The Black Mask — page 68: what you’re looking at

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

ae . 66 Jim Dickinson’s Head the scar from the wound that had destroyed the other, that it looked to be almost in the center of his fore- head, giving him a horrible, ogre-like appearance. There was nothing human about him. He was an ani- mal. : Black Peter’s den was crowded that night. Finding no open space at the bar, Dickinson made one for himself by shooting, in cold blood, a poor Swede whose place he coveted. Before the murmur of anger and astonishment had fairly started, he _stepped across his victim’s twitch- ing body to the blood bespattered bar and downed the liquor which the latter had just poured out. His bale- ful eye gleamed from under his mop of hair, challenging the world to dis- pute his right. The’ Swede was a stranger in the camp, and the fero- cious cruelty and simian-like appear- ance of the slayer was such as to make the average man think twice before taking up a dead man’s quar- rel, Where he had come from no one knew. Nor did his attitude towards the world at large tend to enconrage familiarity, By that one venomous deed he became the bully of the camp. From then until his death he held his sway over the scum of the earth that had gathered there by sheer devilishness and wanton cruel- ties. He was a thief, a crook, a gambler and a red handed killer—a beast—a thing of evil. The only sense of decency he had was in the payment of his gambling debts. He would murder a man in cold blood without a pang of remorse in order to filch from his pocket the money with which to pay a debt of honor. His philosophy of life was as warped and crooked as his twisted soul, And yet, we allowed him to live because we feared him. Take the affair with the gang from Devil’s Gulch. Originally, there had been six of them pitted against him, as a result of some mixup with one of the partners. By shooting straight, Dickinson whittled the number down to three before they caught him at the edge of camp with a bullet through his leg and a horse that dropped dead in its tracks. He had no friends. He expected no assistance. Those of us who were at leisure gathered around to enjoy the spectacle, and to see that the strangers handled the affair in a strictly: ethical manner. The only tree in that part of the state was a stunted cottonwood, the lower limbs of ‘which were but a few feet above his head as he stood erect. His gun was empty and he was apparently exhausted. Hence, they attempted to send him into the presence of his maker without going to the trouble of binding him, thinking, no doubt, that he would die game and save them any unnecessary trouble. They were not as well informed on the general cussedness of the man, how- ever, as they should have been—a fact which resulted disastrously for the visitors. For Dickinson, instead of giving up the ghost without a fight, made a mighty leap and seized the lower limb with both hands, tak- ing the strain off his neck. Doc. Wright, drunker and more | vitriolic than usual, was among the spectators. The dissipated old repro- bate chuckled gleefully and hammered the outlaw smartly over the knuckles with his cane. “Leggo that tree!” he yelled. “Why the hell can’t you die like a man? You yellow dog! You're trying to cheat me out of your head!” With the speed of a panther, Dick- inson hung by one hand, slipped the noose over his head with the other, T od oS >) Scomicbhooks:com Da rn ig ee ee a tr ee *