Bert Wilson on the Gridiron

by J. W. Duffield

"I suppose you carried a gun in those days, too, didn't you, Mr. Melton?" questioned Dick.

"Yes, I carried a pair of Colt's .45s with me for years," replied the Westerner, with a reminiscent look in his eyes. "Why, a couple of guns were as much a part of a man's dress in those days as a pair of shoes. Every one carried them as a matter of course."

"Did you ever have to use them?" asked Bert.

"Only once," replied Mr. Melton. "I never went looking for trouble, and it has been my experience, when you don't look for trouble, trouble seldom looks for you. But the one time I did have use for my arsenal made up for lost time."

"Tell us about it, please," chorused the boys, and Mr. Melton smiled at their eagerness as he lit another perfecto.

"Well," he began, "it was back in the old days before the time of the railroads, when stage coaches were the only carriers known. I was traveling to Fort Worth on business, and was finding the journey anything but a pleasant one. The coach was old and rickety, and the way it lurched and rolled reminded me of a small boat in a rough sea. It was a terrifically hot day, too, and the stinging alkali dust got down your throat and in your eyes until life seemed an unbearable burden. We had traveled steadily all the morning, and along toward afternoon most of the passengers began to feel pretty sleepy, and dozed off. I was among the number. Suddenly I was awakened by a shout of 'hands up!' and found myself looking full into the muzzle of a blue barreled Colt, held in the hand of a masked man.

"There was nothing for it but to obey, seeing he had the drop on us, so up went our hands over our heads. There were six other passengers in the coach, but if we had been sixteen we would have been no better off.

"As we gazed in a sort of fascination at the ugly-looking revolver, another masked man entered the coach and commenced systematically to relieve the passengers of their valuables. I happened to be nearest the front of the coach, and so did not receive the benefit of his attentions at first. He had almost reached me when there was a commotion outside, and he straightened up to listen, all his senses on the alert.

"He was between me and the door in which his companion was standing. For the moment the man in the door could not get at me except through his comrade, and I resolved to grasp the opportunity. In a flash I had reached down into the breast of my coat and grasped the butt of my revolver. Before the desperado in front of me could get his gun in action, I had fired. At the first shot he dropped to the ground and, as he fell, a bullet from the man in the doorway took my hat off. I pulled the trigger as fast as my fingers could work, and he did the same. I have only a confused recollection of smoke, flashes of flame, shouts and a dull shock in my left arm. In what must have been but a few seconds it was all over. With my own gun empty, I waited to see what would happen. I knew that if by that time I hadn't killed the bandit, he had me at his mercy. And even with him disposed of, I fully expected to be plugged by the man outside who was holding the driver under guard.

"But he must have had a streak of yellow in him, for when he failed to see either of his comrades come out of the coach he concluded that they were either dead or prisoners, and made off as fast as his pony could carry him. By that time we passengers had rushed out of the coach, and some of us began firing at the fugitive. But a revolver is not very accurate over two or three hundred feet, and I doubt if the desperado was even grazed. I was unable to shoot for, as I had realized by this time, my left arm was broken just above the elbow, and I was unable to load my gun.