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SHOWMAN
miss it, even in that bad light. I knew his fingers were on the triggers, but it was no time to be cautious. I rushed up to him, threw both arms round him as if he'd been my long-lost brother, pinning his hands to his sides, and started talking. I don't know what begging, pleading, cajoling nonsense I poured into his ears, all the while working my head and elbows overtime in gestures giving Corbett the office to get out of the theater while he still could run. Corbett got the idea, broke away from the negro and sprinted for the door, hurdling the orchestra-pit as he went. The negro dived for a backstage window, tore out one of the sashweights, and started after him with it in his hand, looking for nothing short of murder. So I abandoned my loving embrace of Virgil Earp and dived for the negro. Once again my hysterical flow of persuasive language worked —at least it slowed him up till I could hear the door smash shut behind Corbett— and then I linked it after him. Jim had quite a start on me, but I made the hotel only about ten yards behind him. We never saw any more of San Bernardino's $300, but we didn't complain. It was cheap at the price because, if Virgil Earp had ever pulled his guns, the world would have been out a heavyweight champion.
You can see why we preferred to fight a set-up when we could. But MacVeagh's act went bad on us once too —when he appeared in El Paso as the Texas Terror. He had outdone himself getting in with the local sports, particularly with one old coot who set up to be the
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