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Updated: June 1, 2025
When the men were scorning him for the way he had avoided this battle, she, at least, would understand, and her understanding would be a mercy. "Hollis is somewhere around," declared Larrimer, drawing back and biting his lip. "I know it, damn well. His hoss is standing out yonder. I know what'll fetch him.
"The kid ain't scaring me none. And now hark to me, Black Jack. You've got away with two gents already two that's known, I mean. Minter was one and Larrimer was two. Both times it was a square break. But I know your kind like a book. You're going to step over the line pretty damn pronto, and when you do, I'm going to get you, friend, as sure as the sky is blue!
Then Terry shoved the gun slowly back into his holster and walked to the body of Larrimer. To these things Bill, the storekeeper, and Jack Baldwin, the rancher, afterward swore. That young Black Jack leaned a little over the corpse and then straightened and touched the fallen hand with the toe of his boot. Then he turned upon them a perfectly calm, unemotional look.
When Terry Hollis arrives, the moment he touches a gun butt, you fill him full of lead and accuse him of using unfair play against Larrimer. Any excuse will do. The public want an end of young Hollis. They won't be particular with their questions." He found it difficult to meet the narrowed eyes of the sheriff.
The killing of Larrimer now made that reticence of the morning even more pointed than it had been before. With all these things taken into consideration, Slim Dugan was in the mood to fight and die; for he felt that his honor was concerned. A single slighting remark to Terry, a single sneering side glance, would have been a signal for gunplay. And everyone knew it.
"And you see," said Waters, "where I come in is that I have a plan for getting this Hollis you desire so much." "You do?" He rose and grasped the arm of Waters. "You do?" Waters nodded. "It's this way. I understand that he killed Larrimer, and Larrimer's older brother is the one who is rousing public opinion against you. Am I right?" "The dog! Yes, you're right."
"THOMAS LARRIMER, a deacon in the Presbyterian church at Bloomingburg, Fayette county, Ohio, and a respectable farmer, says, that in April, 1837, as he was going down the Mississippi river, about fifty miles below Natchez, he saw ahead, on the left side of the river, a colored person tied to a post, and a man with a driver's whip, the lash about eight or ten feet long.
The doctor sniffed scornfully, "Devilish lot Larrimer knows about ethnology." He then became lucid. "Larrimer's head at the Drevel Hospital, y' know; deuced clever at the operating-table, but set in his ideas. Lord, dynamite would n't move him; stubborn's no name for it.
"Kept on shooting after Kennedy was down and had the gun shot out of his hand and was helpless. And yet they call that self-defense." "We can't afford to be too particular about shootings," said the storekeeper. "Speaking personal, I figure that a shooting now and then lets the blood of the youngsters and gives 'em a new start. Kind of like to see it." "But who's Larrimer after now?"
Thomas Larrimer, a deacon of the Presbyterian church in Bloomingbury, Fayette county, Ohio, Mr. G.S. Fullerton, merchant, and member of the same church, and Mr. William A. Ustick, an elder of the same church, spent a night with a Mr. Shepherd, about 30 miles North of Charleston, S.C., on the Monk's corner road.
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