he may survive,
notwithstanding the number and dangerous character of the wounds he
has received. The town appears to be perfectly quiet at present, as
though the late stormy times had cleared our moral atmosphere; but
who can tell in what quarter clouds are lowering or plots ripening?

Reeder--or at least what was left of him--survived his wounds two days!
Nothing was ever done with Gumbert.

Trial by jury is the palladium of our liberties. I do not know what a
palladium is, having never seen a palladium, but it is a good thing no
doubt at any rate. Not less than a hundred men have been murdered in
Nevada--perhaps I would be within bounds if I said three hundred--and as
far as I can learn, only two persons have suffered the death penalty
there. However, four or five who had no money and no political influence
have been punished by imprisonment--one languished in prison as much as
eight months, I think. However, I do not desire to be extravagant--it
may have been less.

However, one prophecy was verified, at any rate. It was asserted by the
desperadoes that one of their brethren (Joe McGee, a special policeman)
was known to be the conspirator chosen by lot to assassinate Williams;
and they also asserted that doom had been pronounced against McGee, and
that he would be assassinated in exactly the same manner that had been
adopted for the destruction of Williams--a prophecy which came true a
year later. After twelve months of distress (for McGee saw a fancied
assassin in every man that approached him), he made the last of many
efforts to get out of the country unwatched. He went to Carson and sat
down in a saloon to wait for the stage--it would leave at four in the
morning. But as the night waned and the crowd thinned, he grew uneasy,
and told the bar-keeper that assassins were on his track. The bar-keeper
told him to stay in the middle of the room, then, and not go near the
door, or the window by the stove. But a fatal fascination seduced him to
the neighborhood of the stove every now and then, and repeatedly the
bar-keeper brought him back to the middle of the room and warned him to
remain there. But he could not. At three in the morning he again
returned to the stove and sat down by a stranger. Before the bar-keeper
could get to him with another warning whisper, some one outside fired
through the window and riddled McGee's breast with slugs, killing him
almost instantly. By the