Adventure Magazine Cover — page 178: what you’re looking at

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

172 JOHN Bart’s,” commented one old-timer, “but I never seen him. Wish I had.” “There was on’y one man could do that trick like Kid Bart could,” said Mike, ‘‘an’ that was Kid Bart himself.” “But what’s all this got to do with hangin’ Dave Ellers up by th’ neck?” asked Jake Sarney impatiently. Being an old-timer twenty-six years old, Jake wanted action. “Yuh’re right for once,” agreed Frank Jessup. “Listen, boys,” said Tim, “don’t go goin’ off half-cocked now. You want to kind o’ think this out—”’ “We ain’t goin’ off half-cocked,” growled one. And he was right. These old-timers were going about this matter very coolly and very thoughtfully; they were not a hot-headed, reckless crowd acting on the spur of the moment. They had thought this thing out thoroughly, and their decision was final. They had considered letting the law have its way with Dave. But the law was slow— and uncertain. Law sharks did queer things. And Frank Jessup had pointed out that a smart lawyer could make Dave’s case look pretty good. Suppose he should ask for a change of venue, and get it? A jury that didn’t know the facts of the case, Frank reasoned, would look at it differently, maybe. Tom Campbell, be it remembered, had struck the first blow. He had knocked Dave down. Maybe Dave’s plea of self defense would go pretty good with a strange jury. No, sir; no leaving Dave to the law. He deserved hanging till he was dead— dead—dead. ‘These old-timers had handed out justice in the past—rough, quick justice, but real, devoid of frills and furbelows— and they felt that they were still competent. Certainly they knew how to hang a man from a cottonwood-tree. “Yuh’re goin’ to keep out o’ this now, ain’t yuh, Tim?” said Mike urgingly. Tim shook his head. He was for law and order; always had been and always would be, he told them. They all knew Tim; a mild, kindly little coot who never bothered anybody and was always ready to go out of his way to do a favor. They liked him; just the same, he couldn’t stand in the way of justice—of their idea of justice. “Boys,” said Tim, blinking at them from behind his glasses, ‘‘you’ll be sorry if you do this thing. It’s a awful thing to killa WEBB man, boys. can’t forget. “I don’t want to cause any trouble, boys. I don’t like trouble. But I’m goin’ to stand pat on this.” He placed his hand on the stack of papers beside him. “TI only let one of these get out; I gave it to Jake, knowin’ he’d go to you with it. Then I thought we could kind o’ talk it over an’ call this here lynchin’ off. But I guess you won’t listen to reason,” he said sadly. ‘But listen to me now!”’ His jaw squared alittle. ‘“‘If you go through with this lynchin’, I’m goin’ to put every one o’ them papers out and run off some more, an’ t’morrow I’ll get out a extra with all your names in it! I will! I don’t like to do anything like that, but you’re forcin’ me.”’ “Yuh’re mind’s made up, is it?” said Frank Jessup. “Yep; an’ nobody can change it, Frank.”’ Tim’s whole bearing was one of dogged de- termination. He was standing pat on a matter of principle, fighting in his own way for an ideal. Frank Jessup suddenly reached out, snatched the thin stack of papers and passed them to the man behind him. A moment later the papers were torn into scraps. “Tf yuh think anything of that press o’ yourn,” said Frank angrily, “give us yuhr word yuh won’t print any more about this thing.”’ But little Tim wouldn’t promise any such thing. He wagged his head firmly, pressing back against the desk. Three men strode angrily into the rear room. ‘Then there came the sound of his beloved old hand press being smashed to scrap iron, and of type being dumped from the case. Ink fumes floated out to them as a barrel of ink was capsized on the floor. Tim wilted. He slumped down upon the desk. His hands trembled. His arms swung at his sides like lengths of lifeless rope. He stood there, his head hanging, a picture of utter weariness and dejection. He had become suddenly an old, old man, bowed down beneath the weight of the awful thing that had happened. He had not forgotten the gun beneath his arm, but that was for the protection of law and order; not for the protection of Tim Wiley and his newspaper. “Boys,” he faltered hoarsely, “I didn’t think you’d do this to me. I came here years ago, when this town wasn’t no more’n It gets on your mind an’ you COnmiclboooks.c©