The judge had a name as a dispenser of justice that struck terror to evil doers, and echoed all the way from Texas to Assiniboine, for the nomads that went north in the spring and south in the fall, knew that Judge Gaslin was in western Nebraska.

One stormy night, the men of the trail were in the old hotel that used to stand just opposite the depot at Ogallala, and as the night was stormy, so were the natures of many gathered there.

The landlord became alarmed at homicidal indications, and besought Judge Gaslin, who was in his room, to come down, and just show himself for a few moments in the lobby and bar. He at first demurred, but finally consented. The time was propitious, for just as he stepped into the room, a fight had started and one man had been knocked down.

As he appeared, someone shouted above the pandemonium that prevailed: "Judge Gaslin, boys ! the judge !"

A silence followed and all stood still. Finally one of the originators of the quarrel stepped sheepishly forward and extended his hand to the judge, mumbling something about being a little excited over a political argument.

"Yes," said the judge in answer, "and if I had not arrived just as I did, I suppose I would have had you up before me for trial the next time I came up this way."

"No, God forbid!" exclaimed the man, impulsively, "that is judge, I hope I may never have to be tried in your court."