nderstood the penalty but went to offer himself
as a ransom, and was shot to death. This, however, is not the class of
outlaws I would discuss, for very often force of circumstances makes
outlaws of men, but I would speak of the criminal outlaw whom I would
spare not nor excuse.

My friends, civilization may be a thin veneer, and the world today may be
slimy with hypocrisy, but no man is justified in killing lions to feed
dogs.

Outlawry is often a fit companion for treason and anarchy, for which the
lowest seats of hell should be reserved. The outlaw, like the commercial
freebooter, is often a deformity on the face of nature that darkens the
light of God's day.

I need not explain my career as an outlaw, a career that has been
gorgeously colored with fiction. To me the word outlaw is a living coal
of fire. The past is a tragedy--a tragedy wherein danger lurks in every
trail. I may be pardoned for hurrying over a few wild, relentless years
that led up to a career of outlawry--a memory that cuts like the sword
blades of a squadron of cavalry. The outlaw is like a big black bird,
from which every passerby feels licensed to pluck a handful of feathers.

My young friend, if you are endowed with physical strength, valor, and a
steady hand, let me warn you to use them well, for the God who gave them
is the final victor.

Think of a man born of splendid parents, good surroundings, the best of
advantages, a fair intellectuality, with the possibility of being
president of the United States, and with courage of a field general.
Think of him lying stagnant in a prison cell. This does not apply alone
to the highway outlaw, but to those outlaws who are sometimes called by
the softer name "financier." Not long ago I heard a man speak of a
certain banker, and I was reminded that prisons do not contain all the bad
men. He said: "Every dog that dies has some friend to shed a tear, but
when that man dies there will be universal rejoicing."

I am not exactly a lead man, but it may surprise you to know that I have
been shot between twenty and thirty times and am now carrying over a dozen
bullets which have never been extracted. How proud I should have been had
I been scarred battling for the honor and glory of my country. Those
wounds I received while wearing the gray, I've ever been proud of, and my
regret is that I did not receive the rest of them during the war with
Spain, for the freedom of Cuba and the honor and glory