Patterson came to Idaho with the first discovery of gold in that section. His fellow-gamblers, who never failed, with one hand, to take advantage of his unskilful playing, were always ready to contribute to his necessities with the other. If he wanted money to stock a faro bank they furnished it. If a saloon-keeper needed a man who united popularity and strength to arrest the encroachments of the roughs, he was ever ready to share a liberal portion of his profits with Patterson for such services. The difference between Pinkham and Patterson was that, while the friends of the former looked to him for aid in their embarrassments, those of the latter afforded him the means of existence. About a year before the occurrence of the bloody affray between these men, Patterson and some of his friends, during a period of drunken excitement, took unlawful possession of a brewery in Idaho City, and engaged in the manufacture of beer. Pinkham was the only person in the city brave enough to undertake their arrest. When he entered the building for the purpose, he informed Patterson of his object and was met with violent resistance. In the struggle Pinkham was successful, and Patterson was arrested and taken away. The citizens, knowing the character of Patterson, and expecting nothing less than a shooting affray as the consequence of the arrest, were surprised at his submission. It was soon understood, however, that the bad blood provoked by the incident had severed all friendly relations between the champions, and that Patterson would avail himself of the first opportunity to avenge himself. Months passed away without any collision. The subject, if not forgotten, was lost sight of as other occurrences more or less exciting transpired. On the day he was killed, Pinkham, with an acquaintance, rode out to the Warm Springs, a favorite bathing resort two miles distant from Idaho City. Meeting there with several friends, he drank more freely than usual and became quite hilarious. Patterson returned early the same day from Rocky Bar, fifty miles distant. Half-crazed from the effects of protracted indulgence in drinking and a severe personal encounter, his friends, to aid his return to sobriety, took him to the springs for a bath. Among others who accompanied him was one Terry, a vicious, unprincipled fellow, who, in a conflict with Patterson a year before, had begged abjectly for his life when he found himself slightly wounded, and ever after, spaniel-like, had licked the hand that smote him. When they arrived, Pinkham and his friends were singing the popular refrain of “John Brown,” and had just completed the line— “We’ll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree,” as Patterson and his party stepped upon the porch. Jefferson Davis was at that time in custody. With the curiosity which exercised the Unionists, a singer said, “Pink, do you think they will hang Jeff Davis?” “Yes,” replied Pinkham, “in less than six weeks.”