Canyon to-day, but was awoke by snow as
stinging as pinpoints beating on my hand. We all got up early, but it
did not improve until nearly noon. In the afternoon Lyman and I rode
to Mr. Nugent's cabin. I wanted him to read and correct my letter to
you, giving the account of our ascent of Long's Peak, but he said he
could not, and insisted on our going in for which young Lyman was more
anxious than I was, as Mr. Kavan had seen "Jim" in the morning, and
departed from his usual reticence so far as to say, "There's something
wrong with that man; he'll either shoot himself or somebody else."
However, the "ugly fit" had passed off, and he was so very pleasant and
courteous that we remained the whole afternoon. Lyman's one thought
was that he could make capital out of the interview, and write an
account of the celebrated desperado for a Western paper.

The interior of the den was frightful, yet among his black and hideous
surroundings the grace of his manner and the genius of his conversation
were only more apparent. I read my letter aloud--or rather "The Ascent
of Long's Peak," which I have written for Out West--and was sincerely
interested with the taste and acumen of his criticisms on the style.
He is a true child of nature; his eye brightened and his whole face
became radiant, and at last tears rolled down his cheek when I read the
account of the glory of the sunrise. Then he read us a very able paper
on Spiritualism which he was writing. The den was dense with smoke,
and very dark, littered with hay, old blankets, skins, bones, tins,
logs, powder flasks, magazines, old books, old moccasins, horseshoes,
and relics of all kinds. He had no better seat to offer me than a log,
but offered it with a graceful unconsciousness that it was anything
less luxurious than an easy chair. Two valuable rifles and a Sharp's
revolver hung on the wall, and the sash and badge of a scout. I could
not help looking at "Jim" as he stood talking to me. He goes mad with
drink at times, swears fearfully, has an ungovernable temper. He has
formerly led a desperate life, and is at times even now undoubtedly a
ruffian. There is hardly a fireside in Colorado where fearful stories
of him as an Indian fighter are not told; mothers frighten their
naughty children by telling them that "Mountain Jim" will get them, and
doubtless his faults are glaring, but he is undoubtedly fascinating,
and enjoys a popularity or notoriety which no other person