f 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."

Peleg was a Missouri man. He was over six feet high, and had gray hair,
while his large and flabby ears stood out from his head like the side
lamps of a hansom cab. He had only one eye, and he boasted that he had
lost the other in driving Joe Smith and the Mormons from "Nauvoo." His
word was law in the economy of the camp, so that when he said he could
suggest a subject to Dan, all the lads waited with awe and attention to
hear what the subject would be.

"Well, old man," observed Dan, "start the subject, and I'll do my best."

"Tell us, then," said Peleg, "how you got the name of 'Dead-Shot Dan.'
You never wear a weaping, unless you keep one underneath your jumper."

"No," replied Dan, "I don't carry a weapon. I carried a pistol once, but
swore I'd never 'bear arms,' again. Well, lads," he continued, as he
filled his pipe, "you want to know how I got the name of 'Dead-Shot
Dan'?"

"Yes, yes," was the unanimous response.

"I must tell you, then, that I came to Colorado, not exactly a fugitive
from justice, but the victim of what is called in civilized countries
the 'code of honor.' I was an assistant-surgeon on board one of the
'Quintard Line' of steamers, sailing from Liverpool to the
Mediterranean. On my first voyage we put in for passengers and coal at
Marseilles. We had forty-eight hours to remain in port, and as I was
anxious to see all I could of foreign parts, I went ashore early in the
morning. My companion was the senior surgeon of the ship, a strange,
hot-headed old fellow. He had formerly been a surgeon in the Royal Navy,
but had been cashiered while on the West Indian station for challenging
the admiral on account of some suppos