It took him nearly two hours to complete his literary labors, while Wal. stood by impatiently watching him, and when his friend had just finished the last touch of his rude letters, remarked:
"Well, I guess there hain't no one goin' for to touch that thar."
Then, swinging his pick and shovel over his shoulder, he whistled to his dog, took his bearings by a look at the sun, started down the cañon on a sort of shuffling trot, and was soon out of sight.
He was gone three days. When he returned he found that his ground had been "jumped" by a party of Irish miners who had come into the diggings during his absence.
Wal., in as quiet a manner as his bulldog nature permitted, told them to "git!" But they swore they would hold the claim in spite of him; and if he was as big as "Finn McCool" they would fight him.
Wal. smothered his rage for the moment, coolly walked off to his cabin, where he armed himself with two revolvers, a Spencer carbine, and a wicked-looking IXL blade, and started back to the gulch, determined to drive the intruders away, or kill them if necessary—it mattered little as to choice.
"Git out of this!—quick!—jump! or I'll fill you full o' holes!" was Wal.'s greeting as on his return he came in sight of the intruders. But one of the plucky Irishmen made a break for Wal., intending to finish him by a well-directed blow from his shovel.
Wal. quick as thought brought down his revolver, killing his man instantly, the bullet hitting him in the forehead directly between the eyes—a spot that was Wal.'s invariable target, which in his list of nearly a score of victims he never failed to center.
The two now thoroughly frightened companions of the dead miner fled to camp and told the story of the murder.
Wal., believing that he would have a crowd on his heels in a little while, started hurriedly for his cabin, proposing to "light out" for a while as he said; but a mob of plucky men intercepted him. He was arrested, taken to camp, and confined in a little log building, around which a guard was placed.