and the man Holmes afterwards confessed that he had shot him when Mr. Duffield had laid his gun down and walked away some distance, thinking no one was in that locality seeking his life, although he knew every desperado was after him. Holmes, it is stated, said that he received two thousand dollars for doing it. It was subsequently brought out that many of the officials were implicated in the murder, and that Holmes never was prosecuted. He said at the time that the motive was money more than revenge. Many had tried to kill Mr. Duffield on account of their crooked transactions, which seemed not to escape his close watch, and it demonstrated that the higher ups, as well as the lower downs, were after him, and got him in the end, as was usually the case in the early days of the west." Captain Bourke says that he met the ex-Marshal in Tucson about the year 1872 or 1873.

I give the following from Bourke's "On the Border with Crook," in reference to the exMarshal, which account, according to my recollection, is substantially correct:

"Who Duffield was before coming out to Arizona I never could learn to my own satisfaction. Indeed, I do not remember ever having any but the most languid interest in that part of his career, because he kept us so fully occupied in keeping track of his escapades in Arizona that there was very little time left for investigations into his earlier movements. Yet I do recall the whispered story that he had been one of President Lincoln's discoveries, and that the reason for his appointment lay in the courage Duffield had displayed in the New York

riots during the war. It seems-and I tell the tale with many misgivings, as my memory does not retain all the circumstances-that Duffield was passing along one of the streets in which the rioters were having things their own way, and there he saw a poor devil of a colored man fleeing from some drunken pursuers, who were bent on hanging him to the nearest lamppost. Duffield allowed the black man to pass him, and then, as the mob approached on a hot scent, he levelled his pistol-his constant companion-and blew out the brains of the one in advance, and, as the story goes, hit two others as fast as he could draw bead on them, for I must take care to let my readers know that my friend was one of the crack shots of America, and was wont while he lived in Tucson to drive a ten-penny nail into an adobe wall every day before he would go into the house to eat his evening meal. At the present moment (in 1872) he was living at the Shoo Fly,' and was one of the most highly respected members of the mess that gathered there. He stood not less than six feet three in his stockings, was extremely broad-shouldered, powerful, muscular, and finely knit; dark complexion, black hair, eyes keen as briars and black as jet, fists as big as any two fists to be seen in the course of a day; disputatious, somewhat quarrelsome, but not without very amiable qualities. His bravery, at least, was never called in question. He was no longer United States marshal, but was holding the position of Mail Inspector, and the manner in which he discharged his delicate and dangerous duties was always commendable and very often amusing.

""You see, it's jest like this,' he once remarked to the postmaster of one of the smallest stations in his jurisdiction, and in speaking the inspector's voice did not show the slightest sign of anger or excitement-'you see, the postmaster general is growling at me because there is so much thieving going on along this line, so that I'm gitting kind of tired 'n' must git th' whole bizz off me mind; 'n 'ez I've looked into the whole thing and feel satisfied that you're the thief, I think you'd better be pilin' out o' here without any more nonsense.'

"The postmaster was gone inside of twelve hours, and there was no more stealing on that line while Duffield held his position. Either the rest of the twelve dollars per annum postmasters were an extremely honest set, or else they were scared by the mere presence of Duffield. He used to be very fond of showing his powerful muscle, and would often seize one of the heavy oak chairs in the 'Congress Hall' barroom in one hand, and lift it out at arm's length; or take some of the people who stood near him and lift them up, catching hold of the feet only.

"How well I remember the excitement which arose in Tucson the day that 'Waco Bill' arrived in town with a wagon train on its way to Los Angeles. Mr. 'Waco Bill' was a tough in the truest sense of the term, and being from half to three-quarters full of the worst liquor to be found in Tucson-and I hope I am violating no confidence when I say that some of the vilest coffin varnish on the mundane sphere was to be found there by those who tried diligently-was anxious to meet and subdue this Duffield, of

whom such exaggerated praise was sounding in

his ears.

"Whar's Duffer?' he cried, or hiccoughed, as he approached the little group of which Duffield was the central figure. I want Duffer (hic); he's my meat. my meat. Whoop.'

"The words had hardly left his mouth, before something shot out from Duffield's right shoulder. It was that awful fist, which could, upon emergency, have felled an ox, and down went our Texan sprawling upon the ground. No sooner had he touched Mother Earth than, true to his Texan instincts, his hand sought his revolver, and partly drew it out of the holster. Duffield retained his preternatural calmness, and did not raise his voice above a whisper the whole time that his drunken opponent was hurling all kinds of anathemas at him; but now he saw that something must be done. In Arizona it was not customary to pull a pistol upon a man; that was regarded as an act both unchristianlike and wasteful of time-Arizonans nearly always shot out of the pocket without drawing their weapons at all, and into Mr. 'Waco Bill's groin went the sure bullet of the man who, local wits used to say, wore crape upon his hat in memory of his departed virtues.

"The bullet struck, and Duffield bent over with a most Chesterfieldian bow and wave of the hand: 'My name's Duffield, sir,' he said, 'and them 'ere's mee visiting card.'

"If there was one man in the world who despised another it was Chief Justice John Titus in his scorn for the ex-marshal, which found open expression on every occasion. Titus was a gentleman of the old school, educated in the

City of Brotherly Love, and anxious to put down the least semblance of lawlessness and disorder; yet here was an officer of the Government whose quarrels were notorious and of every day

Occurrence.

"Persuasion, kindly remonstrance, earnest warning were alike ineffectual, and in time the relations between the two men became of the most formal, not to say rancorous, character. Judge Titus at last made up his mind that the very first excuse for so doing he would have Duffield hauled up for carrying deadly weapons, and an occasion arose much sooner than he imagined.

"There was a 'baile' given that same week, and Duffield was present with many others. People usually went on a peace footing to these assemblies that is to say, all the heavy armament was left at home, and nothing taken along but a few Derringers, which would come handy in case of accident.

"There were some five or six of us—all friends of Duffield-sitting in a little back room away from the long saloon in which the dance was going on, and we had Duffield in such good humor that he consented to produce some, if not all, of the weapons with which he was loaded. He drew them from the arm-holes of his waistcoat, from his boot-legs, from his hip-pockets, from the back of his neck, and there they all were-eleven lethal weapons, mostly small Derringers, with one knife. Comment was useless; for my own part I did not feel called upon to criticize my friend's eccentricities or amiable weaknesses, whatever they might be, so I kept my mouth shut, and the others followed my example. I suppose that on a war-footing noth