Adventure Magazine, Mid-September 1917 — page 141: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A Case at Law One look at Jimmy Baggs told the sheriff the boy was hysterical. “Of the law of Montana,” mouthed the boy, “‘but not of the retribution bein’ car- ried out in there. Art fed him ‘fixed’ drinks—same as he fed me—and _ he’s brought his punishment on himself. Let him suffer!’’ The sheriff paused, thinking dynamically. The spectator who had been in the saloon when the shooting started, who had been hit and stumbled from the building, had drawn a gun in his flight. Dragging a dam- aged limb as he pulled himself out of dan- ger, he left the weapon behind him on the sidewalk cinders. The boy saw it. In an instant it was in his twitching fingers. As the sheriff debated, the boy aimed the gun. Only the sheriff’s guardian angel held Jimmy’s finger from tightening on the trigger. ‘“You’re not goin’ in!” the boy declared in a white whisper. ‘Anybody else in there but Sanders and Arte” “No.7? The sheriff turned abruptly and walked back across the tracks. It was not because he feared the gun the youngster aimed in his hand. THE crowd saw a strange thing. Sheriff King Cole, bravest man left from a West which has gone, delib- erately turned and struck a Sago City police officer who had summoned courage to charge where he saw the sheriff leading. Maybe it was a remark the officer made as he saw the sheriff returning. _ But before explanations were in order, a white-clothed, bloody figure stumbled from the fatal door. Before he could gain the safety of the cor- ner, another flash belched in the dimness. A leg doubled under the punished bar- keeper. He lurched and fell against the boy. The sheriff started back. ‘“‘Save me!’’ pleaded the man, his fea- tures purple with pain and terror. “T will not!” retorted the sheriff. ‘‘He was pullin’ himself from the gutter and you deliberately kicked him back in for his money!”’ ‘I’m goin’ to die!” in agony. “You won’t die,” snarled the sheriff. ‘““You’re too dirty to die! Poor Sanders!” moaned the liquor man - 139 Sanders had appeared at the door. The panic-stricken crowd left coverts and fled in terror at sight of him. He was reloading the big weapon with pink cylinders of destruction. He turned it, brought it to his hip, tightened on the trigger. The scarlet semaphore fell with a crash. ‘I’m besh shot in Montana!’ he sang. “Dirty shkunk—where ish he? Sherved poshted—Jimmy drinks!” Came a blubber of abject terror from the man at the sheriff’s feet. “Oh, there you ish!” Sanders declared. ‘Wash me kill you!” Then, paradoxical to relate, it was none other than Jimmy Baggs who shrieked: “‘Gad—you mustn’t! It’s murder!” And Jimmy Baggs threw himself upon the wounded and helpless barkeeper’s assailant. r= AS A wonderful twilight descended Sera on the Montana foothills that eve- ning, Jimmy Baggs was sobbing by the bed of his living wife. In many pauses he told her the story. He ended the tale by drawing forth Sanders’ gun. “He gave it tome. He said he liked the spirit I showed in keepin’ him from perhaps killin’ the barkeep. He was our worst enemy, Art was! But, oh Mayme, I simply couldn’t see him shoot at a man that was down!” They were alone in the room. The boy was on his knees. “He gave it to me and told me to use it as he had done—to cure myself. When the fever for drink comes on I’m goin’ over the foot-hills, far away, and do revolver practise till the hunger’ s worn off.” “Would poor Mr. Sanders really have shot the barkeeper?” asked the frail and broken woman, toying with the boy’s hair. ‘“Mayme,” he whispered, “swear by all that’s holy you’ll never tell. He shot the legs off Art in punishment. He wouldn’t have gone further, anyhow. He dumped all those doped drinks in the sawdust. The spree was to blind Sago City from pun- ishing him for takin’ the law into his own hands. There wasn’t any other law to ‘get’ Art for draggin’ weak fellers down. The minute I stopped him from what I thought was goin’ to be Art’s murder, I saw it was all a brilliant piece of actin’—for you and me and the little stranger that’s comin’!”’ COmicloo C©