Smarting under the insult conveyed in these words, Peel raised a chair to hit Rucker on the head. Rucker fled through the rear door of the building, and entered Miller’s store adjoining, the back stairs of which he hurriedly ascended, drawing his revolver by the way. Peel soon after went into the store by the front door, and inquired for Miller, who was absent. Sauntering to the rear of the apartment, which was but dimly lighted, he came suddenly upon Rucker, who had just descended the stairs, and, with revolver in hand, was waiting his approach.
“What do you want of me?” inquired Rucker, thrusting his pistol against Peel’s side.
“Great God!” was Peel’s instant exclamation, drawing and cocking his pistol with lightning rapidity. Their simultaneous fire gave but a single report, and both fell, emptying their pistols after they were down. Peel was wounded in the thigh, through the cheek, and in the shoulder. Rucker, hit every time, was mortally wounded, and died in a few moments. Peel was conveyed to the Salt Lake House, where his wounds received care.
Miller was clamorous for Peel’s arrest, and the city police favored his execution, but the sympathies of the people were with him. He had many friends, who assured him of protection from violence, and kept his enemies in ignorance of his condition until such time as he could be removed to a place of concealment. This project was intrusted to a Mormon dignitary of high standing in the church, who was paid forty-five dollars for the service. He conveyed Peel to a sequestered hut twelve miles distant from the city, on the Jordan road, and with undue haste provided him with female apparel and a fast horse, to facilitate his escape from the country. His wounds were too severe, and he was obliged to return to the shelter of the hut, near which Miller discovered him a few days afterwards, while walking for exercise. Miller disclosed his discovery to the police, boasting, meantime, of what he had done in so public a manner that the friends of Peel, hearing it, speedily provided for his protection. Close upon the heels of the policemen who had gone to arrest Peel they sent the wily Mormon, with instructions to convey him to a place of safety. The night was dark, and the rain froze into sleet as it fell. The policemen stopped at a wayside inn to warm and refresh themselves, and were passed by the Mormon, who, dreading the vengeance which would visit him in case of failure, urged his horse into a run, and arrived in time to conduct Peel to Johnson’s ranche, where he was secreted for several weeks. As soon as he was able, he made the journey on horseback to California, by the southern route, passing through San Bernardino and Los Angeles. Large rewards were offered for his arrest, but his friends, believing him to be the victim of ingratitude, would not betray him.
The death of Rucker lay heavy on the conscience of Peel, and from the moment of his arrival on the Pacific coast, his downward career was very rapid. He associated only with gamblers and roughs, among whom the height of his ambition was to be an acknowledged chief. He was a bold man who dared to dispute the claim to this title with him, for usually he did not escape without disputing on the spot his higher title to life. Expert in pistol practice, desperate in character, Peel was never more at home than in an affray. His wanderings at length took him to Carson City, in Nevada, where his shooting exploits, and their bloody character, form a chapter in the early history of the place. It is told of him by his associates, as a mark of singular magnanimity, that he scorned all advantage of an adversary, and, under the bitterest provocation, would not attack him until satisfied that he was armed. His loyalty to this principle, as we shall see hereafter, cost him his life.
From many incidents related of the reckless life led by Peel while in Nevada, I select one, as especially illustrative. A prize fight between Tom Daly, a noted pugilist, and Billy Maguire, better known as the “Dry Dock Chicken,” was planned by the roughs of Virginia City. It was intended to be a “put-up job.” By the delivery of a foul blow, Maguire was to be the loser. The referee and umpire were privy to the arrangement, and were to decide accordingly. A great number of sports were in attendance. At the stage of progress in the fight agreed upon, Maguire struck his antagonist the exceptionable blow. The expected decision was given; but Izzy Lazarus, and other men familiar with the rule of the ring, said that it was not foul. One of the initiated, named Muchacho, disputed the question with Lazarus, who gave him the lie. Drawing his pistol, he brought it to an aim, so as to clear the inner ring, and shouting, “Look out!” fired and hit Lazarus in the breast. Lazarus refrained from firing lest he should hit others, but approached Muchacho, who fired again, wounding his pistol hand. Quick as thought, Lazarus seized his pistol in the left hand, and fired, killing Muchacho in his tracks. The row now became general, and pistol shots were fired in all parts of the crowd. No others were killed, but many were severely wounded, and such was the confusion during the mêlée that the fatal shot of Lazarus escaped observation. Many were the conjectures on the subject, but suspicion seemed to fasten upon Lazarus. Dick Paddock, a friend of his, being in Robinson’s saloon a few days after the affray, boldly avowed that he fired it. Peel overheard him, and, after informing him that Muchacho was his friend, challenged him to a fight on the spot. Both men stepped outside the saloon, took their positions, and commenced firing. Peel wounded Paddock three times, escaping unharmed himself, and the combat closed without any fatal consequences. “El Dorado Johnny” renewed the quarrel, for the double purpose of avenging Paddock and establishing a claim as chief. The next day, while walking up street, he addressed the following inquiry to Pat Lannan, who was standing in the door of his saloon,
“Pat, what sort of a corpse do you think I’d make?”
“You don’t look much like a corpse now, Johnny,” replied Lannan, laughing.
“Well, I’m bound to be a corpse or a gentleman in less than five minutes,” replied Johnny, passing on.
Carefully scrutinizing the inmates of each saloon as he came to it, Johnny soon saw the object of his search pass out of Pat Robinson’s, a few rods ahead of him. Walking rapidly back, he turned and faced him, and, half drawing his pistol, said,