Here I went to work for R.G.Moody building a gristmill on the banks of the Coyote Creek, to be run by water from artesian wells.

When the mill was done I went for my horse, and on my return I ran very unexpectedly upon Davenport Helms, to whom I had sold my little black mule in 1850.

Our talk was short but he told me he had killed a man in Georgetown, and the sheriff was looking for him.

He was now venturing to town for tobacco, and would hurry back to the hills again where he was herding cattle.
He said he kept them off at one time by getting in a piece of chaparral and presenting his gun to them when they came near, they dare not advance on him.

Then he laughed and said--"And all the time my gun was empty, for I did not have a d----d thing to put into it." "I tell you they don't catch old Davenport.