St. Paul Daily Globe

A Quiet Colorado Town.

"Never out in Colorado?" inquired a fresh young traveler of an old and sedate looking individual who chanced to be a fellow occupant of the car seat, as the two journeyed Chicago-ward.

"No," said the older man, "my territory don't cover anything west of the Missouri river."

"Well, I was out there once and struck one of those quiet and orderly Colorado towns where they brag of never having shot a man or of having buried him with his boots on. I never have been back. One Colorado trip is enough for a lifetime. My visit to Colorado was along in 1876, just before its admission as a state. My destination was Trinidad but I was detained by mountain fever at a God forsaken place called La Junta."

"I was suffering from a high fever on the night of my arrival and was put in the best room of the old shanty hotel, for which I paid $5 per day. It was on the ground floor. That night, about midnight, a row occurred on the prairie right in front of my room, and the participants began firing. From the way the bullets came crashing through my window I thought, and still think, that they were firing at me. Of course I didn't sleep very much as I was awaiting a reopening of hostilities."

"The next morning I was delirious and talked about burglars being after me and how I had shot at people the night before. I awoke in the lockup, the constable taking me in on suspicion of being an escaped murderer. When I came to my senses I explained everything, and was very explicit as to the shots in my room. The authorities did not like to admit that anybody in La Junta had been using a gun without killing somebody, but finally had to let me out. I never stopped to ascertain who fired the shots, but left for the East on the first train."