I crossed the bay to Oakland, and, among other things, took a look at the death-road.
Nelson was gone--shot to death while drunk and resisting the officers.
His partner in that affair was lying in prison.

Whisky Bob was gone.
Old Cole, Old Smoudge, and Bob Smith were gone.

Another Smith, he of the belted guns and the Annie, was drowned.

French Frank, they said, was lurking up river, afraid to come down because of something he had done.
Others were wearing the stripes in San Quentin or Folsom.

Big Alec, the King of the Greeks, whom I had known well in the old Benicia days, and with whom I had drunk whole nights through, had killed two men and fled to foreign parts.