Adventure Magazine, December 10, 1924 — page 161: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Booted Ghosts of Gunmen City Hotel that night, and Bowe, a jovial old prospector, was jestingly telling his companions Munchausen yarns of his fighting feats, when Brown, who was not of their party, stepped up and said: “You're a gassy coward. Take this.”’ And plunging his bowie into the old man’s belly, he turned it round and round. Billy Bowe slumped to the sawdust, a corpse. The crowd stood aghast, but no one stirred. The wanton ferocity of the deed seemed to paralyze them. Thus stood Sam Brown at the threshold of his entry to that larger stage at Virginia City. Perhaps he had heard of an anarchy prevailing there—of the presence of a job- lot of lesser killers, who, itching to become Chief, had not yet begun to whet their knives on each other’s throats. Here was Sam Brown’s trumpet-blast proclaiming, ““My credentials date from the City Hotel.” If this was his intention, his tactics proved effective, as a chronicle of “Dan de Quille,” Mark Twain’s fellow reporter, would in- dicate. “Early in the spring of 1860,” wrote Dan, ‘Sam Brown, known all over the Pacific Coast as ‘Fighting Sam Brown,’ arrived on the Comstock. He was a big Chief, and when he walked into a saloon, a side at a time, with his big Spanish spurs clanking along the floor, and his six-shooter flapping under his coat-tails, the little Chiefs hunted their holes and talked small on back seats.” But Sam Brown was not one to bask for long in the warmth of a mere hearsay repu- tation. He was playing at faro one night in Newman’s resort, in poor luck and cursing the cards and everybody and everything, when Johnny McKenzie, the dealer, a quiet and inoffensive young man, finally lost patience and said: “Mr. Brown, if this game doesn’t suit you, you are not obliged to play against it.” “Well, I don’t like the —— game, and I guess I won’t play any more,’ replied Brown. He arose from his seat and sauntered care- lessly around to a position behind the dealer. suddenly, without a word of warning, he grasped McKenzie by the chin and drawing back his head, coolly drew the bowie across his windpipe, sawing away until the man was all but beheaded. McKenzie’s lifeless bedy sagged to the floor, while Brown . wiped his bowie on his trousers-leg, walked to a hillard-table, wrapped himself in the 139 green cloth cover, lay down, and fell asleep —or pretended to. Brown would even brag of his own diabolism. He was in the battle of Pyramid Lake, first of the Pah Ute war. From that awiul slaughter, when of a force of one hundred and five whites but twenty-nine escaped with their lives, his good or evil genius saved him—but by an act as cruel as his most brutal murder. During the mad flight from the ambush he was thrown, and his horse continued on without him. He instantly pulled a young man named Robert Snowden, scion of a prominent Californian family, from his saddle and, mounting in his place, left him to his doom. Had not Brown basely boasted of this in- human act it probably would never have become known. 7 Many of the frontier man-slayers of that period were dandies who prided themselves on their looks, but not Sam Brown. His build and gait were calculated to deceive the prospective victim. He was a human brute of the reptilian order. Big, slouchy, and slow of movement, except when he made the fatal spring, he impressed one as a huge saurian, lying in wait for his prey. He was roughly dressed, his reddish-brown. hair was untrimmed, and he wore his long, sandy whiskers gathered up and tied under his chin. Everybody knew who he was, but kept aloof and eyed him askance. He was conscious of the fear and loathing he in- spired, and enjoyed it, fancying himself a hero. That’sall there was at bottom to Sam Brown—a coarse, vain, conceited murderer. Residents of orderly communities will naturally wonder how such a wretch es- caped the toils of the law, or, failing that, why a “vigilance committee’ was not organized for his exclusive benefit. But the municipal government was badly dis- organized. It had been but recently that the question as to whether the authorities of Utah or the local officials should rule the Territory had been settled. And many of the officials, from the federal judges down to the local police, were notoriously corrupt. As for the matter of a vigilance committee, the reputable citizens of the Comstock were too busy at that moment seeking their fortunes, to care to give their time to such comparatively unimportant matters as the regulation of society; and the disreputable ones were perfectly content to let matters stand as they were. CoMmicbook< A) (© =