A short distance above this, at a point of timber occupying a large bottom, had been the scene of a fatal duel the previous winter, between two whites by the names of Herring and Beer. On my first arrival in the country I had become acquainted with both of the actors, and felt much interested in the details of the bloody affair as related by one present at the time of its unfortunate occurrence. The difficulty between them related to a Mexican woman from Taos, —the wife of Herring.
Backed by a number of personal friends, and anxious to obtain the lady from her husband, the former had provoked a quarrel and used very insulting language to his antagonist. This was received with little or no reply, but soon, however, resulted in a challenge which was promptly accepted.
The preliminaries were arranged in confident expectation of killing Herring, who was considered a poor marksman, especially at an off-hand shot. The weapons selected by Beer were rifles, the distance fifty yards, the manner off-hand, and the time of shooting between the word fire and three. The two met, attended by their friends, at the time and place agreed upon, at the word "fire," the ball of Beer's rifle was buried in a cottonwood a few inches above the head of his antagonist, —at the word "three" the contents of Herring's rifle found lodgement in the body of Beer, who fell and expired in a few minutes.
Between this point and Fort Lancaster, I noticed the ruins of another trading post, much dilapidated in appearance, and nearly levelled with the ground.
Passing along, I could not refrain from musing upon the frequent deeds of mischief and iniquity that had originated within them, in connection with the infamous liquor traffic. Ah, thought I, were those bricks possessed of tongues; full many a tale of horror and guilt would they unfold, to stand the listener's "hair on end," and make his blood run cold! But, lost in silent unconsciousness, they refuse to speak the white man's shame!
