The Union times. [volume] (Union, S.C.) 1894-1918, 1912-09-20

work well. The elder Boyce died in the
chair in which he was seated. Snead
did not count zone" nor did he cut a
notch in his guns handle. He slipped
loaded cartridges in the cells where
the exploded ones had been. There
was still work for those pistos.
His arrest followed. His trial came
on. But there is still an old Texas
as well as New Lone Star state. The
twelve men who were summoned to
try Snead were unable to determine
which were the proper laws, those
made in Austin or those born of the
range.
A mistrial resulted. Snead was re-
leased under heavy bonds.
Young BOyce's Love for Home Fatal
Canada still gave young Boyce a
haven. He had not dared come to
Texas for the funeral of his father. He
had not appeared at the trial of the
slayer of his parent. He knew the
price of the ranges law.
But months sped by. Snead had re-
tired to his ranch, where he was ap-
parently devoting his life to- the wo-
man who had wrecked it. The boys
heart yearned for his native Texas.
Perhaps it yearned for sight of the
woman for whom he had sacrificed
honor. Time gave him confidence.
Months of silence on the part of
Snead gave him courage.
Quietly he prepared to return home.
No word of his intended trip was COM
municated to Amarillo, but last week
he appeared on it's streets.
And the word was flashed to the
ranchman.
That night an automatic shotgun
was added to the traditional arma-
ment of the Texan. Pistols frequently
miss. A surer death is carried in a
shotgun loaded with buckshot. Fail
ure to carry out his work was no part
of Snead's plan.
Few recognized the ranchman when
he appeared the next day on the
streets of Amarillo. For months he
had been in seclusion Those months
had been months of suffering, of
brooding, of thirst for vengeance.
They had told in the lines of his face.
He was no longer the happy, pros
porous, well kept ranchman of the
olden days. A false beard covered his
cheeks and chin. A new fire burned
in his deep set eyes.
He walked about the streets with
his shotgun under his arm as hunts
man carries it. He was hunting, and
the hunt was a still one.
Days passed and there was no sight
of his prey. At last, as once more the
sun was setting and the r3ys were
red, Boyce appeared. He WIS riding
in street car. Perhaps saw the
grim hunter on the sidewalk as he
sped past. He d not xec1 1gnize hin
f1tHe-uid:
Boyce alighted 6ne block farther on.
The hunter still stalked hih The last
chapter of the tragedy was-td be writ
ten, The safety notch on. the gun
was pushed forward and Snead drew
nearer.
Shot Down in Shadow of Church,
The eloper stood before the door
way of church. It's sanctuary af-
forded him no refuge. He saw the
hunter approach, but he did not know
that he was the game.
He saw the shotgun raised and
pointed. He had no time to fee. The
gun roared and he fell, his right side
pierced with 80 buckshot. 1t is doubt
full if even in the final moment he
recognized his slayer.
A weeping mother, two heart-brok-
en- brothers were soon on the scene
They, too, were paying the price.
They did not see the slayer. His work
was done. With steady tread he
walked to the Office of the sheriff. He
handed over his shotgun. The six
shooters were unbuckled. Snead stood
ready to answer to man-made law.
The law of the range had been paid
its penalty of blood.-The Atlanta
Georgian and News.