CHAPTER X
THE DEATH OF JIM CARTWRIGHT—CHASED OFF A WIRE BY A WOMAN
I didn't stay at San Antonio very long after this but started northwards. You see it was getting to be warm weather. The first place I struck was a night job in a smashing good town up near the south line of the pan handle. I quit working at midnight, and to get to my boarding house had to walk a mile through a portion of the town called "Hell's half-acre."
The most prominent place of any description in the city was a saloon and gambling house known as the "Blue Goose," owned by John Waring and Luke Ravel. Both men were as nervy as they make 'em and several nicks in the butts of their revolvers testified mutely as to their prowess. Their place was like all other dens, and consisted of the usual bar and lunch counter in one room, while in the adjoining one was the hall of gaming. Faro, roulette, hazard, monte, and the great national game, poker, held high carnival there nightly. Next to the "Goose" was a long narrow room used as a shooting gallery. The place was only a few doors around the corner from my office, and many a night on my way home I would stop at the lunch counter and have a sandwich and a cup of coffee. I remembered my promise to bluff old Bill Bradley, and was never tempted to go in the gambling hall. I generally used to rise about noon each day and go up town and loaf until four o'clock, when it was time to go to work. I picked up a speaking acquaintance with Luke Ravel, and sometimes we would go into the shooting gallery together and have a friendly bout with the Flobert rifles.
At this time there was one of those tough characters in the town named Jim Cartwright. In days gone by he had been a deputy United States Marshal, and one time took advantage of his official position to provoke a quarrel with an enemy and killed him in cold blood. Public indignation ran high and Jim had to skip to Mexico. He stayed away two years and getting in trouble over there, came back to his old stamping grounds in hopes the people had forgotten his former scrape. They hadn't exactly forgotten it, but Jim was a pretty tough character and no one seemed to care to tackle him.
One night Luke Ravel and Jim had some words over a game of cards, and bad blood was engendered between them. The next day my side partner Frank Noel, and I went into the shooting gallery to try our luck, and were standing there enjoying ourselves, when Luke came in and took a hand. He was dressed in the height of fashion, and while we three were standing there, Jim Cartwright, three sheets in the wind, appeared in the doorway pistol in hand. He looked at Luke and said, with an oath,
"Look here, Luke Ravel, your time has come. I'm going to kill you."
My hair arose, my heart seemed to stop beating, but there was no way out, so Noel and I edged our way over as far as possible, and held our breath. Luke never turned a hair, nor changed color. He was as cool as an iceberg, and squarely facing Cartwright said,
"You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man would you, Jim?"
"Ain't you got no gun?"
"No," replied Luke, "I'm unarmed. See," and with that he threw up the tails of his long coat.
Jim hesitated a minute, and then shoving his gun into his pocket he said,
"No, by heavens, I won't kill an unarmed man. I'll give you a chance for your life, but I warn you to fix yourself, because the next time I see you I'm going to let daylight through your carcass," and with another oath he turned to walk away. Hardly had he taken two steps, when there was a blinding flash followed by a loud report, and Jim Cartwright lay dead, shot through the heart, while Luke Ravel stood over him; a smoking .38 pocket pistol in his hand. Where he pulled his gun from no one ever knew; it was all over in a flash. It seems a cowardly thing to shoot a man in the back, but it was a case of 'dog eat dog.'
Luke was arrested next day, and Noel and I gave our testimony before the coroner's jury, and he was bound over for trial before the next term of the circuit court to sit six months hence. There is an old and very trite saying in Texas that, "a dead witness is better than a live one." This was gently whispered into our ears, and accordingly one night about a month after this, Noel and I "folded our tents, and like the Arabs, silently stole away."
Luke was acquitted on the plea of self defence.
Spring time having come, and with it the good hot weather, I continued to move northwards and finally brought up in a good office in Nebraska, where I was to copy the night report from Chicago. We had two wires running to Chicago, one a quad for the regular business, and the other a single string for "C. N. D." and report work. My stay in this office was, short, sharp, brilliant and decisive.
The first night I sat down to work at six-thirty, and in a few minutes was receiving the worst pounding I had ever experienced, from some operator in "CH" office who signed "JL." There was no kick coming on the sending, it was as plain as a large sized poster, but it was so all-fired fast, that it made me hustle for all I was worth to get it down. There is no sense in a fellow sending so fast, because nothing is made by it and it tires every one completely out. Ordinarily, a thirty word a minute clip is a good stiff speed for report, but this night, thirty-five or forty was nearer the mark. In every operator there is a certain amount of professional pride inherent that makes him refrain from breaking on report unless it is absolutely necessary. The sender always keeps a record of the breaks of each receiver on the line, and if they become too frequent the offender is gently fired. On the night in question I didn't break, but there were several times when foreign dispatches were coming that I faked names in great shape. It was an ugly night out, and about nine o'clock our quad flew the track, and in a minute "JL" said to me,
"Here's ten blacks (day messages) just handed me to send to you," and without waiting for me to get my manifold clip out of the way he started. I didn't get a chance to put the time or date down, and was swearing, fighting mad. After sending five of the ten messages, "JL" stopped a second and said,
"How do I come?"
"You come like the devil. For heaven's sake let up a bit," I replied.
"Who do you think you are talking to?" came back at me.
Seemingly, patience had ceased to be a virtue with me, so I replied, "Some d——d ambitious chump of a fool who's stuck on making a record for himself."
"That settles you. Call your chief operator over here."
Joe Saunders was the chief, and when he came over he said,
"What's the trouble here, kid, this wire gone down?"
"No," I answered, "the wire hasn't gone down, but that cuss up in 'CH' who signs 'JL' has been pounding the eternal life out of me and I've just given him a piece of my mind."
"Say anything brash?" asked Joe.
"No, not very. Just told him he was a d—d fool with a few light embellishments."
Joe laughed very heartily and said, "I guess you are the fool in this case, because 'JL' is a woman, Miss Jennie Love, by name, and the swiftest lady operator in the business. If she makes this complaint official, you'll get it in the neck."
I didn't wait for any official complaint, but put on my coat and walked out much chagrined, because I had always boasted that no woman could ever run me off a wire. I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Love afterwards and apologized for my conduct. She forgave me, but like Mary Marsh, she married another man.