“Peel, I’m chief.”
“You’re a liar,” rejoined Peel, drawing his pistol, and killing Johnny instantly. The words here recorded were all that passed at the encounter. Johnny had his pistol half drawn, but Peel’s superior dexterity overcame the advantage. Peel was tried and acquitted.
As no member of the company of roughs was braver than Peel, so none was more observant of the rules and principles by which they were governed. In all their relations to each other, whether friendly or hostile, any violation of a frank and manly course was severely censured, and often punished. A person guilty of any meanness, great or small, lost caste at once. If by any undue advantage, life or property was taken, the guilty person was visited with prompt retribution. Often, in the young communities which sprung up in the mining regions, prominent roughs were elected to positions in the court service. It was deemed a disgrace to suffer an arrest by an officer of this character, and with Peel it was an everyday boast that he would die sooner than submit to any such authority.
On one occasion, while under the excitement of liquor, being threatened with arrest, he became uncommonly uproarious. A row was threatened, and Peel in a boisterous manner was repeating, with much expletive emphasis, “No man that ever packed a star in this city can arrest me.”
Patrick Lannan, above referred to, had just been elected as policeman. He had never been connected with the roughs, and was highly respected as a peaceable, law-abiding citizen. On being informed that there was a man down the street stirring up an excitement, he rushed to the scene, and, elbowing his way through the crowd, confronted Peel. Like the hunter who mistook a grizzly for a milder type of the ursine genus, he felt that this was not the game he was after, but he had gone too far to recede. The arrest must be effected.
“No man,” repeated Peel, with an oath, “that ever packed a star in this city can arrest me.”
Perceiving Lannan standing near, he instantly added,
“I’ll take that back. You can arrest me, Pat, for you’re no fighting man. You’re a gentleman,” and suiting the action to the word, with a graceful bow, he surrendered his pistol to Lannan, and submitted quietly to be led away.
To the credit of the roughs of Nevada be it stated that there were few highwayman, thieves, or robbers among them. Few, except those who were ready to decide their quarrels with the revolver, were killed. The villainous element had been sifted from their midst at the time of the hegira to the northern mines. Those who remained had no sympathy with it. It is not to be denied, however, that they were men of extraordinary nerve, and as a general thing so tenacious of life, that, often, the first to receive a mortal wound in a fight was successful in slaying his antagonist. Indeed, so frequently was this the case that it operated as a restraint, oftentimes, to a projected combat. Peel belonged to the class that were held in fear by tamer spirits for their supposed hold upon life. The reader will pardon a digression, for the better illustration it affords of this prevalent apprehension.
One of the most memorable fights in Nevada took place between Martin Barnhardt and Thomas Peasley. Peasley was a man of striking presence and fine ability. He had been sergeant-at-arms in the Nevada Assembly. In a quarrel with Barnhardt at Carson City, he had been wounded in the arm. Both Barnhardt and Peasley claimed to be “chief,”—always a sufficient cause of quarrel between men of their stamp. Meeting Peasley one day after the fight, Barnhardt tauntingly asked him if he was as good a man then as he was at Carson.