 | Eli Perkins (at large) |  |
A GRATEFUL MAN.
One day one
of the James
Brothers, the
famous bandits,
who have filled
Missouri with
terror for years,
rode into Kansas
City during the
State Fair.
Though a price was set upon
his head by the Governor, and a half
dozen of Pinkerton's men had “bit the
dust” hunting him down, this brave
bandit passed on through the town in
open daylight to the place where they
were holding the State Fair. Then,
quietly riding through twenty thousand people, he
walked his horse straight up to the treasurer's stand
seized the cash-box with three thousand dollars in
it, and rode quietly away. It was a Claude Duval
adventure—a wild, devil-dare deed. All Kansas City
was filled with amazement. The newspapers foamed
and fretted about it, the Governor proclamated, and
the mayor offered rewards, but all to no avail. The
money nor the man ever came back again. Among
was the Kansas City Times, but one day the Times
said:
“It may have been robbery, but it was a plucky, brave act—
an act which we can but admire for its splendid daring and cool,
calculating bravado.”
A week after this article praising the James Boy's
pluck and daring appeared in the Times, two horsemen
rode up to the Times office at eleven o'clock at night.
Calling a watchman, they asked him to tell the editor
to please come out.
“Tell him somebody wants to thank him,” they
said.
When the editor came out on the sidewalk one of
the horsemen beckoned him up close to his horse,
and said, in an undertone:
“My friend, you said a good thing about me the
other day. You said I was brave, even if I was a
robber. You spoke kindly of me. It was the first
kind word I ever had said about me, and it touched
my heart, and I've come to thank you.”
“But who are you, gentlemen? I am not aware to
whom I am talking,” said the astonished editor.
“Well, sir, our name is James. We are the James
Brothers—”
“For God's sake, don't kill me!” gasped the frightened
editor, almost sinking in his shoes. “I haven't
harmed you. I —”
“No, you haven't harmed us. You spoke kindly
about us, and we came to thank you. Not only that,
but we have come to present you this watch as a token
beautiful gold hunting case chronometer.
“But I can't take the watch,” remonstrated the
editor.
“You must,” replied the robber. “We bought it
for you in St. Louis. We didn't steal this watch.
Your name is engraved in it. See!” and he held it
up before the street lamp.
“No, I cannot take it, I cannot,” replied the man,
newspaper-man-like, unable under any circumstances to
take a seeming bribe.
“But you must. We insist.”
“You will have to excuse me, gentlemen,” pleaded
the honest editor, “for I tell you, gentlemen, I cannot!”
“And you will take nothing from us?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Then, if you can't take anything from us—not
even this watch,” said the bandit, sorrowfully returning
it to his pocket—“if you won't take anything for
our gratitude, perhaps you can name some man around
here you want killed!”
| Eli Perkins (at large) | |