The Black Mask — page 70: what you’re looking at

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

i} Te lia ~~ o > kicked one of his captors in the face other two in a fair fight, fists against gun. And, when he had completed the job, he humbly apologized to Doc. Wright for not allowing them to hang him so that the bonesetter could claim his honest winnings. ee | To cave men like Jim Dickinson, love comes but once—and in ways that are peculiar and dark. That he loved Creole May in his own fashion there is not a doubt. And, like his aboriginal ancestors, he demon- strated his affection by beating. the lady of his choice whenever oppor- tunity offered. And she, recognizing, in the subtle way that women have, that his display of brutality was only a cover for the flame of love that smoldered in his heart, took her beat- ings, whimpering, but uncomplain- ingly, and, seeking an outlet for her feelings, lavished her affections on Michael. Michael was an ugly brute of a cat, black of fur and short of temper—in short, a feline double of Dickinson, Dickinson hated him with a deep, jealous hatred—hated him because Creole May loved him. With the peculiarity of a woman, she treated her lord with humbleness and humil- ity, fighting his battles and cooking his meals in a true wifely way—until he laid hands on the cat. That, she would not allow. And Dickinson, loving the swarthy strumpet who shared his bed and board, feared to vent his feelings on the animal, lest he drive the female creature from his side. Cheeta, the squaw, who was re- puted to be a witch, had warned him against black cats—warned him as she cursed him for the killing of her % as he hung there, and vanquished the Jf Jim Dickinson’s Head husband. Dickinson sought to close her mouth by knocking her down. But she refused to be silenced. “Tt’ll get ye, curse ye! It'll get ye!” she howled, shaking her skinny fist at the one-eyed man. “A black cat’ll be the death of ye! A black cat’ll send ye to hell, and’ll spit at ye . while ye’r roastin’! Damn ye! Ye spawn of the devil!’ In self-defense, he was compelled to choke her into unconsciousness. But her screams still echoed in his ears. Nor could he drown them in drink. For the maggots in his head were the kind that alcohol stimulates, rather than deadens. We _ had _ our opriest, Father O’Laughlin, a warm-hearted little chap who sought, with every means at his command, to regenerate the place and bring its inhabitants into the fold. He met with scant success to say the most. But he persisted and, because he was a man among men, measured by men’s standards, he gained our respect and love, even though we refused to follow the cross. In some mysterious manner, Father O’Laughlin learned that Cre- ole May had once been baptized in his faith. Immediately, he set about seeking a way to win her back to the church, But she had slipped too far down the scale of righteousness and virtue. She gave no heed to the mes- sages the good padre sent her, time after time, begging her presence at the little church in the valley, with its cross of spotless white. Of two evils, she had been taught to fear Jim Dickinson worse than the threat of hell. And Dickinson, his soul al- ready forfeited to the devil and his head honestly lost in a poker game, waiting only his death to be claimed, forbade her responding to the priest’s appeal. But, to the latter, she was + . Ps ooks.com ——— ee ee _-