Fortified by this cordial approval of the executive and judicial branches of the government, Mr. Simpson started on his quest.  Meanwhile, however, Fowler had cut up another prominent citizen, and they already had him in jail.  The friends of law and order feeling some little distrust as to the permanency of their own zeal for righteousness, thought it best to settle the matter before there was time for cooling, and accordingly, headed by Simpson, the mayor, the judge, the Turk, and other prominent citizens of the town, they broke into the jail and hanged Fowler.  The point in the hanging which especially tickled my friend’s fancy, as he lingered over the reminiscence, was one that was rather too ghastly to appeal to our own sense of humor.  In the Turk’s mind there still rankled the memory of Fowler’s very unprofessional conduct while figuring before him as a criminal.  Said Simpson, with a merry twinkle of the eye:  “Do you know that Turk, he was a right funny fellow too after all.  Just as the boys were going to string up Fowler, says he, ‘Boys, stop; one moment, gentlemen,—­Mr. Fowler, good-by,’ and he blew a kiss to him!”

In the cow-country, and elsewhere on the wild borderland between savagery and civilization, men go quite as often by nicknames as by those to which they are lawfully entitled.  Half the cowboys and hunters of my acquaintance are known by names entirely unconnected with those they inherited or received when they were christened.  Occasionally some would-be desperado or make-believe mighty hunter tries to adopt what he deems a title suitable to his prowess; but such an effort is never attempted in really wild places, where it would be greeted with huge derision; for all of these names that are genuine are bestowed by outsiders, with small regard to the wishes of the person named.  Ordinarily the name refers to some easily recognizable accident of origin, occupation, or aspect; as witness the innumerable Dutcheys, Frencheys, Kentucks, Texas Jacks, Bronco Bills, Bear Joes, Buckskins, Red Jims, and the like.  Sometimes it is apparently meaningless; one of my own cowpuncher friends is always called “Sliver” or “Splinter”—­why, I have no idea.  At other times some particular incident may give rise to the title; a clean-looking cowboy formerly in my employ was always known as “Muddy Bill,” because he had once been bucked off his horse into a mud hole.

The grewsome genesis of one such name is given in the following letter which I have just received from an old hunting-friend in the Rockies, who took a kindly interest in a frontier cabin which the Boone and Crockett Club was putting up at the Chicago World’s Fair.