The man went by a nickname which I will call "Crazy Steve"; a year or two afterwards I received a letter asking about him from his uncle, a thoroughly respectable man in a Western State; and later this uncle and I met at Washington when I was President and he a United States Senator.

It was some time after "Steve's" capture that I went down to Deadwood on business, Sylvane Ferris and I on horseback, while Bill Jones drove the wagon.

At a little town, Spearfish, I think, after crossing the last eighty or ninety miles of gumbo prairies, we met Seth Bullock.

We had had rather a rough trip, and had lain out for a fortnight, so I suppose we looked somewhat unkempt.

Seth received us with rather distant courtesy at first, but unbent when he found out who we were, remarking, "You see, by your looks I thought you were some kind of a tin-horn gambling outfit, and that I might have to keep an eye on you!" He then inquired after the capture of "Steve"-- with a little of the air of one sportsman when another has shot a quail that either might have claimed--"My bird, I believe ?" Later Seth Bullock became, and has ever since remained, one of my stanchest and most valued friends.