spent indoors.  The harborers of the contestants simply reached under their shirts, drew forth a doughty grey-backed warrior, placed him on a child’s slate which was used as an arena, and the fight was on.

A camp named Lousy Level is said to have made a specialty of this sort of battle.  Thousands of dollars were sometimes bet upon the outcome.  Arguments arising from various combats often developed into robbing, murdering and lynching.  This, then, is the tale of a certain lynching.

* * * * *

“Step up, gents.  Only a dollar to see the big fight.  One little dollar to view the greatest contest of the age.  See the champion fighting jackass of the state vanquish the biggest grizzly in the Sierra mountains.

“The unconquerable battling jackass who has whipped two bulls down at Sonora, and caused a mountain lion to turn tail.  Step up, gents.  Only a dollar to get inside the ropes,” and Webfoot Watson waved a well-kept hand toward the arena.  It was a pine-staked palisade, bound around the top with rawhide thongs.  At one end, the “champion donk” was tethered, and at the other the “fiercest grizzly” was confined in a stout cage of solid planks.

“Step in, gents!  There are logs and stumps to stand on.  The show will begin immediately.  We are now loosing the lion-eating jack.  He — "

“Hey!” roared Swipe-eye Weller, pointing to the laden trees outside the enclosure, “ef you think I’m agoin’ to pay a dollar for this here show jest because I ain’t no tree-climbin’ animal, you’re pickin’ out the wrong customer.  They coughs up a screamer apiece, or this act don’t begin actin’.  That’s final!”

Nothing loath, Webfoot claimed the penalty from the crowd perched in the trees, in some instances not without the aid of his six-shooter, and the jack was then turned loose in the palisade.

“He’s eatin’ grass,” piped up old Grease-top Jamie.  “Say, I can see twenty jackasses eatin’, down to the boardin’ house at Blue Tent any day, an’ I don’t have to pay no dollar, neither.  Turn out ye’r baar!”

“Hi!  Here he comes!  Eat ’im up, jack!  Why, that ain’t no grizzly.  Sufferin’ stars, he’s only a little scared cinnamon.”

“He’s goin’ after mister-old-donk, though.”

“Ye-aw.  Lookin’ fer protection.  Hey, look at the donk landin’ kicks on ’is ribs.  Ride ’im baar!  Claw ’im up!  Give ’im — " but the little cinnamon bear reached the fence in three jumps, scaled it, and took to the grease-wood thickets in record time in spite of the yells and bullets of the disgruntled spectators.

Webfoot had made even better time than the bear, and only the placid jack remained as a memento of the occasion.  He was taken at the head of a long procession of miners and made the occasion for a call upon the whole round of fandango houses, and dispensaries of liquid rowdyism in the camp.