Adventure Magazine Cover — page 21: what you’re looking at

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

Born to be Hanged, But— 7 I had gone up to him. There was noth- ing of haste or hurry in my manner. I said distinctly that perhaps he did not know how it felt to be struck in the face; then deliber- ately hit him a back-handed blow squarely across the mouth. Blood dripped from his lips. 5 said nothing more. Without turning my face from him, I pushed a chair out from behind me and took one backward step so that my shoulders were against the wall. I did not care to be shot or slugged from the rear. I heard my name tossed back and forth. I was pretty well known. There was a scrambling and stamping as some people made for places where they thought bullets would be least likely to hit; and others, full of gaping curiosity, crowded close behind Thrope’s back. But nothing happened. I mean nothing of importance. I was cursed and threat- ened. Friends of Thrope’s, who but a few seconds before had laughed, scowled and cursed. Bullies usually try to save their faces by scowls when they are not ready to venture further. Thrope half swung his hand toward his hip. So far as he could see I was unarmed. But he did not draw, or try to draw. Per- haps he had heard—and believed—the rumor that the reason I had never been tried for any one of a few little gun-plays, was because I never made a move until it became evident that I had to shoot in self- defense. There was perhaps a little truth in that report, though much exaggeration. In those days I used a single action .44—two of them—and I wore a double-breasted coat. I don’t know whether automatics had been invented or not; anyway they were not worth considering. The Colt is meant for quick work. They were worn, diagonally across my stomach and carried cocked. That helped to culti- vate in me aslow, deliberate manner and a certain unbending attitude—much as would be cultivated in a man who carried dyna- mite in his pocket. All I needed to do to shoot quick was to thrust my hand inside the coat on a level with the stomach— an entirely unsuspicious movement—and, half-turning my body to point the gun, press the trigger. Of course I shot through the coat. The gun was very awkward to carry there, but the awkwardness had compensations in dangerous moments. Thrope probably sus- pected that I would not_be unagitated if I did not feel secure. It is fair, perhaps, to say that he may have believed there were as many friends of . mine as of his in the room; that the insult had been planned, and that he was in a trap prepared beforehand. I offer that as an explanation, for, though Thrope was in- trinsically a coward, he was proud and high- tempered, and it hardly seems likely that I —though even then men of stronger nerves than his hesitated to take up my challenge— could have, by mere poise, so humiliatingly have bluffed him. He cursed in the way of a man who does not mean to fight, promised me sudden death at some future time, intimating that it would not be far distant, either; then withdrew with his friends, who glowered over their shoulders. | The incident attracted much more at- tention than the mere facts warranted; all, of course, because James Thrope was a figure of importance. So it was not surprizing that Mrs. Cur- wen knew of it. The surprizing thing was the interest that this quiet and lovely woman, grayed and wrinkled, showed in an incident of the tenderloin. , fa I SUGGESTED that it was strange say she should have paid so much at- tention to a mere affair of the un- derworld. “T know of Jim Thrope,” she said. _ But I must pause to tell as nearly as I can how she said it. Bitterly came the words, “I know—” then a_ perceptible pause. The “of”? seemed forced into the sentence, and “Jim Thorpe” was spoken almost in a whisper as if, only by overcom- ing a strong repugnance, could she speak his name. What that manner of saying “I know of Jim Thrope” conveyed to me is obvious. “YT know of Jim Thrope. I have often wondered why no man dared to treat him as he deserves!”’ I assured her that there were many who dared; that Thrope was by no means re- earded as the terror she seemed to think. She seemed to doubt me. When I started to go, her hand again touched my arm as if to check me. / Gomichbooks. co