"DEAD-SHOT DAN."[A]
"Come, Dan, old man, it's your turn now."
This remark was made by one of a group of miners seated in front of a camp-fire in San Mateo canyon on the Colorado.
The person addressed as Dan was a splendid specimen of a "frontiersman," having all the characteristics of a frank, free American, with the physical advantages of a stalwart "Englisher." Among the miners he was variously known as "English Dan" and "Dead-Shot Dan." How he got the latter nickname always seemed a puzzle to his comrades, for he was one of the best, gentlest, and kindest fellows on "the lode." His manners and appearance indicated anything but a wicked nature, and he was always ready to do a comrade a good turn, or act as peacemaker in the ever-recurring rows of the miners.
It was Christmas Eve, and the boys were gathered around the fire, smoking their pipes, and telling stories of their past lives. Some told of homes and loved ones in the far-distant States; some of the late Civil War and its scenes of strife and sorrow; and some of escapades with the Mexican "greasers" and cattle-thieves of the Rio Grande.
Now the crowd turned to Dan, whom they regarded as a sort of superior creature. He was a general favorite. He knew something of medicine, and had nursed and cured many a comrade of camp-fever. He had, on more than one occasion, even set a limb and extracted a bullet from a wound—attentions which undoubtedly had the effect of increasing the freedom of the miners in the use of the "seven-shooter."
"Come, Dan, it's your turn now."
"Yes, yes," shouted a dozen voices. "Give us a story, English."
"I'm not much of a story-teller, boys," said Dan; "can anybody suggest a subject?"
"Yes," exclaimed old Peleg Carter, the Nestor of the crowd, "I can suggest a subject."