One of the best soldiers of my regiment was a huge man whom I made marshal of a Rocky Mountain State.  He had spent his hot and lusty youth on the frontier during its viking age, and at that time had naturally taken part in incidents which seemed queer to men “accustomed to die decently of zymotic diseases.”  I told him that an effort would doubtless be made to prevent his confirmation by the Senate, and therefore that I wanted to know all the facts in his case.  Had he played faro?  He had; but it was when everybody played faro, and he had never played a brace game.  Had he killed anybody?  Yes, but it was in Dodge City on occasions when he was deputy marshal or town marshal, at a time when Dodge City, now the most peaceful of communities, was the toughest town on the continent, and crowded with man-killing outlaws and road agents; and he produced telegrams from judges of high character testifying to the need of the actions he had taken.  Finally I said:  “Now, Ben, how did you lose that half of your ear?” To which, looking rather shy, he responded:  “Well, Colonel, it was bit off.”  “How did it happen, Ben?” “Well, you see, I was sent to arrest a gentleman, and him and me mixed it up, and he bit off my ear.”  “What did you do to the gentleman, Ben?” And Ben, looking more coy than ever, responded:  “Well, Colonel, we broke about even!” I forebore to inquire what variety of mayhem he had committed on the “gentleman.”  After considerable struggle I got him confirmed by the Senate, and he made one of the best marshals in the entire service, exactly as he had already made one of the best soldiers in the regiment; and I never wish to see a better citizen, nor a man in whom I would more implicitly trust in every way.

When, in 1900, I was nominated for Vice-President, I was sent by the National Committee on a trip into the States of the high plains and the Rocky Mountains.  These had all gone overwhelmingly for Mr. Bryan on the free-silver issue four years previously, and it was thought that I, because of my knowledge of and acquaintanceship with the people, might accomplish something towards bringing them back into line.  It was an interesting trip, and the monotony usually attendant upon such a campaign of political speaking was diversified in vivid fashion by occasional hostile audiences.  One or two of the meetings ended in riots.  One meeting was finally broken up by a mob; everybody fought so that the speaking had to stop.  Soon after this we reached another town where we were told there might be trouble.  Here the local committee included an old and valued friend, a “two-gun” man of repute, who was not in the least quarrelsome, but who always kept his word.  We marched round to the local opera-house, which was packed with a mass of men, many of them rather rough-looking.  My friend the two-gun man sat immediately behind me, a gun on each hip, his arms folded, looking at the audience; fixing his gaze with instant intentness on any section of the house