s they receive a letter with a drawing of a tree, a
man hanging from it, and a coffin below, on which is written
"Forewarned." They "git" in a few hours.

When I said I spent last night at Hall's Gulch there was quite a chorus
of exclamations. My host there, they all said, would be "strung"
before long. Did I know that a man was "strung" there yesterday? Had
I not seen him hanging? He was on the big tree by the house, they
said. Certainly, had I known what a ghastly burden that tree bore, I
would have encountered the ice and gloom of the gulch rather than have
slept there. They then told me a horrid tale of crime and violence.
This man had even shocked the morals of the Alma crowd, and had a
notice served on him by the vigilants, which had the desired effect,
and he migrated to Hall's Gulch. As the tale runs, the Hall's Gulch
miners were resolved either not to have a groggery or to limit the
number of such places, and when this ruffian set one up he was
"forewarned." It seems, however, to have been merely a pretext for
getting rid of him, for it was hardly a crime of which even Lynch law
could take cognizance. He was overpowered by numbers, and, with
circumstances of great horror, was tried and strung on that tree within
an hour.[19]

[19] Public opinion approved this execution, regarding it as a fitting
retribution for a series of crimes.

I left the place this morning at ten, and have had a very pleasant day,
for the hills shut out the hot sun. I only rode twenty-two miles, for
the difficulty of riding on ice was great, and there is no blacksmith
within thirty-five miles of Hall's Gulch. I met two freighters just
after I left, who gave me the unwelcome news that there were
thirty-miles of ice between that and Denver. "You'll have a tough
trip," they said. The road runs up and down hill, walled in along with
a rushing river by high mountains. The scenery is very grand, but I
hate being shut into these deep gorges, and always expect to see some
startling object moving among the trees. I met no one the whole day
after passing the teams except two men with a "pack-jack," Birdie hates
jacks, and rears and shies as soon as she sees one. It was a bad road,
one shelving sheet of ice, and awfully lonely, and between the peril of
the mare breaking her leg on the ice and that of being crushed by
windfalls of timber, I had to look out all day. Towards sunset I came
to a cabin where they "keep travelers," bu