“I’ve lost!” cried the Comstocker. “Let all come up and drink. By a slip of the finger, I’ve put half the width of my bullet through the top of his left ear!” and so it proved upon measurement.
All Washoe men, however, do not stand fire so well as this pair of egg-shooters. On one occasion a “sport,” of herculean frame, and wearing a huge black beard that gave him a most ferocious appearance, cheated a miner out of four or five hundred dollars in a game of draw-poker. As he made his last losing, the miner saw the cheat, and demanded the return of all the money he had lost. The big gambler laughed in his face. The miner, who was quite a small man, left the place wearing an ugly look. Some of those present, who knew the miner, told the big sport that he had better leave, as his man had gone off to “heel himself,” and there would soon be trouble.
But the big man was not alarmed—he was not going to be frightened away. He sat in a chair in a rear room of the saloon, near an open window, his head thrown back, and his legs cocked up. He didn’t care how many weapons the miner might bring.
“Why, gentlemen,” said he, “you don’t know me!—you don’t know who I am! I’m the Wild Boar of Tehama! The click of a six-shooter is music to my ear, and a bowie-knife is my looking-glass—” Here he happened to look toward the door, and saw the miner entering the door with a shot-gun, when he said: “But a shot-gun lets me out!” and he went through the window behind him, head first.
A very different sort of man from the “Wild Boar of Tehama” was Blazer. Blazer was a man who never felt himself at peace except “when at war.” He would leave his dinner any day, if he thought he could find a fight. When unable to “mix” in a “muss” of some kind, he was the most miserable dog alive. A week without a battle, and he began to think there was nothing in the world worth living for.
Although Blazer seldom won more than one fight out of ten, it was all the same to him. He rather enjoyed a good pommelling.
One night some of Blazer’s friends—because they were his enemies—happened to be passing through a part of Virginia City called the “Barbary Coast,” on account of its being the roughest and worst place in the town—the “Five Points” of the place. As Blazer’s friends were passing through this region of blood and robberies, their attention was attracted to a “shebang” near at hand, by a terrible uproar within its doors. There was a smashing of glass, a crashing of chairs, bottles, and tumblers; fierce yells, bitter curses, and, in short, a fearful commotion.
Thinking one of the voices heard above the din had a familiar sound, Blazer’s friends entered the place. As they pushed in at the door they saw Blazer surrounded by half a dozen “Coasters,” who were giving it to him right and left. Blazer’s nose was flattened; one eye closed; his upper lip laid open, his face covered with blood, and his clothes nearly torn off his back. A clip under the ear sent him to “grass,” when those nearest him began jumping upon him and kicking him in the ribs. His friends rushed to his rescue. The breath was completely knocked and kicked out of poor Blazer, and he lay stretched senseless on the floor.
Some water dashed in his face revived him. Recognizing his friends, he smiled as amiably as was possible, with his distorted upper lip, and huskily whispered: “Boys, it’s gorgeous! I’ve struck a perfect paradise!”
Somewhat of the same pattern as Blazer was the youth encountered on this same “Barbary Coast” one night by a policeman whose beat was among the “dives” in that region.