The Decay of the Terror

New Zealand Mail, Issue 935, 31 January 1890, Page 10

The Decay of the Terror

The Terror shows up once in a while in some of the small towns in New Mexico, and is encountered in the cattle country at rare intervals ; but his occupation is gone. The march of civilisation has been too much for him. The once numerous and thirfty and numerous class has been thinned down until only a laughing-stock is left. I was in Cheyenne when Speckled Tom, Big Pete, or Wild Charley used to come dancing into a bar-room with a 1 gun ’ in either hand and sing out — 4 No, then, hands up !’ Every hand went up. ‘ Mebbe there’s some catamount yere thinks he kin take the twist out of my coattails !’ If there was he didn’t come to the front. 1 Hands down !’ Every hand dropped, ‘l’m a taking up a 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 a dollar or two. I saw four Terrors killed in that town, each one dying with his boots on, and I was giving one of them a drink of water when he shivered, took a long breath and died as he said—- ‘ I was a-tryin’ to get up to ten. and hev stopped short at seven. I could tally eight on you, but I’ve lost my popper !’ I followed the terror to Tjaramie, and many an evening as I sat in the office of the hotel he entered, with a cat-like tread, and opened a sudden fusilade on lamps, key-board, ceiling and doors,' observing at the finish — * ’Scuse me, gentlemen, but it’s just my way. If any of you don’t happen to like my way, just mention it !’ We always hastened to assure him that his ways were Al, full-jewelled, and extremely pleasant, and that we would feel honoured if he drank at our expense. One night a boy from Nebraska, who was strange to our ways, and who had his ear barked by a bullet, hauled out and plugged the Terror plumb centre. He expressed his sorrow when too late. I had my coat under the Terror’s head when the death rattle came to his throat, and he whispered. ‘lt’s mighty queer, isn’t it? I alius hated you fur them red whiskers, and I had dropped in to-night to fill you full of lead !’_ I followed the Terror up Gunison Valley. He was getting attenuated and losing his sand. When he had a street row he sheltered himself behind a post, and when he ‘ let go ’in a saloon there was a 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 ventured to offer him advice, and by-and-bye the day. came when I turned a corner to find him dying at my feet. I was loosening his neckband as he opened his eyes and said : ‘ Downed by a durne I bullwhaeker, who didn’t know which end of his pistol went off !’ I met the Terror for the last time at Custer City. I was sitting in a saloon when the door was kicked open with a great crash, and he appeared with a revolver in each hand. He had long hair, a big hat, and a buckskin suit. He hungered for gore —not the sort adulterated with cottonseed oil and warranted No. 1, but the i’ed blood fresh from the human system and served np in puddles on the mopped floor. He whooped. He yelled. He cracked his heels. He snapped his right hand gun, but it was a cheap cartridge. He snapped the other, but there was only a dull click. Then a small man with a bald head and bow legs and consumptive look came out from behind a curtain and knocked him down, and flung his guns into the street, and whistled for a policeman. Next morning I was in court when the Terror pleaded guilty and added : ‘ Your honour I made a fool of myself. If you’ll let me off 111 go back to pushing a wheelbarrow at 10 shillings a day.’ Poor Terror ? I lament his downfall. —New York Sun.