Some think it fair to give a man warnin' you intend to kill him on sight, an' then get right down to business as soon as you meet. But that ain't no equal chance for both. The man that sees his enemy first has the advantage, for the other is sure to be more or less rattled.

"Others consider it a square deal to stan' back to back with drawn pistols, to walk five paces apart an' then swing and shoot. But even this way is open to objections. While both may be equally brave an' determined, one may be blamed nervous, like, an' excitable, while the other is cool and deliberate; one may be a better shot than the other, or one may have bad eyes.

"I tell you, gentlemen, none o' these deals are fair; they are murderous. If you want to kill a man in a neat an' gentlemanly way that will give both a perfectly equal show for life, let both be put in a narrow hole in the ground that they can't git out of, their left arms securely tied together, their right hands holdin' bowie knives, an' let them cut, an' cut an' cut till one is down."

His heavy brow contracted into a fierce frown; his black eyes narrowed and glittered balefully; his surging blood reddened the bronzed cheeks.

"Let them cut, I say, cut to a finish. That's fightin', an' fightin' dead fair. Ah!" and the hard lines of the scarred face softened into a look of infinite longing and regret, "if only I could find another man with nerve enough to fight me that way!"

The speaker was Mr. Clay Allison, formerly of Cimarron, later domiciled at Pope's Crossing. His listeners were cowboys. The scene was a round-up camp on the banks of the Pecos River near the mouth of Rocky Arroyo. Mr. Allison was not dilating upon a theory. On the contrary, he was eminently a man of practice, especially in the matters of which he was speaking. Indeed he was probably the most expert taker of human life that ever heightened the prevailing dull colors of a frontier community. Early in his career the impression became general that his favorite tint was crimson.

And yet Mr. Allison was in no sense an assassin. I never knew him to kill a man whom the community could not very well spare. While engaged as a ranchman in raising cattle, he found more agreeable occupation for the greater part of his time in thinning out the social weeds that are apt to grow quite too luxuriantly for the general good in new Western settlements. His work was not done as an officer of the law either. It was rather a self-imposed task, in which he performed, at least to his own satisfaction, the double functions of judge and executioner. And in the unwritten code governing his decisions all offences had a common penalty—death.

Mr. Allison was born with a passion for fighting, and he indulged the passion until it became a mania. The louder the bullets whistled, the redder the gleaming blades grew, the more he loved it.

Yet no knight of old that rode with King Arthur was ever a more chivalrous enemy. He hated a foul blow as much as many of his contemporaries loved "to get the drop," which meant taking your opponent unawares and at hopeless disadvantage. In fact in most cases he actually carried a chivalry so far as to warn the doomed man, a week or two in advance, of the precise day and hour when he might expect to die. And as Mr. Allison was known to be most scrupulous in standing to his word, and as the victim knew there was no chance of a reprieve, this gave him plenty of time to settle up his affairs and to prepare to cross the last divide. Thus the estates of gentlemen who happened to incur Mr. Allison's disapproval were usually left in excellent condition and gave little trouble to the probate courts.

Of course the gentlemen receiving these warnings were under no obligations to await Mr. Allison's pleasure. Some suddenly discovered that they had imperative business in other and remote parts of the country. Others were so anxious to save him unnecessary trouble that they frequented trails he was known to travel, and lay sometimes for hours and days awaiting him, making themselves as comfortable as possible in the meantime behind some convenient boulder or tall nopal, or in the shady recesses of a mesquite thicket. But they might as well have saved all this bother, for the result was the same. Mr. Allison could always spare the time to journey even from New Mexico to Montana where it was necessary to the fulfilment of a promise to do so.

To those who were impatient and sought him out in advance, he was ever obliging and proved ready to meet them where and when and how they pleased. It was all the same to him. To avoid annoying legal complications, he was known to have more than once deliberately given his opponent the first shot.

In the early eighties a band of horse rustlers were playing great havoc among the saddle stock in north-eastern New Mexico. It was chiefly through Mr. Allison's industry and accurate marksmanship that their numbers were reduced below a convenient working majority. The leader vowed vengeance on Allison. One day they met unexpectedly in the stage ranch at the crossing of the Cimarron.

Mr. Allison invited the rustler to take a drink. The invitation was accepted. It was remarked by the bystanders that while they were drinking neither seemed to take any especial interest in the brazen pictures that constituted a feature of the Cimarron bar and were the pride of its proprietor. The next manoeuvre in the game was a proposition by Mr. Allison that they retire to the dining-room and have some oysters. Unable to plead any other engagement to dine, the rustler accepted. As they sat down at table, both agreed that their pistols felt heavy about their waists, and each drew his weapon from the scabbard and laid it on his knees.

While the Cimarron ranch was noted for the best cooking on the trail, other gentlemen at dinner seemed oddly indifferent to its delicacies, nervously gulped down a few mouthfuls and then slipped quietly out of the room, leaving loaded plates.

Presently Mr. Allison dropped a fork on the floor—perhaps by accident—and bent as if to pick it up. An opening in his enemy's guard the rustler could not resist: he grabbed the pistol lying in his lap and raised it quickly, but in doing so he struck the muzzle beneath the edge of the table, causing an instant's delay. It was, however, enough; Allison had pitched sideways to the floor, and, firing beneath the table, converted a bad rustler into a good one.

Dodge City used to be one of the hottest places on the Texas trail. It was full of thugs and desperadoes of the worst sort, come to prey upon the hundreds of cowboys who were paid off there. This money had to be kept in Dodge at any cost. Usually the boys were easy game. What money the saloons failed to get was generally gambled off against brace games of faro or monte. And those who would neither drink nor play were waylaid, knocked down, and robbed.

On one occasion when the Hunter and Evans "Jinglebob" outfits were in town, they objected to some of these enforced levies as unreasonably heavy. A pitched battle on the streets resulted. Many of the boys were young and inexperienced, and they were getting quite the worst of it, when Clay Allison happened along and took a hand.

The fight did not last much longer. When it was over, it was discovered that several of Dodge's most active citizens had been removed from their field of usefulness. For the next day or two, "Boot Hill" (the local graveyard) was a scene of unusual activity.

From all this it fell out that a few days later when Clay Allison rode alone out of Dodge returning home, he was ambushed a few miles from town by three men and shot from his horse. Crippled too badly to resist, he lay as if dead. Thinking their work well done, the three men came out of hiding, kicked and cursed him, shot two or three more holes in him, and rode back to town. But Allison, who had not even lost consciousness, had recognized them. A few hours later the driver of a passing wagon found him and hauled him into town. After lingering many weeks between life and death, Allison recovered. As soon as they heard that he was convalescing, the three who had attacked him wound up their affairs and fled the town.

When able to travel Allison sold his ranch. Questioned by his friends as to his plans, he finally admitted that he felt it a duty to hunt down the men who had ambushed him; remarked that he feared they might bushwhack some one else if they were not removed.

Number One of the three men he located in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Cheyenne was then a law-abiding community, and Allison could not afford to take any chances of court complications that would interfere with the completion of his work. He therefore spent several days in covertly watching the habits of his adversary. From the knowledge thus gained he was able one morning suddenly to turn a street corner and confront Number One. Without the least suspicion that Allison was in the country, the man, knowing that his life hung by a thread, jerked his pistol and fired on the instant. As Allison had shrewdly calculated, his enemy was so nervous that his shot flew wild. Number One did not get a second shot. At the inquest several witnesses of the affray swore that Allison did not even draw until after the other had fired.

Several weeks later Number Two was found in Tombstone, Arizona, a town of the good old frontier sort that had little use for coroners and juries, so the fighting was half fair. Half an hour after landing from the stagecoach, Allison encountered his man in a gambling-house. Number Two remained in Tombstone—permanently—while Mr. Allison resumed his travels by the evening coach.

The hunt for Number Three lasted several months. Allison followed him relentlessly from place to place through half a dozen States and Territories, until he was located on a ranch near Spearfish, Dakota.

They met at last, one afternoon, within the shadow of the Devil's Tower. In the duel that ensued, Allison's horse was killed under him. This occasioned him no particular inconvenience, however, for he found that Number Three's horse, after having a few hours' rest, was able to carry him into Deadwood, where he caught the Sidney stage.

With this task finished, Mr. Allison was able to return to commercial pursuits. He settled at Pope's Crossing on the Pecos River, in New Mexico, bought cattle, and stocked the adjacent range. Pecos City, the nearest town, lay fifty miles to the south.

Started as a "front camp" during the construction of the Texas Pacific Railway in 1880, for five or six years Pecos contrived to rock along without any of the elaborate municipal machinery deemed essential to the government and safety of urban communities in the effete East. It had neither council, mayor, nor peace officer. An early experiment in government was discouraging.

In 1883 the Texas Pacific station-agent was elected mayor. His name was Ewing, a little man with fierce whiskers and mild blue eyes. Two nights after the election a gang of boys from the "Hash Knife" outfit were in town; fearing circumscription of some of their privileges, the election did not have their approval. Gleaming out of the darkness fifty yards away from the Lone Wolf Saloon, the light of Mayor Ewing's office window offered a most tempting target. What followed was very natural—in Pecos.

The Mayor was sitting at his table receiving train orders, when suddenly a bullet smashed the telegraph key beside his hand and other balls whistled through the room bearing him a message he had no trouble in reading. Rushing out into the darkness, he spent the night in the brush, and toward morning boarded an east-bound freight train. Mayor Ewing had abdicated. The railway company soon obtained another station-agent, but it was some years before the town got another mayor.

On Pecos carnival nights like this, when some of the cowboys were in town, prudent people used to sleep on the floor of Van Slyke's store with bags of grain piled round their blankets two tiers deep, for no Pecos house walls were more than inch boards.

At this early period of its history the few wandering advance agents of the Gospel who occasionally visited Pecos were not well received. They were not abused; they were simply ignored. When not otherwise occupied, the average Pecosite had too much whittling on hand to find time to "'tend meetin'"; of this every pine drygoods box in the town bore mute evidence, its fair sides covered with innumerable rude carvings cut by aimless hands.

This prevailing indifference to religion shocked Mr. Allison. As opportunity offered he tried to remedy it, and as far as his evangelical work went it was successful. One Tuesday morning about ten o'clock he walked into the Lone Wolf Saloon, laid two pistols on the end of the bar next the front door, and remarked to Red Dick, the bartender, that he intended to turn the saloon into a church for a couple of hours and did not want any drinks sold or cards thrown during the services.

Taking his stand just within the doorway, pistol in hand, Mr. Allison began to assemble his congregation. The first comer was Billy Jansen, the leading merchant of the town. As he was passing the door Clay remarked:

"Good-mornin', Mr. Jansen, won't you please step inside? Religious services will be held here shortly an' I reckon you'll be useful in the choir."

The only reply to Billy's protest of urgent business was a gesture that made Billy think going to church would be the greatest pleasure he could have that morning.

Mr. Allison never played favorites at any game, and so all passers were stopped: merchants, railway men, gamblers, thugs, cowboys, freighters—all were stopped and made to enter the saloon. The least furtive movement to draw a gun or to approach the back door received prompt attention from the impromptu evangelist that quickly restored order in the congregation. When fifty or sixty men had been brought into this improvised fold, Mr. Allison closed the door and faced about.

"Fellers," he said, "this meetin' bein' held on the Pecos, I reckon we'll open her by singin' 'Shall We Gather at the River?' Of course we're already gathered, but the song sort o' fits. No gammon now, fellers; everybody sings that knows her."

The result was discouraging. Few in the audience knew any hymn, much less this one. Only three or four managed to hoarsely drawl through two verses.

The hymn finished—as far as anybody could sing it—Mr. Allison said:

"Now, fellers, we'll pray. Everybody down!"

Only a few knelt. Among the congregation were some who regarded the affair as sacrilegious, and others of the independent frontier type were unaccustomed to dictation. However, a slight narrowing of the cold black eyes and a significant sweep of the six-shooter brought every man of them to his knees, with heads bowed over faro lay-outs and on monte tables.

"O Lord!" began Allison, "this yere's a mighty bad neck o' woods, an' I reckon You know it. Fellers don' think enough o' their souls to build a church, an' when a pa'son comes here they don' treat him half white. O Lord! make these fellers see that when they gits caught in the final round-up an' drove over the last divide, they don' stan' no sort o' show to git to stay on the heavenly ranch 'nless they believes an' builds a house to pray an' preach in. Right here I subscribes a hundred dollars to build a church, an' if airy one o' these yere fellers don' tote up accordin' to his means, O Lord, make it Your pers'n'l business to see that he wears the Devil's brand and ear mark an' never gits another drop o' good spring water.

"Of course, I allow You knows I don' sport no wings myself, but I want to do what's right ef You'll sort o' give a shove the proper way. An' one thing I want You to understan'; Clay Allison's got a fast horse an' is tol'able handy with his rope, and he's goin' to run these fellers into Your corral even if he has to rope an' drag 'em there. Amen. Everybody git up!"

While he prayed in the most reverent tone he could command, and while his attitude was one of simple supplication, Mr. Allison never removed his keen eyes from the congregation.

"Reckon we'll sing again, boys, an' I want a little more of it. Le's see what you-all knows."

At length six or eight rather sheepishly owned knowing "Old Hundred," and it was sung.

Then the sermon was in order.

"Fellers," he began, "my ole mammy used to tell me that the only show to shake the devil off your trail was to believe everythin' the Bible says. What yer mammy tells you 's bound to be right, dead right, so I think I'll take the sentiment o' this yere round-up on believin'. O' course, as a square man I'm boun' to admit the Bible tells some pow'ful queer tales, onlike anythin' we-'uns strikes now days. Take that tale about a fish swallerin' a feller named Jonah; why, a fish 't could swaller a man 'od have to be as big in the barrel as the Pecos River is wide an' have an openin' in his face bigger'n Phantom Lake Cave. Nobody on the Pecos ever see such a fish. But I wish you fellers to distinctly understan' it's a fact. I believes it. Does you? Every feller that believes a fish swallered Jonah, hold up his right hand!"

It is sad to have to admit that only two or three hands were raised.

"Well, I'll be durned," the evangelist continued, "you air tough cases. That's what's the matter with you; you are shy on faith. You fellers has got to be saved, an' to be saved you got to believe, an' believe hard, an' I'm agoin' to make you. Now hear me, an' mind you don' forget it's Clay Allison talkin' to you: I tells you that when that thar fish had done swallerin' Jonah, he swum aroun' fer a hull hour lookin' to see if thar was a show to pick up any o' Jonah's family or friends. Now what I tells you I reckon you're all bound to believe. Every feller that believes that Jonah was jes' only a sort of a snack fer the fish, hold up his right hand; an' if any feller don' believe it, this yere ol' gun o' mine will finish the argiment."

Further exhortation was unnecessary; all hands went up.

And so the sermon ran on for an hour, a crude homily full of rude metaphor, with little of sentiment or pleading, severely didactic, mandatory as if spoken in a dungeon of the Inquisition. When Red Dick passed the hat among the congregation for a subscription to build a church, the contribution was general and generous. Many who early in the meeting were full of rage over the restraint, and vowing to themselves to kill Allison the first good chance they got, finished by thinking he meant all right and had taken about the only practicable means "to git the boys to 'tend meetin'."

In the town of Toyah, twenty miles west of Pecos, a gentleman named Jep Clayton set the local spring styles in six-shooters and bowie knives, and settled the hash of anybody who ventured to question them. A reckless bully, he ruled the town as if he owned it.

One day John McCullough, Allison's brother-in-law and ranch foreman, had business in Toyah. Clayton had heard of Allison but knew little about him. Drunk and quarrelsome, he hunted up McCullough, called him every abusive name he could think of before a crowd, and then suggested that if he did not like it he might send over his brother-in-law Allison, who was said to be a gun fighter. A mild and peaceable man himself, McCullough avoided a difficulty and returned to Pecos.

Two days later a lone horseman rode into Toyah, stopped at Youngbloods' store, tied his horse, and went in. Approaching the group of loafers curled up on boxes at the rear of the store, he inquired:

"Can any of you gentlemen tell me if a gentleman named Clayton, Jep
Clayton, is in town, an' where I can find him?"

They replied that he had been in the store an hour before and was probably near by.

As the lone horseman walked out of the door, one the loungers remarked:

"I believe that's Clay Allison, an' ef it is it's all up with Jep."

He slipped out and gave Jep warning, told him Allison was in town, that he had known him years before, and that Jep had better quit town or say his prayers. Concluding, he said, "You done barked up the wrong tree this time, sure."

Allison went on from one saloon to another, at each making the same polite inquiry for Mr. Clayton's whereabouts. At last, out on the street Allison met a party of eight men, a crowd Clayton had gathered, and repeated his inquiry. A man stepped out of the group and said: "My name's Clayton, an' I reckon yours is Allison. Look here, Mr. Allison, this is all a mistake. I——"

"Why, what's a mistake? Didn't you meet Mr. McCullough the other day?"

"Yes."

"Didn't you abuse him shamefully?"

"Well, yes, but——"

"Didn't you send me an invite to come over here?"

"Well, yes, I did, but it was a mistake, Mr. Allison; I was drunk. It was whiskey talkin'; nothin' more. I'm terrible sorry. It was jes' whiskey talk."

"Whiskey talk, was it? Well, Mr. Clayton, le's step in the saloon here and get some whiskey an' see if it won't set you goin' again. I believe I'd enjoy hearin' jes' a few words o' your whiskey talk."

They entered a saloon. For an hour Clayton was plied with whiskey, taunted and jeered until those who had admired him slunk away in disgust, and those who had feared him laughed in enjoyment of his humiliation. But no amount of whiskey could rouse him that day.

Allison's scarred, impassive face, low, quiet tones, and glittering black eyes held him cowed. The terror of Toyah had found his master, and knew it.

At last, in utter disgust, Allison concluded:

"Mr. Clayton, your invitation brought me twenty miles to meet a gun fighter. I find you such a cur that if ever we meet again I'll lash you into strips with a bull whip."

A month later Mr. Clayton was killed by his own brother-in-law, Grant Tinnin, one of the quiet good men of the country, who never failed to score in any real emergency.

"I wonder how it will all end!" Allison used often to remark while lying idly staring into the camp-fire. "Of course I know I can't keep up this sort o' thing; some one's sure to get me. An' I'd jes' give anything in the world to know how I'm goin to die—by pistol or knife."

It turned out that Fate had decreed other means for his removal.

One day Allison and his brother-in-law John McCullough had a serious quarrel. Allison left the ranch and rode into town to think it over. In his later years killing had become such a mania with him that his best friend could never feel entirely safe against his deadly temper; the least difference might provoke a collision. McCullough was therefore not greatly surprised to get a letter from Allison a few days later, sent out by special messenger, telling him that Allison would reach the ranch late in the afternoon of the next day and would kill him on sight.

Early in the morning of the appointed day Allison left town in a covered hack. He had been drinking heavily and had whiskey with him. About half-way between town and the ranch he overtook George Larramore, a freighter, seated out in the sun on top of his heavy load.

"Hello, George!" called Allison; "mighty hot up there, ain't it?"

"Howd'y, Mr. Allison. I don' mind the heat; I'm used to it," answered
Larramore.

"George," called Allison, after driving on a short distance, "'pears to me the good things o' this world ain't equally divided. I don't see why you should sit up there roasting in the sun an' me down here in the shade o' the hack. We'll jes' even things a little right here. You crawl down off that load an' jump into the hack an' I'll get up there an' drive your team."

"Pow'ful good o' you, Mr. Allison, but——"

"Crawl down, I say, George, it's Clay tellin' you!"

And the change was made without further delay.

Five miles farther up the road John McCullough and two friends lay in ambush all that day and far into the night, with ready Winchesters, awaiting Allison. But he never came.

Shortly after taking his seat on top of the high load in the broiling sun, plodding slowly along in the dust and heat, Allison was nodding drowsily, when suddenly a protruding mesquite root gave the wagon a sharp jolt that plunged Clay headlong into the road, where, before he could rise, the great wheels crunched across his neck.