Scott, as he tells the story himself, approached him more from curiosity than expectation, when the following conversation ensued: “Come,” said Scott, addressing him, “draw your weasel now.” “How do you know I’ve got any, stranger?” queried the youth. “No fooling, I say. Hand out your buckskin.” “You wouldn’t rob a poor little devil like me, would you?” “Don’t keep me waiting longer, or I’ll cut your ears off,”—and Scott drew his bowie as if to carry the threat into execution. “Well, I only get half-wages, you know. Is your heart all gizzard?” “Get off from that stone and shell out, or I’ll blow your brains out in a minute,” said Scott. The boy sprung up hurriedly, and with affected reluctance thrust his hand into his pocket. “Well, stra-an-nger,” he inquired with a peculiar drawl and quizzical expression of the eyes, “what do you take Salmon River dust at, anyhow?” With this he drew forth an empty purse, and handing it to Scott, said, “If you think I’ve got any more, search me.” Pleased with the pluck and humor of the lad, one of the band threw him a five-dollar piece, and they galloped furiously on towards Florence. Thundering into the town, they drew up before the first saloon, fired their pistols, and urged their horses into the establishment. Without dismounting they ordered liquor for the crowd. All the by-standers partook with them. Harper ostentatiously threw one of the purses he had just seized upon the counter, telling the bar-keeper to weigh out the amount of the bill, and after a few moments they left the saloon, “to see,” as one of them expressed himself, “whether the town was big enough to hold them.” This irruption into Florence occurred while that city was comparatively in embryo. The great floods of immigration from the East and West had not arrived. Some months must elapse before the expectations of the robbers could be realized. Meantime they distributed themselves among the saloons and bagnios, and by means of gambling and frequent robberies, contrived to hold the community in fear and pick up a subsistence until the great crowd came. Leaving them for a season, we will return to Cherokee Bob, whom we left in his ignominious flight from Walla Walla to Lewiston, on a stolen horse. That worthy had established himself in a saloon at Lewiston, and while there, renewed an acquaintance with an old pal known as Bill Mayfield.