nd consequently they
were in a rather bad humor when they heard this bit of news. They at
once got after Zimick so hard that he took me and went to Kinsely, Kas.,
where Mr. Gorman was. Arriving there he went to the Smith saloon to get
a room, as Smith ran a rooming house over his saloon, and it was the
custom for all the cattle men to make it their headquarters when in the
city. Here he met Mr. Gorman, and we were sitting around the room and
Zimick had only told Mr. Gorman a few things, when all of a sudden
Zimick drew his 45 colt revolver remarking as he did so, "Here is the
last of Jack Zimick." He placed the gun to his head and before we could
reach him he pulled the trigger, and his brains were scattered all over
the room.

They arrested Mr. Gorman and myself and held up for a short time until
things could be explained. Mr. Gorman was very much overcome by the act,
as Jack was one of his best men, and had been with him a long time. Mr.
Gorman had the body sent to Zimick's friends in Boston, and he
personally paid off all the boys, taking the money out of his own pocket
to do so, but when the boys heard of Jack's rash deed they said they
would rather have lost every dollar they had, rather than have had Jack
kill himself, as he was a favorite among all the cowboys, especially so
among those in Mr. Gorman's employ. Zimick had been in the employ of
Gorman and company for over ten years and he was Mr. Gorman's right hand
man, and this was the first time he ever went wrong. Jack did not have
the nerve to face his comrades again, and so I suppose he concluded that
his colt 45 was the only friend he had to help him out of it.

In May 1882, I was in Durango, Colorado, and chanced to be in a saloon
on Main street where a lot of us boys were together, among them being
Buck Cannon and Bill Woods. The drinks had been circulating around
pretty freely when Cannon and Woods got into a dispute over Cannon's
niece, to whom Woods had been paying attention, much against that young
lady's wish. After some hot words between the men, Woods drew his 45
colt revolver, remarking as he did so, "I will kill you," and in raising
it his finger must have slipped, as his gun went off and the bullet hit
a glass of beer in the hand of a man who was in the act of raising it to
his lips, scattering the broken glass all over the room, then passing
through the ceiling of the saloon. In an instant Woods threw three
bullets into Cannon, remarking as he