It was the middle of March, 1874, that McKenna was invited to witness one of the milder amusements of the rougher portion of the people of the mining country—a dog-fight. The canine contest was appointed to occur at Number Three Breaker, and McAndrew, Ferguson, and Monaghan were the detective’s companions. The locality was only a mile from town, and the attendance was large, some two hundred men and overgrown youths having gathered to see the expected ferocious proceeding. But all were fated to disappointment. From a failure to come to time on the part of one of the owners and backers, the ring was just one dog short. The animal on hand had to be taken home, his pugnacity unsatisfied, and the spectators, unable to get up a battle between two human beasts, were compelled to disperse, considerably disgusted with this peaceful result of what earlier bid fair to be a savage and enjoyable sensation. On the route homeward, McAndrew said he would stop at a house where he was acquainted, and see if a dog could not be procured. The attempt did not succeed, but as the men were standing near the place, Dr. Shultz, who was known to nearly all the party, came that way. He paused to chat with McAndrew, and among other matters stated that a man, named Peter McNellis, had been shot the previous night at Jenkins’ Patch. The deed transpired at McNellis’ own house, and was the work of one Canfield, whose father was shot, but not mortally, the preceding Saturday. McNellis had been attacked while in his dwelling, but the doctor could not say if he were dead, or would die, but the hurt was pronounced very serious by the attending surgeon. McNellis’ brother had been three times notified by the Mollies to quickly leave the neighborhood, or accept the consequences. The missives conveying this delicate bit of information all bore the signature of “Mollie.” The McNellis family, it appears, chose to accept the “consequences.” When the doctor had ridden away, Ferguson exclaimed, referring to McNellis: “May he never rise again, the scoundrel!” In which wish all his comrades heartily concurred, and McKenna, seeing that he was expected to express himself regarding a Sheet Iron lad, complied, saying: “An’ may the divil fly away wid his sowl!” On the morning of the twentieth of the same month, one Dougherty was shot while passing from home to his work. It was reported that the victim in this case was a Mollie, and the outrage had been brought about by some of the dreaded Iron Clads.