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Updated: May 29, 2025
We must do more to keep our schools the safest places in our communities. Last year, every American was horrified and heartbroken by the tragic killings in Jonesboro, Paducah, Pearl, Edinboro, Springfield. We were deeply moved by the courageous parents now working to keep guns out of the hands of children and to make other efforts so that other parents don't have to live through their loss.
They got to calling her Sallie in fun; but it's been serious business lately; and many a cowboy'd ride two hundred miles for a chance to knock her over." "And yet none of the rough riders have even thought to search that rocky pile for her den, you say?" Bob continued. "Why, you see, the killings have always been in other directions," Frank explained.
"I believe you are lying, Randerson," she said, coldly. He started, stiffened, and then stared, at her, his face slowly whitening. She had said words that, spoken by a man, would have brought about another of those killings that horrified her.
No resident places the number of the victims of the Harold war at less than forty or fifty, and it is believed that at least seventy-five would be more correct. These killings proved the weakness of the law, for none of the Harold gang was ever punished. As for the Lincoln County War proper, the magazine was now handsomely laid. Only the spark was needed. What would that naturally be?
I know we have a large foreign population in the city in fact, I spend much of my time on the other side of Canal Street but I didn't know there was any particular problem." "Well, there is, and a very serious one, too," Blake assured him. "It's giving our friend Donnelly and the rest of the city officials trouble enough and to spare. There have been some eighty killings in the Italian quarter."
"They found a man shot by the Upper Bend this morning," remarks one to his neighbour. "That so? Who was he?" asks the other. "Don't know. Didn't hear," is the reply. The barroom or street killings, which averaged in number at least two or three a week, while furnishing more excitement, aroused very little more real interest.
I had numerous adventures in that capacity, but remember only one as being worth recording here. One of the toughest characters in the West at that time, a man feared throughout the Territory, was Pat Cannon. He had a score of killings to his credit, and, finally, when Paul became sheriff a warrant was issued for his arrest on a charge of murder. After he had the warrant Paul came to me.
His father's blood, that dark and fierce strain, his mother's spirit, that strong and unquenchable spirit of the surviving pioneer these had been in him; and the killings, one after another, the wild and haunted years, had made him, absolutely in spite of his will, the gunman. He realized it now, bitterly, hopelessly. The thing he had intelligence enough to hate he had become.
Beginning at the present he worked back through the past to the killing of Jim Dent and the flight of Joseph Weir, extracting tales of early fights, raids, accidents, big storms, violent deaths and killings, making elaborate notes, winning the narrator's confidence and gradually drawing forth the facts he really sought.
The elder nodded between two spirals of smoke which gave him the appearance of an important godling delivering oracles through incense. "That was a dam' bad story you wrote of the Sippiac killings." "I didn't write it." "Didn't uh? You were there." "My story went to the office cat." "What was the stuff they printed? Amalgamated Wire Association?" "No. Machine-made rewrite in the office."
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