"The boys got mighty quiet then. Hey, easy, Doc, will you? Ham Head straightened up and his face went from red as flannels to white, just like that. He stood glarin' at the little feller for a couple of ticks, openin' and closin his fists, and then that big right hand went for the Smith & Wesson in his belt. "Well, it was a double-action pistol and had a couple notches in the grip, but Ham Head never cleared it. I never even seen the little feller draw, but there was Ham Head fallin' with half his noggin shot away. Gently, will you, Doc, gently! "The little feller stood leaning on his umbrella, lookin' down at him. 'What was that man's name?' he says. 'Ham Head Cavanaugh,' somebody says back. 'Ham Head Cavanaugh,' the little feller says, 'he's the first.' Then he shoves the umbreller back under his arm and goes out. We never saw him again. "Some say it was a bootleg pistol he used, or a derringer in his sleeve. And some say he had a pardner with a rifle in the street, but there wasn't nobody there. I was standin' as close to him as I am to you, Doc, and I swear--it--was--that--um--breller--OW!" * * * * * Ham Head Cavanaugh was the first. I had kind of a personal interest in Jake and his weapon, so I kept track. There was Curly Sam Thompson, Big John Ballentine, Redmeat Carson, Uriah Singletree and twelve others known of, all dead within eighteen months. Any man Jake could hoorah into a fight. With never a chance to get his right hand on iron before his head gave the signal and got blown off. He took them all on. And he never lost--because he couldn't. Jake was king-o'-the-hill now, all right. He had the success he yearned for. Yet when he came back to see me last April it wasn't to brag. He was in trouble. I looked up from a customer, a damn fool that'd sat on a gila monster, and there he was, sneaking in the door bare-headed like a whipped hound, not the cock of the walk in the whole Territory. He slid into the back room like a shadow, and the man I was working on never even knew he'd come. When I went in afterward the lamp was out, the shade was down and he was in a corner, nervous as a jackrabbit an eagle just dropped in a wolf den. "Buried my derby under a pile of rock up in the mountains," he whispered. "Look," and he held out his glove. It was plumb worn out. The little metal disc was hanging on by a strand of spirit gum, and the fabric of the palm was in shreds. I looked at him for a minute without saying anything. He was still wearing the clawhammer coat, over B.V.D. tops, but it looked like he'd been buried weeks in it and dug up clumsy. He had on greasy rawhide breeches and battered cowhand boots for shoes. He had a month's beard on his lip and he stunk. This here was legendary Dirty Jake, no question about it. "Get a new glove," I said.