Autobiographical 7 



to the river bank about half a mile out of town, set up my 

 tent, and went hunting — for a job. I had twelve dollars 

 and fifty cents in my pocket and these two boys, who had 

 nothing at all, on my hands. Luck, however, was with 

 me. One of the first people I met was an old man named 

 Weeks, who ran a blacksmith and machine shop, and 

 when I showed him my credentials and told him my 

 qualifications he employed me. 



This was on the 13th of May, 1883. It was just after 

 the mining boom in the Coeur d'Alene had burst; and 

 Spokane, being the nearest settlement, was the dumping 

 ground for the horde of disappointed and destitute men 

 who tramped, foot-sore and desperate, out of the moun- 

 tains. In those days there was only a train a day each 

 way on the Northern Pacific — and not always that. 

 When a train steamed into the little station at Spokane, 

 a crowd, of all sorts and conditions, gathered to watch it; 

 some merely curious; some looking for an unwatched 

 brake-beam to ride away on; some spotting any arrivals 

 who appeared to have money, and who later on were not 

 any too secure against hold-ups. 



While I was standing talking to Weeks in front of a 

 stable, which he also owned, we saw a man who had ar- 

 rived by my train come out of the little hotel called the 

 San Francisco House, and walk down the street toward a 

 stone smoke-house, directly across from where we stood. 

 He had on a light overcoat and had his hands in his pock- 

 ets. It was nearly dusk, and just as he reached the smoke- 

 house a man jumped out from behind it and shoved a 

 pistol in his face. There was a shot, and the man with 

 the pistol fell headlong into the street. It turned out 



