Then one was always sure to meet men like old Jack Dunn, who had wandered about in all parts of the world, and has since done such excellent work as a scout against the Chiricahua Apaches. I think that Jack is living yet, but am not certain. If he is, it will pay some enterprising journalist to hunt him up and get a few of his stories out of him; they’ll make the best kind of reading for people who care to hear of the wildest days on the wildest of frontiers. And there were others--men who have passed away, men like James Toole, one of the first mayors of Tucson, who dropped in, much as I myself did, to see what was to be seen. Opposed as I am to gambling, no matter what protean guise it may assume, I should do the gamblers of Tucson the justice to say that they were as progressive an element as the town had. They always had plank floors, where every other place was content with the bare earth rammed hard, or with the curious mixture of river sand, bullock’s blood, and cactus juice which hardened like cement and was used by some of the more opulent. But with the exception of the large wholesale firms, and there were not over half a dozen of them all told, the house of the governor, and a few--a very few--private residences of people like the Carillos, Sam Hughes, Hiram Stevens, and Aldrich, who desired comfort, there were no wooden floors to be seen in that country. The gaming establishments were also well supplied with the latest newspapers from San Francisco, Sacramento, and New York, and to these all who entered, whether they played or not, were heartily welcome. Sometimes, but not very often, there would be served up about midnight a very acceptable lunch of “frijoles,” coffee, or chocolate, “chile con carne,” “enchiladas,” and other dishes, all hot and savory, and all thoroughly Mexican. The flare of the lamps was undimmed, the plinkety-plunk of the harps was unchecked, and the voice of the dealer was abroad in the land from the setting of the sun until the rising of the same. Sunday or Monday, night or day, it made no difference--the game went on; one dealer taking the place of another with the regularity, the precision, and the stolidity of a sentinel. “Isn’t it ra-a-a-ther late for you to be open?” asked the tenderfoot arrival from the East, as he descended from the El Paso stage about four o’clock one morning, and dragged himself to the bar to get something to wash the dust out of his throat. “Wa-a-al, it is kinder late fur th’ night afore last,” genially replied the bartender; “but’s jest ’n th’ shank o’ th’ evenin’ fur t’-night.” It was often a matter of astonishment to me that there were so few troubles and rows in the gambling establishments of Tucson. They did occur from time to time, just as they might happen anywhere else, but not with sufficient frequency to make a feature of the life of the place.