but his guns--the full
length "45" that nestled in its breast scabbard next his heart, and the
short "45," sawed off two inches in front of the cylinder, that he
always carried in a deep side-pocket of his long sack coat. This was
often a much patched pocket, for Jim was a notable economist of time,
and usually fired from within the pocket. That he loved those guns I
know, for often have I seen him fondle them as tenderly as a mother her
first-born.

In 1879 Sidney, Neb., was a hell-hole, filled with the most desperate
toughs come to prey upon overland travellers to and from the Black
Hills. Of these toughs McCarthy, proprietor of the biggest saloon and
gambling-house in town, was the leading spirit and boss. Nightly, men
who would not gamble were drugged or slugged or leaded. Town marshals
came and went--either feet first or on a keen run.

So long as its property remained unmolested the U. P. management did
not mind. But one night the depot was robbed of sixty thousand dollars
in gold bullion. Of course, this was the work of the local gang. Then
the U. P. got busy. Pete Shelby summoned Captain Jim to Omaha and
committed the Sidney situation to his charge. Frequenting haunts where
he knew the news would be wired to Sidney, Jim casually mentioned that
he was going out there to clean out the town, and purposed killing
McCarthy on sight. This he rightly judged would stampede, or throw a
chill into, many of the pikers--and simplify his task.

Arrived in Sidney, Jim found McCarthy absent, at North Platte, due to
return the next day. Coming to the station the next morning, Jim found
the express reported three hours late, and returned to his room in the
railway House, fifty yards north of the depot. He doffed his coat,
shoulder scabbard, and boots, and lay down, shortly falling into a doze
that nearly cost him his life. Most inconsiderately the train made up
nearly an hour of its lost time. Jim's awakening was sudden, but not
soon enough. Before he had time to rise at the sound of the softly
opening door, McCarthy was over him with a pistol at his head.

Jim's left hand nearly touched the gun pocket of his coat, and his
right lay in reach of the other gun; but his slightest movement meant
instant death.

"Heerd you come to hang my hide up an' skin the town, but you're under
a copper and my open play wins, Black Jim! See?" growled McCarthy.

"Well, Mac," coolly answered Jim, "you're a bigger damn fool th