Scores of lurid spirits, whose lives were forfeit by every Western rule, have been spared to live a quieter life by the forbearing Mr. Masterson. Mr. Sutton, a lawyer and a present resident of Dodge, was out recently in the papers with a story in illustrative point. Three cowboys, moved of whisky and a taste for violence, dashed down the single street of Dodge, their six-shooters blazing like roman candles. Most peace officers would have harvested these boys; Mr. Masterson was more leniently inclined, since thus far the young merrymakers had not succeeded in hitting anybody. Sure of its aim, Mr. Masterson's pistol barked three times. Two of the ponies fell, and Mr. Masterson dragged their riders -- sprawled all abroad in the dust of the street -- off to the calaboose.

The third pony lasted until he reached the south side of the Arkansas [River,] and then dropped dead. Thereupon, its rider stripped off saddle and bridle, "stuck up" the incoming buckboard, and compelled the driver to turn nose-about, and land him at a nearest ranch more than forty miles away.

There was a lady aboard the buckboard who sang in the theatres. She was coming north from Mobeetie to fill a Dodge engagement. As shortening those tiresome forty miles, the dismounted cowboy -- pistol in hand, eye on the buckboard driver, who might at any moment rebel -- told the cantatrice that he thought she ought to sing. With that, she thought so too; and so, for forty miles she warbled "Silver Threads Among the Gold," and kindred melodies of concert hall vogue at the time. This boy got clear away, while the ravens and the coyotes, at their feast over his dead pony, gloried in the fatal accuracy of the Masterson guns.

As demonstrating his huge strength, Mr. Masterson once seized a recalcitrant cow puncher who, seated in his saddle, was making ready to "shake up the village." The cowboy was himself as strong as whalebone, and gripped his pony with legs of iron. Throwing his soul into the business, Mr. Masterson gave that adhesive cowboy such a wrench -- the boy meanwhile clinging to his mount like grim death -- that both pony and boy were thrown heavily to the ground.

It was not always convenient, nor even feasible, to spare the blood of the wrong doer. The following might furnish an example in line. Mr. Kennedy rode up to the Alhambra, kept by Mr. Kelly, the then Mayor, and took a shot at that publican and magistrate with his Ballard. Mr. Kennedy missed Mr. Kelly, and killed a lady who had come to the Alhambra to have part in the nightly ball. Mr. Kennedy -- it was eight o'clock in the evening -- on the heels of the homicide, dug spurs into his pony's flanks, and flew southward through the darkness. He was heading for the Canadian [River] two hundred miles away.

Mr. Masterson saddled a fleetest horse, and started ‘cross country for the ford where the flying Mr. Kennedy must cross the Medicine Lodge [River.] There were three or four trails, and direct pursuit in the dark was out of the question. Mr. Masterson reached the ford in the gray of the morning, bettering Mr. Kennedy's time by an hour. He hobbled his horse, and threw himself in behind a convenient knoll, to wait the coming of the murderous flying one. At last, the latter drew near, eye scanning the ribbon of trail to the rear, pony worn and panting. No wonder, this last; seventy miles, at a swinging hand gallop, is no mere canter.