Grand is a very good friend of mine, and as nice a man as one would wish to meet anywhere, yet he has the record of having killed three men in fights and seriously wounded four others; and at one time he was hunted over the hills of New Mexico by the state militia. He was generally very quiet, though full of fun, and I never could get him to tell me of any of his shooting scrapes, but on one occasion I saw even a drunken man realise that he was a bad man to fool with. A party of us were standing talking in front of the railway station in Guadalajara when a man we all knew came along just drunk enough to be aggressive, and began to make himself objectionable. Tom Grand had just come in from the mountains, and the clothes he had on were rough and dusty, and this attracted Mr. Drunk. He walked up to Tom and said, “My heaven, Grand, you look tough” (_i.e._ rough and dirty). “Yes,” said Tom, putting his face close up to the other, "and I'm just as tough as I look" (_i.e._ bad customer). The other understood the play on the words and the look on Tom’s face, and backed away full of apologies and did not bother us any more. The life some of these prospectors lead would kill any man who was not made of iron and had not courage to spare. Tom Grand was telling me of one experience of his when he was opening up a tunnel one winter all by himself, forty miles from the nearest habitation. It was 15° F. below zero, and he could find nothing to burn but sage brush. Any one who knows or has seen sage brush can imagine what a delightfully cheerful fire it would make! Then the loneliness would drive most men crazy. On another occasion Grand, Denny, and another man were up in Colorado prospecting in the Grand Canyon, when the third man fell over the bluff to a ledge 150 feet below. They had no means of getting up the body for burial, and all they could do was to lower a red blanket by strings till it covered the body; and so they had to leave him, trusting that nothing would touch the body for fear of the blanket. It is hard to get these men to talk of the past—they live in the present and the future. Harry Carter once told me of a narrow escape he had years ago at Kingston, New Mexico. I was mentioning a case of a policeman and he said, “Why, I had just such a thing happen to me.” He had got into an argument with a friend of his who was pretty drunk at the time. The argument waxed warm, when suddenly this man jerked out his gun and swore he would kill Carter. Harry was taken by surprise and was unarmed. He was leaning against the open door, and as he told it to me in his own words, “Right back of the door at my elbow there was a Winchester rifle leaning against the wall, which I had noticed as I came in. When the drunken idiot threw his gun down on me, I remembered it, and it flashed across my mind that I would jump back, grab the rifle, and take my chances. All that kept me from doing it was the thought that the darned thing might