Mr. O. Bates had unbounded faith in his grenades. He actually wanted to build his bonfire almost smack-up against the frame hotel building on the corner where Harry Cawood’s store is now. But “Uncle” Peter Shuemaker wouldn’t stand for that. “Uncle” Peter was a wiry little man of Pennsylvania Dutch ancestry—much set in his ways, with a quick tongue with which to defend himself. He was always on the defense. “Frosty” Shuemaker had said, with reason, “Granddad, don’t you let that old windjammer light his fire near the hotel. You don’t know what might happen,” and “Uncle” Peter had snapped, “Goway, Forrest—who’s asking you for advice?” But, I think, “Uncle” Peter had “smelled a mouse.” Mr. O. Bates — pompous, windy, and positive — told “Uncle” Peter that the proposed demonstration would do his hotel no more harm than for him to allow Jim Riley to ride his horse in and out of the hotel office—an occurrence that still rankled. “Uncle” Peter flew off the handle, so to speak, and spluttered, “It’s no-sicha-na-thing! I never permitted that lousy drunken pie-stealing galoot to ride into my hotel! And just who would pay me for my hotel if it should burn down? By-GODDIES, you couldn’t do it—Mr. Bates!” Since I have quoted Peter Shuemaker detrimental to the character of one Jim Riley, I shall now explain. Never like to leave any of the old fellows out on a limb. Then, too, there is still another reason for this elaboration. It is to keep the record straight. Some, I now learn, are inclined to question if I have quoted “Uncle” Peter verbatim. That I have you may be sure. I make no inventions. You can always bank on that. Why, I ask, should I want to feed you figments of fiction, when memory is stocked with so much of the real thing—spoken words by the old fellows, a thousand times better than anything an antiquated mind could conjure up now? And then there is always the little matter of accuracy to be considered. “No-sicha-na-thing” and “by-goddies” were his exact utterances. Not to be confused with the Soldier creek Jim Reilly, who built a house in town on the site where E. W. Thornburrow’s home is now, this Irishman owned land up in the Capioma neighborhood—a half section north of the Patrick Hand land. Jim Riley was a substantial farmer and cattleman. He was not married. Jim bached on the farm—but spent much of his spare time in Wetmore, always pretty close to the dram shops. He was a periodical hard drinker. And a prankster of the first order.