Democratic Sentinel, Volume 17, Number 20, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 June 1893 — SECOND-SIGHT SHOOTING. [ARTICLE]

SECOND-SIGHT SHOOTING.

An Old Marksman’* Sad Shot at a Fleeing Convict. One night an old fellow came to the stockade where the convicts were penned and said that he had heard that more guards were needed. “We do need more guards,” the Superintendent replied, “but do you think that you can serve our purpose?” “Yes, I think I can.” “But you’ie pretty old.” “I know that, but I've got my second sight, and I can shoot a gun about as well as I ever could, and that’s one of the main requirements, I reckon.” “Ves; ihc orders are strict —shoot any convict that attempts to get away. But it strikes me that you are a little too old.” The old fellow stood under a lamp swinging from a crossbeam in the guardroom. His gray whiskers and his white hair, catching the moving j light and the following shadow, gave him a weirdly venerable look. “Now, you may think I'm too old, hut I’m not,” he urged. “I’ll Kill any man that tries to get away; and not only this, if they sho Id try to over# power me they'll find me the handiest man with a gun they ever saw. Cap'n, 1 wish you’d give me the place, for I need it. Somehow I haven't the heart to do much of anything, and for a good while I have just been drifting from one place to another. Family’s all gone—wife’s dead, and my children are scattered everywhers. Give me the place, Captain, and I’ll do my duty.” “What is your name?” “Well, I have been called ‘Old Ambrose’ so long that I hardly know what my other name is. Reckon you’d better call me Old Ambrose.”

“I don't know whether to take you or not, Mr. Ambrose.” “Old Ambrose, if you please.” “All right then, Old Ambrose. As I was saying, I don’t know whether to take you or not. A number of convicts have got away lately, and the lessee is held responsible, and he, of course, looks to me.” “Didn’t I tell you I'd got my second sight?” “Yes, that’s all very well, but still lam afraid. But wc do need another man. Are you willing to get up mornings at 5 o’ clock?” “My dear sir, I can’t sleep after 4 o’ clock.” “You can stand a diet of corn bread and beef?” “My dear sir, wheat bread gives me dyspepsia, and beef is my only meat. ” “All right, Mr. Ambrose ” “Old Ambrose, sir.” “All right then, Old Ambrose. I’ll try you for a while, any way. Tomorrow morning you will go with a gang to the second embankment, about two miles from here, and you’ll have to get up earlier than 5 o’clock.” “All right, sir.” “And 1 think you’d better turn in now, so as to get enougli sleep.” “I will, sir.” “By the way, your gun’s in the corner.”

“Thank you, sir.” Early the next morning the old man moved out with the squad, and just before the embankment was reached he thus addressed a brother guard: “I hate to do this kind of work, but the truth is I’m hardly fit for anything. I’ve traveled two hundred miles since 1 had a regular job, and I made a dead set at this one. and I'm going to keep it if I can. I reckon ail a man lias before him is his duty, and I never had my duty to scare me yet. I hope I won’t have to shoot at one of these convicts, for, as I said last night, I’ve got my second sight, and a man that ever could shoot can shoot better than ever when his second sight comes.” Old Ambrose stood at one end of the embankment It was just about daylight. Suddenly a convict fell, rolled down the embankment, and then, springing to his feet, made a break for a wood not a great distance away. “Halt!” Old Ambrose cried. The convict paid no attention. Three times did Old Ambrose cry halt, and then fired. The convict fell. “You got him,” said the construction boss, coming forward. “Yes, and I know he’s done for. I was going to shoot him in the leg, hut just as I pulled the trigger he stepped in a low place. I’m going over to see the poor fellow.” The construction boss went with him. It was now broad daylight. The convict lay on his face. The construction boss turned him over. “Merciful God!” Old Ambrose cried, sinking upon his knees. It was his son.—Chicago Journal.