McClure's Magazine/Volume 55/Number 6/Pete Cornish's Revenge
Pete Cornish's Revenge
Jim Maitland Meets an Implacable Enemy and Finds the Cards Stacked Against Himself
By Major H. C. McNeile
Author of “Colette Cries Help!' “The Killing of Baron Stockmar,” etc.
illustrations by G. W. Gage
ON the day after the fight at Bull Mine Creek: Jim and I were discussing the encounter as we strolled back to our shanty after a short walk.
“Mr. Pete Cornish has got what you might describe as a fairly useful punch behind him,” said Jim reflectively at length.
“Once or twice last night, Jim, I thought he'd got you,” I commented.
Jim nodded briefly.
“So did I. Especially in that first minute. I don't mind telling you, Dick, that if that first smack he got on my jaw had been half an inch lower, it would have been a knock-out. It was his poor condition that did the trick.”
We paused at the door of our shanty, as one-eyed Mike came down the steps to meet us. Judging from the torchlight appearance of that one eye, our friend and partner had celebrated Christmas Eve in his own fashion, but a broad smile adorned his face and he was obviously bent on offering congratulations.
“A merry Christmas, boys!” he cried. And then he went into a fit of ecstatic chuckling. “To think of it: Peter Cornish knocked out with bare fists inside four minutes! Why, man—I wouldn't have believed it possible. I just wouldn't have believed it possible! I guess I'd give every penny I possess in the world to see you do it again.”
“You don't seem particularly fond of him, Mike,” said Jim, as he went indoors.
“Fond of him,” snarled the other. “Fond of that—swine! Eight years ago he swindled me out of the best claim I ever had, and when I taxed him with it, he and two of his pals waylaid me. That's where I lost this eye,” he added grimly.
“A cheerful sort of customer,” said Jim, thoughtfully.
“Well, you got a little bit of your own back last night, anyway. And now that you're here, Mike, we might go into business. Dick and I are quitting: we're going back to England.”
“Quitting!” There was genuine regret in One-eyed Mike's voice. “Boys, that's too bad. I guess you've got a real good claim up there.”
“It's yours, Mike,” said Jim. “We're handing it over to you, and the very best of luck, old man.”
Speechless surprise showed in the one eye, and Mike's voice was a little husky as he answered.
“I guess I don't know what to say, sir,” he remarked at length. “Sure Cornish didn't tap you on the head or anything last night?”
Jim laughed. “No, we're quite sane, Mike. But we're going back to England, to look for somebody.”
“I hope you find her,” said Mike, and then he strolled to the window and stood staring out at the dusty street. “I hope you find her,” he repeated. “I reckon a woman—the right woman—is worth most other things put together. Though some of us don't have much luck that way.” He paused and drummed on the window. “Bud Sandford's up early this morning. Moreover, pards, he's coming here, unless I'm greatly mistook in my judgment of the course he's layin'.”
WE heard steps outside, and the next moment the door opened and the man in question entered. He held no official position in so far as the Government was concerned, though his power was far greater than if he had. By common consent he had been elected boss, and sheriff, and general settler of disputes, and what he said at Bull Mine Creek went. He was a man of about fifty, with shrewd gray eyes and a reputation for impartial fairness in his decisions, which was just what was wanted in such a community.
Illustration: “Seems a foolish way of doing the trick,” said Jim, watching the approaching rider through narrowed eyes. The mare stood placidly nibbling at some rank grass by the road while the horseman came rapidly nearer to us
“Morning, Bud,” said Jim. “Take a seat.”
Bud Sandford somewhat deliberately took a chair, and lit a cigar.
“Morning, boy,” he remarked cheerfully. “How's the face?”
JIM grinned. “Want's a week's rest, and then it'll grow again.”
Bud gazed out of the window.
“I saw your scrap last night,” he remarked, “and I lost a tenner on the result. I may say that I'd willingly have lost two. I suppose you know it was a quarter of an hour before Cornish sat up and took notice of the things that had been going on around him.”
“As long as that?” said Jim. “I must have hit him harder than I thought.”
“It's not to talk about that that I came around,” went on Bud, “though as we're on the subject I'd like to say that it was the finest fight I've seen in thirty-five years. But it was to find out what you propose doing in the near future.”
Jim looked a trifle surprised.
“Well, Bud,” he said at length, “I guess there's no secret about it. My pal and I are quitting, and our claim passes to Mike.”
Bud grunted thoughtfully.
“When are you quitting?”
“We might push off to-day, or we might wait till to-morrow,” answered Jim. “We haven't really thought about it yet.”
“I guess I'd feel happier if you could make it to-day.”
“You seem almighty keen to be rid of us, Bud,” said Jim. “What's the idea?”
ONCE again Bud's eyes traveled to the window.
“Just this, boy,” he said. “Another twenty-four hours' rest and the effect of that blow on Pete Cornish's jaw will be wearing off, but the effect on his mind will be wearing in. Do you follow me?”
“Not frightfully clearly, Bud,” remarked Jim, ominously. “I fail to see any relation between Peter Cornish's jaw and my future plans.”
Bud Sandford's gray eyes twinkled as he surveyed Jim's set mouth.
“I was afraid you mightn't,” he confessed. “Though it seems powerful clear to me. Now look here, son,” he went on, leaning forward, and emphasizing his remarks with his finger on Jim's knee, “this is how the land lies. You beat Pete Cornish last night, in a fair, straight fight. You laid him out as stiff as a piece of frozen mutton, and everybody knows it. If you fought him again—fair, you'd do it again. And everybody knows that, too. But the next time you fight Pete Cornish you won't fight fair—because he won't let you. He'll see that you don't get a chance.
“You see, I know Pete Cornish, and his reputation. He's been a devil in the past when he's been top-dog; now that you've beaten him he'll be a fiend incarnate. He'll stop at nothing till he's got his own back. And though you're a plaguey fine fighter, boy, with your fists and with a revolver, you don't cut much ice against a man with a rifle hiding up an alleyway and shooting you in the back. And that's what Peter Cornish will do—or something like it—unless, so to speak, you pass out of the picture while he's still holding a raw rump-steak to his jaw.”
The worthy Bud leaned back in his chair exhausted, and Jim smiled.
“IT'S very good of you, Bud,” he remarked quietly. “And I guess if it were possible I'd just love to take your advice. But since you've been talking I've come to the conclusion that my early religious training doesn't allow me to travel on Christmas Day.”
“Early religious fiddlesticks!” Bud remarked. “What you imply, young fellah, is that you'll see me in a warmer place than this before anything would induce you to foot it from Bull Mine Creek until tomorrow.”
“Or maybe the-day after,” murmured Jim. “We've got to do a bit of business, Bud: transferring our claim to Mike.”
Bud rose, and flung his cigar through the window.
“Hell!” he remarked tersely. “And if I hadn't come around, you might have gone today. But I can promise you one thing, boy”—he paused by the door with a faint grin—“if we can get the smallest shadow of proof we'll hang him at the same time we bury you. And even if we can't, we'll hang him, I think. Pete Cornish has gone on too long.”
The door closed behind him, only to open again as he popped his head round.
“You'd better think out a good epitaph,” he said, genially. “Something snappy and original. The last one I made up won't apply, though it's good—mark you, good:
“'Here lies Bill Scames, a funny sort of joker;
Who held four aces, when he didn't deal at poker.'”
FOR the rest of Christmas Day nothing happened to justify Bud's forebodings. We squared up our few belongings—we'd left most of our kit in Sydney—and we carried out the short necessary formalities for registering our claim in One-eyed Mike's name. And, having done that, the only remaining occupation was killing time. If only Sandford had not come butting in, though he had done it with the best intentions, we should have cleared off that evening in the cool. As it was—Jim being Jim, we didn't.
We saw no signs of Cornish the whole of that day. In the hotel we gathered that he was lying up somewhere paying close and earnest attention to his jaw. And in the hotel we also gathered that the general feeling of the community agreed with Bud.
“Pete Cornish ain't finished yet, pard,” said one of a group standing by the bar. “Pete Cornish won't never be finished till some public benefactor kills him. And that guy whose hand you shot last night is almost as bad—Yellow Sam.”
The others growled assent, and Jim drained his glass with a smile.
“No, thank you, boys,” he said, to the chorus of invitation which followed. “No more. I guess I'd better keep the old head cool if Cornish is all you say.”
“You weren't here last night when he came to,” went on the first speaker. “I was—and I watched him. He sat up, and stared around for a moment or two as if he didn't realize what had happened. Then he remembered. Them eyes of his—well, a sort of film came over them; and then they cleared, and he looked quite slowly and carefully all round the room. Reckon he was looking for you, but you'd gone. He never spoke; he just got up and walked out into the street, swaying a bit as he moved. And he passed me, so close I could have touched him. There was a look on his face such as I've never seen before, not on any living man, and hopes I never shall again. And I tell you straight”—his voice was very quiet and serious—”if he could catch you—if he could get you into his power by some dirty trick—God help you!”
Once again there was a growl of assent.
“There are stories told about Pete Cornish which aren't good to listen to. Do you remember—in '96 I think it was—way up there in Queensland, when that coach came trotting in without a driver? And inside they found two women and three children, all murdered. The boys went out to look, and found Jake Harman, the driver, hanging side by side with his mate. There had been gold in the coach, but there was no one left to say what had happened. Only Cornish was in the neighborhood, and people said lots. But there weren't no proof.
“THAT'S just one story of many. There's another one about a fellow in his gang who fell foul of him. He just disappeared, that's all—no one knew where. But months after a crazy black told a crazy story, as to how one night up by one of the smelting furnaces he'd heard some one screaming with fear. He'd crept a bit nearer, and a man with staring blue eyes had passed him in the dusk. The furnace was still alight when the black told his yarn—hadn't been let out for seven months—and there ain't much trace left after that time of anything or anybody that might. have fallen in. Well—here's fortune, pard.”
He lifted his glass and nodded to Jim.
“All I say to you is: Keep your gun handy as you drive over Lone Gully tomorrow. There's fifteen miles there where lots of things might happen.”
With another nod and a quick handshake, he turned and strolled out of the bar and after a short while we followed him. We meant to get off early the next day, and we still had our final packing to do. And as we were walking down the street toward our shanty I happened to glance up at a house we were passing. Whether it was purely accidental, or whether indeed some strange outside force was at work, I don't know. But in that momentary glance I saw quite distinctly a pair of light blue eyes staring at us with a look of such malevolent hatred that I paused involuntarily.
THEN they disappeared, and I walked on at Jim's side. But I couldn't help wishing, as I blew out my candle that night, that civilization in the shape of a railway train had extended to Bull Mine Creek. The prospect of driving over Lone Gully failed to appeal to me.
We were away by four next morning. One-eyed Mike—not at his best at that hour—was there to see us off, divided between real, genuine regret that we were going, and joy that he was now the sole and undisputed owner of our claim. Poor devil! He little knew that it was the last time he was going to see that pitiless sun rise.
Except for Mike there wasn't a soul stirring when, without much regret, we said farewell to Bull Mine Creek. Our idea was to push on till about ten o'clock, and then to call a halt until four that afternoon. We counted on reaching the beginning of the deserted stretch of country known as Lone Gully in the morning, and getting across it in the evening. And then the next day would see us on the railway. So we calculated, as we drove steadily along the flat, dusty road.
The sun was not too powerful, and Jim's jaw had sufficiently recovered to allow him to sing. The air was like wine, and after a while, under the influence of the, at any rate, powerful concert from the seat beside me, I forgot Pete Cornish. Certainly there had been no sign of him or his pal that morning, and every mile between us and Bull Mine Creek seemed to render the likelihood of trouble less probable. If only I'd been able to get rid of the memory of those eyes as I'd seen them the es previous evening, with their look of unwinking, implacable hatred”
Illustration: “Take their guns,” ordered Cornish as he came up, and his companion disarmed us. “And now,” he continued almost gently, but with his unwinking eyes fixed on Jim, “we will go for a little walk, and after that—who knows?”
HALF-PAST nine found us at the place where we had decided to stop for the mid-day halt, and it was none too soon. Already the sun was uncomfortably hot, and the buggy we were in would not have won a prize for springing.
“Grub first,” said Jim, “and then I think a little sleep, Dick. And perhaps, in view of everything, it would be as well if we took it in turns to watch.”
We scanned the country in the direction from which we had come, but there was no sign of movement. The shimmering heat haze blurred and contorted the ground, but of life there seemed no sign.
“I can't help feeling sorry we've got no rifle,” remarked Jim, thoughtfully, a little later. “A revolver is all very well in its way, but it isn't much use against a man with a gun. However, I don't believe myself that we're going to have any trouble at all. They're made a bogey man of Mister Pete Cornish, and all the fellow is is just a low-down swine and bully.”
And sure enough, when we harnessed up again at four o'clock, there had been no sign of him. Once about noon, while Jim was asleep, I thought I saw a little cloud of dust moving two or three miles away, but I had no field-glasses, and in the glare and haze it was quite possibly my imagination. And it very soon disappeared again.
Almost at once the track began to rise toward Lone Gully, and assuredly the place deserved its name. On each side of the road there ran a line of low, broken hills covered with huge boulders and scrub, while here and there disused sheds and the remains of old furnaces showed the positions of worked-out mines. For gold had once been found in Lone Gully, but only in deep placer deposits, requiring shaft-sinking. And the venture had not proved a success financially; the seams had proved poor and given out, and nearly five years previously the last of the mines had closed down.
But it wasn't of derelict mining ventures that either Jim or I were thinking, as the mare picked her leisurely way up the hill. And after a while he looked at me a trifle thoughtfully.
“I can't say I like it, Dick,” he said. “If one deliberately set out to find a place suited for trouble, you couldn't beat this. We're simply two slowly-traveling bull's-eyes for any man with a gun lying hidden in that stuff.”
HE waved the whip at the monotonous expanse of rock and bush which stretched as far as the eye could see on each side of us, and involuntarily I thought of that little cloud of dust. What if my eyes had not deceived me? What if that cloud had been a man, or perhaps two, on horseback, making a detour to get in front of us? The idea was not a pleasant one. No man bent on lawful business would have traveled by any other track save the one we had come by. And no man bent on lawful business would have been likely to travel at all during the heat of the day.
I peered ahead, trying to see some sign of movement, but it was hopeless. An army could have hidden concealed in that country, and I soon gave it up. If my vague forebodings were correct, if that cloud of dust had indeed been a man—well, that man was in front of us by now. Somewhere in the fifteen miles we still had to go he could hide himself, so that it would be absolutely impossible to see him, until For the first time I told Jim about what I thought I had seen, and his face grew graver.
“I DON'T like it, Dick,” he repeated, “not one little bit. And I'll never forgive myself, old man, if anything happens. We should have gone yesterday, and it was only my wretched bravado that prevented it. Though, to tell you the truth, I'd really forgotten that this place was quite so unpleasant as it is.”
We had reached the top of the rise as he spoke, and he whipped up the mare. For the next ten miles the road was running level, almost straight between the two lines of low hills on each side. We could see it stretching away like a long white ribbon into the distance, flanked on each side by that interminable gray-brown scrub. At the rate we were going, it would take us an hour and a half to get through the descent to the other side and safety.
Jim's revolver lay on the seat beside him, while I held mine in my hand, but in our hearts we knew it was a perfectly useless precaution. A revolver is no good at a hundred yards, and we formed a sitting shot at two hundred to a man with a rifle.
We had been driving perhaps for a quarter of an hour when suddenly Jim stiffened in his seat, and then looked around over his shoulder.
“There's a horse galloping somewhere, Dick,” he muttered.
The next instant we saw it. Away back along the dusty road we had just covered, a man was following us at a full gallop.
“Seems a foolish way of doing the trick,” said Jim, watching the approaching rider through narrowed eyes. “I think we'll dismount for a while, and await this gentleman on foot.”
The mare stood placidly nibbling at some short rank grass by the road, while the horseman came nearer, till at the same furious rate. And suddenly Jim, who had been holding his revolver in his hand slipped it into his pocket with a surprised exclamation.
Illustration: “While I think of it, lest you doubt my word as to the depth of the shaft” Cornish's eyes came around to Mike, who shivered. “We have met before, I think. Just step forward a little. I don't quite know why you have intruded yourself, but since you have
“The Devil!” he cried. “It's One-eyed Mike—or I'll eat my hat!”
Mike it was sure enough, and I don't know which was sweating most—he or his horse. He flung himself off his saddle as he reached us, and his breath was coming in great gasps.
“Pete Cornish and Yellow Sam left Bull Mine Creek at ten this morning,” he gasped out. “Riding. Said they were going up north—started that way But a kid at the house they was in told me she heard 'em talking last night. And they mentioned Prospect Mine. Prospect Mine is here—we're close to it. Their going north was a blind—they're after you. Get in your trap again, Jim—and gallop. Gallop like hell—even if you kill the mare.” We scrambled into the trap as he was speaking. “They'll have to make a big round to get here, and maybe you'll get through before them.'
But at that moment two shots rang out. The shooters were nowhere to be seen, but they could shoot. I saw Mike's horse crumple up quite slowly and lie still, and the the next instant I pitched forward out of my seat. Our gallant little mare had taken the second bullet, and, in falling, had broken both shafts. We scrambled out of the useless buggy a little bewildered by the suddenness of it all.. But it wasn't in Jim's nature to remain undecided for long.
“Run like hares!” he cried. “Don't run straight—dodge. Get into the scrub if you can.”
AND had we been able to do it all might have been well. Once among those rocks and bushes the advantage of a rifle over a revolver would have disappeared. But as luck would have it, at the particular spot where we had halted there was a stretch of about seventy yards of open ground to be covered before the protection of the low foothills could be reached. And we hadn't gone ten yards before another shot rang out and Mike gave a cry of pain. He had been plugged through the shoulder and instinctively we stopped to help him.
It was then that we saw Cornish. He had risen from behind a boulder about eighty yards away, and his rifle was still up to his shoulder.
“Put up your hands, or I shall fire again.”
His voice was perfectly quiet, without a trace of excitement or anger, and for a moment we hesitated. There was another sharp crack, and once again Mike groaned and staggered. This time it was the other shoulder, and it became increasingly obvious that Pete Cornish with a gun was not a man to be played with. Our hands went up, Jim's and mine—while Mike stood beside us helpless. And there we waited in a row while Cornish leisurely approached us. He had been joined by Yellow Sam, and they both were holding their rifles ready for an immediate shot.
“Take their guns,” ordered Cornish as he came up, and his companion disarmed us. “And now,” he continued almost gently, but with his unwinking eyes fixed on Jim, “we will go for a little walk. And then, Mr. Maitland—I believe that is your name—we will have a little talk. And after that—who knows? You will keep your hands above your heads, and Sam and I will be behind you. Will you lead the way, Mr. Maitland?”
“Where do you propose that we should go?” Jim asked indifferently.
“To that disused mine shaft you see there,” answered Cornish, and we started off, Jim leading. A rough, disused track marked the way up the hill, and after a few minutes' walking we reached a rotting wooden pallisade erected in days gone by around the crushers and stamps and offices.
“Straight on, Mr. Maitland,” came the quiet voice from behind us. “Through the gate, and then to the left. That's right, and now we will stop and have a little talk Kindly stand there in a row and I will endeavor to entertain you.”
His blue eyes, with a strange, almost filmy, look in them, never left Jim's face.
“Possibly you are unacquainted with deep placer mining,” he began gently. “You are now standing at the top of one of the deepest shafts in the world, probably. Not the main shaft, but a ventilation. As you will see, there is no lift. But you will also note that this shaft has been used for lowering stores or something of that kind: timber, perhaps—but the point is a small one. That pulley attached to the overhead beam, which I have carefully oiled this afternoon, Mr. Maitland, is, you will perceive, immediately over the center of the shaft. Moreover, this very long coil of rope, which with some difficulty I passed over the pulley, is clearly intended to lower things to the bottom of the shaft. Considering how old it is, it seems in astonishingly good condition.”
Fascinated, I stared at the rope as the whole plot became clear. Coil after coil of it lay on one side of the shaft, but one end passed over the central pulley and was loosely tied to a stake beside Cornish.
“{di|I}} HOPE my intentions are clear,” he continued gently. “I shall request you to take hold of this end that you see attached to this post, and then walk to the edge of the shaft. You will then step over the edge, and I shall lower you to the bottom. Shortly afterward your friend will repeat the performance, after which the rope will be thrown down to keep you company. Of course”—his voice was almost regretful—“should the rope prove unequal to the strain, or should it be too short, you will drop. And the length of the fall will decide whether you do it successfully or not. And while I think of it, lest you should doubt my words as to the depth” His eyes came round to Mike, who shivered. “We have met before, I think. Just step forward a little. I don't quite know why you have intruded yourself, but since you have”
It was over in a second. As calmly as if he were eating his dinner, Cornish shot Mike through the heart. Mike had been standing near the edge of the shaft, and he spun round and toppled over backward.
“You cold-blooded murderer!” howled Jim, springing forward, to stop as Cornish's revolver covered him.
“Just listen,” said Cornish gently, and with a sick feeling of helpless rage we stood there waiting. And at last it came—a dreadful noise, which echoed faintly, and then died away.
“I should say nearly a quarter of a minute to reach the bottom,” he said mildly. “I always believe, you know, in removing all traces of these little affairs, and he's not much loss. So now if you're ready”
“And what if I refuse?” said Jim steadily.
“Then your hands will be lashed behind you, and your feet will be attached to the rope, and you will be lowered head first. Or, failing that—you will be shot here and now. I give you five seconds to decide.”
FOR a second or two Jim hesitated. Then he stepped forward and took the rope in his hands. He knew as well as I did that Cornish would do what he said, and it seemed the only possibility. If he did reach the bottom in safety there might still be a bare chance of getting out somehow. At any rate, it was the only hope.
“Sorry, Dick, old man,” he said, as he passed me.
He grinned at me, that wonderful careless grin of his, and without another word, he crossed to the edge of the shaft. And there he stared at Cornish.
“Now, you chicken-hearted coward!” he said contemptuously. “Carry on.”
But Cornish showed no sign of resenting the insult.
“I am quite ready, Mr. Maitland,” he remarked, picking up the rope.
An instant later Jim swung off into space. Not a vestige of hesitation—not a trace of fear, though he told me afterward that he fully expected Cornish to let go the rope and let him drop. And what was really in Cornish's mind must remain an unsolved enigma.
Certain it is, however, that he went on steadily paying out the rope—coil after coil, leaning back to take the weight with his feet braced against the shoring at the edge of the shaft—while I watched fascinated and Yellow Sam covered me with his gun.
And then suddenly came the idea. Old memories of mathematics, perhaps, problems on pulleys done in days gone by—but like a flash it came. The coils beside Cornish were getting fewer and fewer, and it had to be done at once.
“By Jove! Look there!” I shouted, and Yellow Sam turned for a second. There was an iron bar at my feet, and by the mercy of Allah I hit him in the right place. And now came the second awful risk—would Cornish let go? His blue eyes were staring at me over his shoulder, but for just that fraction of time which meant life or death he didn't realize what I was going to do. He held on to the rope, and as I sprang at him he straightened up instinctively. And with all my force I pushed him in the back.
It was enough. He was off his balance, and with a curse, still clinging to the rope, he fell into the shaft.
“Hold on, Jim!” I roared. “Hold on.”
FOR I saw at once that luck had held—Cornish was a heavier man than Jim. For a perceptible time he hung there swaying, his blue eyes almost frenzied in their animal rage and the scar on his face a livid purple. Then slowly, but steadily, his weight told, and he began to sink down and down. And with every foot he fell Jim came up.
And then I think it crossed Cornish's mind to cut the rope on Jim's side, until he realized that once the counter weight was gone he must fall himself. They passed two hundred odd feet below the level of the ground, and Cornish tried to grab Jim's leg. But he kicked himself free, coming up more and more quickly as the acceleration increased. Then I heard him shouting, urgently:
“Check the rope, Dick—check it somehow!”
For a moment I couldn't understand his reason, but I scrambled out along the beam to the pulley. I used a piece of wood as a brake, and then I saw Jim's play. He was still fifty feet below me, swaying dizzily, but as the rope checked with the brake and finally stopped, he grasped the part of it on Cornish's side of the pulley with one hand. Gradually he got both ropes into that hand—shifting his legs to help the strain. And then with his free hand he got out his claspknife.
He opened it with his teeth, and Cornish from the depths below realized what was happening. He started frenziedly shooting up the shaft, heedless now of whether he died or not, provided he got Jim too. But he was swaying too much, and the end was quick. Jim cut the rope on Cornish's side below the place where he had both ends gripped firmly in his other hand.
And once again there came that dreadful dull noise which echoed faintly and then died away.
Half a minute later using the two ends of the rope as one Jim reached the pulley beam, and scrambled into safety. Then, for the first time in his life, he fainted.
Later on we walked to the next township, with Yellow Sam in front of us carrying our bags. We gave him to the inhabitants with our love, and I believe they hanged him, though the point is not of great importance. The man who had called himself Pete Cornish was more dangerous than twenty Yellow Sams, and in his case the hangman had been saved the trouble.