The Bossier banner. [volume] (Bellevue, Bossier Parish, La.) 1859-1952, 1889-07-04
THE WESTERN TERROR.
The Petulant Pop of Ais Gun Punctuates
Peace No More.


The Terror shows up once in awhile
in some of the small towns in New
Mexico, and is encountered in the cat
tie country at rare intervals, but his
occupation is gone. The march of
civilization has been too much for him.
The once numerous and thrifty class
have been thinned down until only a
laughing stock is left. was in Chey-
enne when Speckled Tom, Big Pete or
Wild Charley used to come dancing
into bar-room with ''gun" in either
hand and sing out:
''Now then, hands upr'
Every hand went up.
''Mebbe thar's some catamount yere
thinks he can take the twist out my
coat tails!'
If there was he didn't come to the
front
Hands DOWN.
Every hand droppet
'Tm taking up collection fur the
benefit of Bill Jackson's widder and
anybody who feels like contributing
will be afforded an opportunity"
We all felt like it. Indeed, every
man was anxious to part with dollar
or two. l saw four Terrors killed in
that town, each one dying with his
boots on, and was giving one of them
a drink of water when he shivered,
took long breath, and died as he said:
Il was a-trying to git up to ten, and
hev stopped short at seven. [ could
tally eight on you, but I've lost my
popperv'
l followed the Terror to Laramie,
and many of an evening as 1 sat in the
Office of the hotel he entered, with cat
like tread, and opened a sudden fusil-
lade on lamps, keyboard, ceiling and
doors, observing at the fnis: 80
"'Scuse me, gentlemen, but its just
my way. If any of you don't happen
to like my way, please mention it!''
We always made haste to assure him
that his way was AL, full jewelled and
extremely pleasant, and that we should
feel honored if he drank at our ex-
pense. One night boy from Nebraska,
who was strange to our ways, and who
had his ear barked by bullet, hauled
out and plugged the Terror plumb CEN
ter. He expressed his sorrow when
too late. l had my coat under the Ter
ror's head when the death rattle came
to his throat, and he whispered
Its mighty queer, isn't itP / allus
hated you fur them red whiskers, and
l had dropped in tonight to fill you
full of leadr'
followed the Terror up the Gunison
valley. He was getting attenuated and
losing his sand. When he had street
row he sheltered himself behind a post,
and when he ''let go'' in saloon there
was suspicious uncertainty in his
tones as he clicked his guns and said:
I'm just awaiting fur some kyote to
move an eyelash or stir his tongue"'
We not only moved, but we even
.ventured to offer him advice, and by
and-by the day came when I turned
corner to find him dying at my feet. l
was loosening his neck-band as he
opened his eyes and said:
'Downed by burned bullwhacker,
who didn't know which end of his pistol
went Oft"
met the Terror for the last time at
Custer City. was sitting in a saloon
when the door was kicked open with
great crash, and he appeared with
revolver in either hand. He had long
hair, big hat and buckskin suit.
He hungered for gore-not the sort
adulterated with cottonseed oil and
warranted No. 1, but the red blood
fresh from the human system and
served up in puddles on the newly
mopped floor. He whooped. Heyelled.
He cracked his heels together. He
snapped his right-hand gun, but it was
a cheap cartridge. He snapped the
other, but there was only dull click.
Then a small man with bald head
and bow legs and consumptive look
came out from behind curtain and
knocked him down, and flung his guns
into the street, and whistled for
policeman. Next morning / was in
court when the Terror pleaded guilty,
and added:
''Your Honor, made fool of N.Y.
self. If you'll let me off I'll go back to
pushing wheelbarrow at ten shillings
a day."
Poor Terror! / lament his downfall.
IN. Y. Sun.
The EInn.rraa Beetle