“don’t shoot!” The cutting took place about ten o’clock and the
shooting about twelve. After the shooting the street was instantly
crowded with the inhabitants of that part of the town, some
appearing much excited and laughing–declaring that it looked like
the “good old times of ’60.” Marshal Perry and officer Birdsall
were near when the shooting occurred, and Gumbert was immediately
arrested and his gun taken from him, when he was marched off to
jail. Many persons who were attracted to the spot where this bloody
work had just taken place, looked bewildered and seemed to be asking
themselves what was to happen next, appearing in doubt as to whether
the killing mania had reached its climax, or whether we were to turn
in and have a grand killing spell, shooting whoever might have given
us offence. It was whispered around that it was not all over yet–
five or six more were to be killed before night. Reeder was taken
to the Virginia City Hotel, and doctors called in to examine his
wounds. They found that two or three balls had entered his right
side; one of them appeared to have passed through the substance of
the lungs, while another passed into the liver. Two balls were also
found to have struck one of his legs. As some of the balls struck
the cask, the wounds in Reeder’s leg were probably from these,
glancing downwards, though they might have been caused by the second
shot fired. After being shot, Reeder said when he got on his feet–
smiling as he spoke–“It will take better shooting than that to kill
me.” The doctors consider it almost impossible for him to recover,
but as he has an excellent constitution he may survive,
notwithstanding the number and dangerous character of the wounds he
has received. The town appears to be perfectly quiet at present, as
though the late stormy times had cleared our moral atmosphere; but
who can tell in what quarter clouds are lowering or plots ripening?
Reeder–or at least what was left of him–survived his wounds two days!
Nothing was ever done with Gumbert.
Trial by jury is the palladium of our liberties. I do not know what a
palladium is, having never seen a palladium, but it is a good thing no
doubt at any rate. Not less than a hundred men have been murdered in
Nevada–perhaps I would be within bounds if I said three hundred–and as
far as I can learn, only two persons have suffered the death penalty
there. However, four or five who had no money and no political influence
have been punished by imprisonment–one languished in prison as much as
eight months, I think. However, I do not desire to be extravagant–it
may have been less.
However, one prophecy was verified, at any rate. It was asserted by the
desperadoes that one of their brethren (Joe McGee, a special policeman)
was known to be the conspirator chosen by lot to assassinate Williams;
and they also asserted that doom had been pronounced against McGee, and
that he would be assassinated in exactly the same manner that had been
adopted for the destruction of Williams–a prophecy which came true a
year later. After twelve months of distress (for McGee saw a fancied
assassin in every man that approached him), he made the last of many
efforts to get out of the country unwatched. He went to Carson and sat
down in a saloon to wait for the stage–it would leave at four in the
morning. But as the night waned and the crowd thinned, he grew uneasy,
and told the bar-keeper that assassins were on his track. The bar-keeper
told him to stay in the middle of the room, then, and not go near the
door, or the window by the stove. But a fatal fascination seduced him to
the neighborhood of the stove every now and then, and repeatedly the bar-
keeper brought him back to the middle of the room and warned him to
remain there. But he could not. At three in the morning he again
returned to the stove and sat down by a stranger. Before the bar-keeper
could get to him with another warning whisper, some one outside fired