Report to Davidson Co. Sheriff’s Dept.
Submitted by George Furman of Furman’s Fantastic-Fantastic Photographic.
There is a proper way for gentlemen to enter a Nashville Saloon at an advanced hour. I did not behave in that fashion. Weary of my labors in the photo studio - life is long and full of blisters - I felt a longing for the company of a fancy woman. I traveled the Buffalo Valley Road to Nashville. Arriving in the city past midnight, I carelessly entered a shanty Irish saloon on 2nd Avenue. It was the wrong time.
Sitting at a table to the right of a wooden Indian was the sorry fellow who hornswoggled me out of an embarrassing sum of coin. His companion, a woman whom gentlemen need no longer be at pains to respect, spied me promptly. She rose and smashed a good bottle of George Dickel whiskey to a jagged edge. The man (whose name the good country lawyer & Judge William F Roberson Esq. - advises me to refrain from mentioning) stood to level insults and a pistol.
The man was influenced by Mr. Dickel’s oil of gladness and I know not what he said, but I knew what he meant. I drew my peacekeepers, checked my corners before advancing on the man. I noted two shaggy fellows ready to bushwhack me. I dispatched them directly. The hornswoggling son of a bitch took my distraction as an opportunity, fired a shot and rearranged my hair – I believe angels smile upon me.
I responded with two rounds to his chest and one to the brow – he died before raising the dust on the floor. The strumpet disappeared in the smoke of the gunfire but made her presence known. A blind stab in the dark with the jagged bottle and now I bear the scar. She disappeared and was not dealt with.