In those days everything was freighted from Fort Pierre, South Dakota, and Sidney, Nebraska, to the Black Hills by ox teams and mule teams. I have seen 27 ten-yoke teams of oxen all in one outfit. At the head of this caravan rode the wagon boss. He was quite a dandy in those days—fancy saddle, boots and pearl handle six-shooter. It was a great sight to see an outfit like that moving across the country; with those men shouting at their teams, whips popping and wagons rattling. It sounded like a young army in action. The town of Deadwood was the terminal of all freight and stage outfits, and as there was very little law and order those days, it was sure a wild town. There was another town about 20 miles before you got to Deadwood. It was called Scooptown those days, but afterwards was changed to the more dignified name of Sturgis, which it still has today. I have seen that town at night full of bull whackers, mule skinners, cowboys and soldiers, and the dance halls going full blast—when I think back at it today, it seems like a dream. I knew an old-time bull whacker. He went by the name of Baltimore Bill. He got into a gun fight one night in one of those dance halls. He got three fingers shot off, but killed the other fellow. He was arrested for murder and laid in jail for about a year pending his trial. He was finally acquitted on the grounds of self-defense. I worked with Bill afterwards and was well acquainted with him. He said he had a very narrow escape from hanging. He said when the “prosecutin’” attorney got through making his plea to the jury, he felt he (Bill) was the lowest human alive and deserved hanging, “but, oh boy, when my attorney got through with my defense, I was a damn good man!” Fort Meade was located three miles from Scooptown and was occupied by colored soldiers, and a very noted nigger ran a dance hall and gambling house in Scooptown. One night some of those negro soldiers were drinking in this house and got into a row with the proprietor, whose name was Abe Hill, and he hit one of them on the head with a bottle. A few nights after this, these soldiers stole some guns and ammunition out of the Fort and came in to shoot Abe Hill’s place up. There were about twenty of them, and they raided that old dance hall and in fact nearly all the town. There was a cowboy in Abe’s place that night. His name was Bob Bell and he didn’t know what all the noise was about. He stepped from the gambling part into the dance hall, thinking it was a little celebration and was shot four or five times. Poor Bob never knew what hit him.