There were murderers and crooks, blacklegs and gunmen in my genial aggregation, men whose true names we never knew, men who were wanted in every part of the civilized world.

The only place on earth, I suppose, where they could feel reasonably at home was in that gosh-awful nowhere that we called Copperhead Camp.

You can't handle such men with mittens.
And there were good men there as well,--good, strong, righteous men.
They were the leaven that made the whole thing palatable.

Without them I could have had no authority.

But I dare say I am boring you.