“It’s about the death of Joe Hawkins I was going to tell you; ’bout as queer a thing, I reckon, as ever you heard tell on. There wasn’t nobody in Montana as didn’t know of Joe Hawkins--’Alabama’ Joe, as he was called there. A reg’lar out and outer, he was, ’bout the darndest skunk as ever man clapt eyes on. He was a good chap enough, mind ye, as long as you stroked him the right way; but rile him anyhow, and he were worse nor a wild-cat. I’ve seen him empty his six-shooter into a crowd as chanced to jostle him a-going into Simpson’s bar when there was a dance on; and he bowied Tom Hooper ’cause he spilt his liquor over his weskit by mistake. No, he didn’t stick at murder, Joe didn’t; and he weren’t a man to be trusted further nor you could see him. “Now, at the time I tell on, when Joe Hawkins was swaggerin’ about the town and layin’ down the law with his shootin’-irons, there was an Englishman there of the name of Scott--Tom Scott, if I rec’lects aright. This chap Scott was a thorough Britisher (beggin’ the present company’s pardon), and yet he didn’t freeze much to the British set there, or they didn’t freeze much to him. He was a quiet, simple man, Scott was--rather too quiet for a rough set like that; sneakin’ they called him, but he weren’t that. He kept hisself mostly apart, and didn’t interfere with nobody so long as he were left alone. Some said as how he’d been kinder ill-treated at home--been a Chartist, or something of that sort, and had to up stick and run; but he never spoke of it hisself, an’ never complained. Bad luck or good, that chap kept a stiff lip on him. “This chap Scott was a sort o’ butt among the men about Montana, for he was so quiet an’ simple-like. There was no party either to take up his grievances; for, as I’ve been saying, the Britishers hardly counted him one of them, and many a rough joke they played on him. He never cut up rough, but was polite to all hisself. I think the boys got to think he hadn’t much grit in him till he showed ’em their mistake.