General Richardson was a morose and at times a very disagreeable man.  He was of low stature, thick set, dark complexion, black hair, and usually wore a bull-dog look.  He was known by his intimate friends to be a dangerous man as a foe, and he always went armed with a pair of deringers.  The Thursday night prior to the shooting General Richardson and Col.  Jo.  C. McKibben, afterwards member of Congress, were at the Blue Wing in company.  After midnight Richardson went out for a moment on the sidewalk.  A man passed him, made a jocular remark and entered the saloon.  Richardson followed him in, and asked of Perkins his name.  He had been drinking heavily.  McKibben prevailed upon him to start for his home.  It was on Minna street, near Fred Woodworth’s, just above Jessie street.  Jo. accompanied him most of the way.  Richardson spoke to him of an “insult” he had received from “that fellow Carter” — as he seemed to think the name to be — and declared his purpose to make him answer for it.  McKibben knew Cora, and that Cora was the man to whom Richardson referred; but he likewise knew enough of Richardson to not correct him, and let him believe that “Carter” was the name, in the hope that, in his condition, he would either not think of the occurrence the next day, or would not be able to recognize Cora if he did.  The following Saturday afternoon a party of us — Jo.  McKibben, John Monroe, Clerk of Judge Hoffman’s Court, E. V. Joice, Pen.  Johnston, Josh Haven and myself were in the Court Exchange, corner of Battery and Washington streets.  Richardson came in while we were there, and was in drinking humor.  He became sullen and, as we all knew his nature, it was quietly agreed among ourselves that we would leave and try to get him away.  He was devoted to his wife, whom he married in San Francisco.  McKibben and myself accompanied him on his way home, as far as the old Oriental Hotel, within a few blocks of his residence.  There he insisted on a “last drink,” and we left him — he to go straight home.  It turned out that he did not.  He brooded over the “insult” of Carter, as he still called him, and made his way to the Blue Wing to find him, Unfortunately he found Cora there.  He called him out, and, as one man wilt lead another by his side, walked with him around the corner into Clay street, halting just in front of the store of a French firm — I do not remember the name — and so managed as to put Cora on the iron grating, of the sidewalk inside, with his back to the brick wall of the store.  Cora had not the slightest idea that Richardson had taken offence at his remark on Thursday night — for it was in no light offensive or insulting but simply a bit of ordinary pleasantry, and therefore, he was not aware of Richardson’s object in asking him to come out from the saloon.  But many of Richardson’s intimate friends, who felt his death keenly, and were at that time disposed to the extreme penalty of the law upon the man who shot him, after due reflection and deliberation came to the conclusion, that under the circumstances, standing as he was placed before Richardson, who stood with his hands in his pockets, and a deringer in each pocket, pressing his demand on Cora, the latter had one of two things to do:  either to kill Richardson or allow Richardson to kill him.