The following day the events of the preceding night were fully discussed, and as many conjectures were suggested in relation to Wal.'s escape and whereabouts as there were groups of men: each had his own theory, each knew exactly how and when he got away.
Old Sam Bartlett, a short, thick-set, grizzly veteran miner, expressed it as his opinion that "Wal. went up that thar chimbly, and by this yer time is well heeled somewhar near camp, surrounded by a battery of small-arms, ready to fight the whole outfit."
Sam's surmises proved true. No sooner had Wal. made his escape than he went to his own den for a moment, to secure arms and ammunition; then to an abandoned tunnel about a mile up the nearest gulch, where he immediately commenced to fortify his position, prepared to sell his life as dearly as possible if the mob pursued him. As he afterward said, "Did not intend to pass in his checks until he had made a sieve of a few of 'em."
The Mexican woman with whom he lived proved a faithful ally. Under the shadow of the night she secretly conveyed food and blankets, never revealing to a soul where her "Americano" was; always earnestly denying any knowledge of the fugitive.
For nearly a week Wal. lived in the abandoned mining tunnel. At the expiration of that time, when the excitement had somewhat subsided, and it was generally supposed he had fled the country, he quietly walked into camp at midnight, broke open a stable, took out a horse, saddled him, and galloped off to Taos, which place he reached next morning. In justice to Wal., let it be said he was not a professional horse-thief—he had not gotten so low as that; but having perfect faith in the old saw that "self-preservation is the first law of nature," he seized upon the only reliable means to escape strangling by a mob. On his arrival at Taos, where he felt secure, he returned the animal to his owner with thanks, complimenting him on his architectural skill in constructing a stable that could be entered so easily, and upon the endurance of his horse that had carried him so well.
A little more than a month later, the camp was somewhat startled one afternoon at seeing Wal. riding down the main street mounted on a Mexican pony, with four revolvers buckled around his waist and a carbine slung across his back. Halting in front of a saloon, he alighted, and with a devil-may-care sort of a nod to the loafers hanging around, invited them all in to take a drink. To the crowd at the bar he related his adventures since he had been among them; said he was tired of Taos, and had come back to look after his mining interests up Humbug Gulch, which he thought he had neglected too long. He added "if any gentlemen (?)" were sympathizers with the would-be stranglers, he would be pleased to step out on the street and give them an exhibition of his peculiar manner of managing the portable battery he had provided himself with. No one seeming particularly anxious to witness the proffered entertainment, war was not declared, and after a round or two of "Taos lightning," as whisky was called in those days, Wal. quietly mounted his horse and made his way toward his little "dug-out," where he was met by his faithful Señora and provided with a bountiful repast of tortillas and frijoles (corn cake and beans).
The excitement in camp gradually exhausted itself, and it was mutually agreed that Wal. should not be molested if he kept away from Humbug Gulch.
Wal. apparently accepted the situation; turned his attention to the laudable ambition of supplying the camp with cord-wood, and almost any day thereafter could be seen coming into town with his load.
One day about two months after he had settled himself down to legitimate pursuits, while sitting in a saloon, fatigued by a somewhat arduous morning's work, a party of Irish miners entered, all of whom were more or less under the influence of liquor. After bandying words with Wal. in reference to his claim and the murder of their companion, one, rather more bold then discreet, approached Wal. holding a large stone, and said, "Be jabers, Wal., you would look better dead than alive;" when Wal., as quick as thought, drew his pistol, and drawing a bead on the Irishman, said, "Drop that rock!"
The stone dropped. Wal. quietly resumed his seat without another word, replaced his pistol in its holster, coolly lighted his pipe, and commenced to smoke. The gang were evidently bent on mischief; but Wal. could not be intimidated, and made no move to leave his seat, but kept his keen eye on every act of the drunken mob.