I was born a fighter.

The things I had fought for had proved not worth the fight.
Remained the PEOPLE.

My fight was finished, yet something was left still to fight for--the PEOPLE.
But while I was discovering this one last tie to bind me to life, in my extremity, in the depths of despond, walking in the valley of the shadow, my ears were deaf to John Barleycorn.

Never the remotest whisper arose in my consciousness that John Barleycorn was the anodyne, that he could lie me along to live.

One way only was uppermost in my thought--my revolver, the crashing eternal darkness of a bullet.