domicile of Jack Borlan, with a
small puncture near the heart to tell how it was done. Such was life at
Ten Mile Gulch.

Who made the puncture?

Circumstances pointed to Jack Borlan, and they escorted him down to the
settlement. He stood by the bar conversing with the dispenser of liquid
lightning. Two very calm-looking Ten Milers were within easy reach of
Mr. Borlan; two more at the door, which was left temptingly open; two
more at each window, and the remainder scattered about the room to suit
themselves.

Mr. Bob Watson was the only one calm enough to enjoy a seat, and he was
whittling away at the pine bench with such energy that a stranger might
have concluded that whittling was his best hold. Not so, however; he
whittled until he found a nail with the edge of his knife, and then
varied his diversion by grasping the point of the blade between the
thumb and first finger of his right hand, and throwing it at the left
eye of a very flattering representation of Yankee Sullivan which graced
the wall.

By a slight miscalculation of distance and elevation, the eye was
unharmed, but the well-developed nose was more effectually ruined than
its original ever was by the most scientific pugilist.

"Well, gentlemen, what shall we do with the prisoner?" asks Watson.

"We're waiting for _you_," said a tall Ten Miler, who had been a pleased
witness of the knife-throwing and its results.

"Well, you need not," retorted Mr. Watson, as he made a fling at
Yankee's other eye, and with very good success. "You know my sentiments,
gentlemen. I was opposed to bringing the prisoner here. We might have
fixed up the matter all at one time, and saved a heap of diggin'."

"It--might--have--done," said the tall Miler, doubtfully; "but I
wouldn't like to see the two together. It would spoil all my enjoyment
of the occasion."

"Bet yer ten to one ye don't swing him!" cried Watson, springing to his
feet with sudden inspiration, and mounting the bench he had been
whittling. "Twenty to one Jack Borlan don't choke this heat! Who takes
me? who? who?"

No one seemed disposed to take him.

"Bosh! you Ten Milers are all babies. Now, if this had happened up at
Quit Claim, Borlan would have had a beautiful tombstone over him long
ago. What do _you_ say, Borlan?"

The prisoner, thus addressed, cut short some remark he was making, and
turned to Watson. "There have been cases where the prisoner had the
benefit of a trial, Mr. Watson."

"Which