excerpt from the book..One afternoon in July, 1869, I was seated at my desk in Locock'slaw-office in the town of Kiota, Kansas. I had landed in New York fromLiverpool nearly a year before, and had drifted westwards seeking invain for some steady employment. Lawyer Locock, however, had promised tolet me study law with him, and to give me a few dollars a month besides,for my services as a clerk. I was fairly satisfied with the prospect,and the little town interested me. An outpost of civilization, it wassituated on the border of the great plains, which were still lookedupon as the natural possession of the nomadic Indian tribes. It owed itsimportance to the fact that it lay on the cattle-trail which led fromthe prairies of Texas through this no man's land to the railway system,and that it was the first place where the cowboys coming north couldfind a bed to sleep in, a bar to drink at, and a table to gamble on. Forsome years they had made of Kiota a hell upon earth. But gradually theland in the neighbourhood was taken up by farmers, emigrants chieflyfrom New England, who were determined to put an end to the reign ofviolence. A man named Johnson was their leader in establishing orderand tranquillity. Elected, almost as soon as he came to the town, to thedangerous post of City Marshal, he organized a vigilance committeeof the younger and more daring settlers, backed by whom he resolutelysuppressed the drunken rioting of the cowboys. After the ruffianshad been taught to behave themselves, Johnson was made Sheriff of theCounty, a post which gave him a house and permanent position. Thoughmarried now, and apparently "settled down," the Sheriff was a sort ofhero in Kiota. I had listened to many tales about him, showing desperatedetermination veined with a sense of humour, and I often regretted thatI had reached the place too late to see him in action. I had littleor nothing to do in the office. The tedium of the long days was almostunbroken, and Stephen's "Commentaries" had become as monotonous andunattractive as the bare uncarpeted floor. The heat was tropical, andI was dozing when a knock startled me. A negro boy slouched in with abundle of newspapers: "This yer is Jedge Locock's, I guess?" "I guessso," was my answer as I lazily opened the third or fourth number ofthe "Kiota Weekly Tribune." Glancing over the sheet my eye caught thefollowing paragraph: