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Show CHAPTER VII. THE PACIFIC SLOPE. A YEAH in Utah had brought renewed health and strength; but the love of Western travel was aroused. I would see Nevada and Cali-fornia; I would enjoy the sublime scenery of the Sierras, and breathe the soft airs of the Pacific. The Union and Central Pacific Railroads had joined in laying the last rail at Promontory, on the 10th of May, 1869, and thousands were taking this, the first, opportunity to visit the Far West in restful comfort. Corinne, my starting point, had grown with railroad sud-denness to a " city" of 1,500 people; then fallen away to a rather dull village of 500. Along the track west of it had sprung up five tent-towns, whose equals were never seen: Promontory, Deadfall, Murder Gulch, Last Chance, and Painted Post. At one of these, in its brief existence of two weeks, there were five homicides. The railroad labor-ers, then being paid off by hundreds, were the natural prey of the harpies who occupied these towns. Among the first families of Deadfall were two plainsmen, known as Arkansaw and Curly , the former a " fly shot," the latter noted for nothing more than a strange, reckless humor, and immense capacity for whisky. Crazed by intemperance and the loss of his money at gambling, he finally took on a huge disgust at life, and one day said to Arkansaw : " Would you do me a favor ? " " With pleasure, old pard. What is it? " " Just to shoot me through the head." " Certainly, if you wish it do any little thing of that sort for an old friend. But let's step down to the sand- bar ; it wouldn't do to bother the folks." The whole population turned out to witness the shooting. A line hav-ing been formed, Curly kneeled in front of the crowd, and Arkansaw took position and fired, the ball just cutting the hair from the crown of Curly's head. " D n you, don't mangle me," was his comment; " you must do better than that." ( 103) |