Memphis World
Memphis World Publishing Co.
1959-06-24
Thaddeus T. Stokes

MEMPHIS WORLD
AMERICA'S STANDARD RACE JOURNAL
The South's Oldest and Leading Colored Semi-Weekly Newspapers
Published by MEMPHIS WORLD PUBLISHING CO.
Every WEDNESDAY and SATURDAY at 564 BEALE — Phone JA. 6-4030
Member of SCOTT NEWSPAPER SYNDICATE
W. A. Scott, II, Founder; C. A. Scott, General Manager
Entered in the Post Office at Memphis, Tenn. as second-class mail
under the Act of Congress, March 1, 1870
THADDEUS T. STOKES Managing Editor
SMITH FLEMING Circulation Manager
SUBSCRIPTION RATES:
Year $5.00 — 6 Months $3.00 — 3 Months $1.50 (In Advance)
The MEMPHIS WORLD is an independent newspaper — non-sectarian
and non-partisan, printing news unbiasedly and supporting those things
it believes to be of interest to its readers and opposing those thing
against the interest of its readers.

This Was Hardly A Surprise
The better judgment of Gov. Faubus, doubtless entertained
the reality of the superimposition of the power of the federal
government over that of a state even before his maneuver
encountered its collapse in the face of a three-judge federal
court decision outlawing his private school plan.
It will be recalled that Gov. Faubus was to be the symbol
of the forces who thought they could get around the U.S. courts
by evasion and circumvention, thereby setting up a pattern
for states promised a like position by those who found racebait 
and a court decision more tempting to establish fitness
for office than the posing of basic issues in the fields of economy, 
efficiency and good government.
Although Faubus brought down upon the people of Arkansas 
the sod spectacle of troops patroling a high school
campus for weeks, the ruthless closing of public schools and
the net results of having the whole apple-cart set up for a
joyride of his fellow-thinkers upturned by a three-judge court
decision, that his whole program was unconstitutional, a violation 
of the 14th Amendment to the Federal, Constitution.
While there may be other states with laws not exactly
worded like those of Arkansas which the court decided were
unconstitutional, the similarity of their school closing laws would
afford them no comfort in attempting to do what the federal
courts declared they could not do, either by routes directly, or
indirectly. Too, the court is on record as warning that if and
when the Alabama placement law is implemented for the purpose 
of abetting segregation, it would also be stricken down.
Verily, these times afford an excellent opportunity for a
full study of states rights; their virtues, their limitations and
how a certain contention in this rights question was carried
a step too far-the right to secede from the Union.
Already there are intimation from the better minds whose
states bear similar indentures, that when a tree is cut down,
the limbs and leaves will fall with it.

Moral And Statutory Law
Speaking to a conference of the Civil Rights Commission
with its state advisory committees, President Eisenhower sounded 
do theme which has become a favorite with him on the nation's 
racial problem "evolution" not "revolution," dependence 
on "moral law rather than statutory laws." Said he:
I happen to be one of those people who has
very little faith in the ability of statutory law to
change the human heart.
Because he has expressed the same idea before, some
who wish to so believe might construe his words as meaning
the President has doubts about the wisdom of any formal laws
in areas such as race relations which are so deeply intertwined
with peoples attitudes toward each other. We do not believe
Mr. Eisenhower's doubts go beyond the "too many punitive
laws" against which he admonishes. His long military career
surely taught him the necessity of some laws and regulations
upon which to ground the discretion which a commander must
use in meeting specific situations.
Until the momentous decision of 1954 it could have been
assumed (and was, by many people) that the Constitution of
the United States accepted tacitly, at least, that there could be
two classes of American citizens: those entitled to all the "protection 
of the laws" and those who, merely because of the
accident of race, are entitled to protection but with exceptions.
The impact of that decision and its place in history is not as
yet appreciated fully by everyone and by some, not at all.
One more ideal is now spelled out in constitutional law.
The task of achieving that ideal, of putting it into practice in
national life, calls for the "education," the "promoting of understanding," 
of which the President spoke.

Deserving Honor For Dr. Ralph Bunche
It is with genuine delight that we note that Dr. Ralph
Bunche, Under Secretary of United Nations, has been elected
to the Board of Overseers of distinguished Harvard University.
Dr. Bunche received the highest number of votes ever cast
for a member for this position.
It is interesting to note that the votes cast for Dr. Bunche,
exceeded by nearly 1,200 the votes of the United States Senator 
John F. Kennedy when he was elected to this position.
This position carries among other things, such powers as
choosing teachers for a term longer than one year, the consideration 
and passing one, degrees, both ordinary and honorary,
and the changing in the statutes of the university.
Dr. Bunche is the first member of our race to occupy a
place on this important board.
He will bring his share of dignity to this honored body
and will wear well the laurels thrust upon him.

IOWA CAPTAINS NAMED
Halfback Ray Jauch of Mendota,
Ill, and Don Norton, an end from
gers, among them have been various 
Methodist groups and two leadAnamosa 
Iowa, have been named
co-captains of the 1959 Iowa university 
football team.

WISHING WELL
Registered U. S. Patent Office.
HERE is a pleasant little game that will give you a message every
day. It is a numerical puzzle designed to spell out your fortune.
Count the letters in your first name. If the number of letters is 6 or
more, subtract 4. If the number is less than 6, add 3. The result is
your key number. Start at the upper left-hand corner of the rectangle 
and check every one of your key numbers, left to right. Then
read the message the letters under the checked figures give
you.

2-MAN SATELLITE?
Government scientists plan to
put into orbit a space laboratory
that can support two men for several 
weeks.
This would be the second phase
of Project Mercury aimed initially 
at putting a man in space by
1961.


A Datroit
businessman today declared that
churches are being used to brainwash 
America with Communist-inspired 
issues and businessmen like
himself are being used unwittingly
to finance it. Theodore Guething,
a mhichine tool manufacturing executive, 
told 800 delegates from 48
nations at the Moral-Re-Armament 
Summit Strategy Conference,
"I believe in the heritage which
Lincoln gave us. We will lose those
inalienable rights of life, liberty
and the pursuit of happiness if we
do not fight for our country."
"I'm a normally selfish businessman. 
I have in common with many
other American businessmen a lot
of pride and vanity. We American
businessmen don't like to be fooled. 
As Chairman of a Committee
I helped raise $140,000 for one of
the largest Methodist churches in
Michigan. Last week the Detroit
Conference of the Methodist
Church adopted a policy which
could not have been written better
by Mr. Khrushchev himself. The
program calls for total world disarmament, 
admission of Red China
to the United Nations, an end to
selective service, curtailment of
civil defense and the establishment
of Berlin as a free city under U.
N. supervision.
"We need to open the eyes of
America" as my eyes are being
opened. The four absolute standards 
of MRA, honesty, purity, unselfishness 
and love, are more than

a way of life they are a prescription 
for survival. This Summit
Strategy Conference is 'operation
eye-opener."
"America is being brainwashed
by Communist-inspired issues. The
choice facing America today is
Communism or Moral Re-Armament. 
Nothing less than all-out
commitment to the ideology of
MRA can save this nation."
Guething's wife stood beside him
and Said, "The way we have been
living is leading America straight
down the road to Communism.
Americans don't want to face the
truth. We want to go on living
our selfish materialistic way. If we
don't fight to save our country,
nobody else will. We are going
to fight."
Stuart Sanderson, textile industrialist 
from Geart Britain stated.
"Frank Buchman, the initiator of
Moral Re-Armament, changed my
motives for being in business.
MRA is extreme practicality. When
unemployment was the greatest in
our industry and four mills closed
down in our city, my wife and I
decided to leave our large home
and live in a two-by-four cottage.
We cut our personal expenses 75
percent and put it all back into
the firm, thereby enabling us to
keep most of the workers employed 
most of the time. It did more
than solve unemployment, it created 
a relationship of trust with
labor. Becauce of this I have decided 
to fight this battle on a
world scale."

MORE THAN WAY OF LIFE
A Datroit
businessman today declared that
churches are being used to brainwash 
America with Communist-inspired 
issues and businessmen like
himself are being used unwittingly
to finance it. Theodore Guething,
a mhichine tool manufacturing executive, 
told 800 delegates from 48
nations at the Moral-Re-Armament 
Summit Strategy Conference,
"I believe in the heritage which
Lincoln gave us. We will lose those
inalienable rights of life, liberty
and the pursuit of happiness if we
do not fight for our country."
"I'm a normally selfish businessman. 
I have in common with many
other American businessmen a lot
of pride and vanity. We American
businessmen don't like to be fooled. 
As Chairman of a Committee
I helped raise $140,000 for one of
the largest Methodist churches in
Michigan. Last week the Detroit
Conference of the Methodist
Church adopted a policy which
could not have been written better
by Mr. Khrushchev himself. The
program calls for total world disarmament, 
admission of Red China
to the United Nations, an end to
selective service, curtailment of
civil defense and the establishment
of Berlin as a free city under U.
N. supervision.
"We need to open the eyes of
America" as my eyes are being
opened. The four absolute standards 
of MRA, honesty, purity, unselfishness 
and love, are more than

a way of life they are a prescription 
for survival. This Summit
Strategy Conference is 'operation
eye-opener."
"America is being brainwashed
by Communist-inspired issues. The
choice facing America today is
Communism or Moral Re-Armament. 
Nothing less than all-out
commitment to the ideology of
MRA can save this nation."
Guething's wife stood beside him
and Said, "The way we have been
living is leading America straight
down the road to Communism.
Americans don't want to face the
truth. We want to go on living
our selfish materialistic way. If we
don't fight to save our country,
nobody else will. We are going
to fight."
Stuart Sanderson, textile industrialist 
from Geart Britain stated.
"Frank Buchman, the initiator of
Moral Re-Armament, changed my
motives for being in business.
MRA is extreme practicality. When
unemployment was the greatest in
our industry and four mills closed
down in our city, my wife and I
decided to leave our large home
and live in a two-by-four cottage.
We cut our personal expenses 75
percent and put it all back into
the firm, thereby enabling us to
keep most of the workers employed 
most of the time. It did more
than solve unemployment, it created 
a relationship of trust with
labor. Becauce of this I have decided 
to fight this battle on a
world scale."

Eddie Ayers Fatally

later Fields flipped him over and
stabbed him the second time in the
region of the heart, said the witness. 

Fields started to walk away leaving 
Ayers on the ground. When
Ayers got to his feet, blood was
spurting from his left chest and
mouth. Fields rushed toward him
again and sliced him several times
on the back. Ayers fell back to
the ground, according to the witness. 

Fields walked to the House of
Joy, a club at 640 Linden, and called 
the police department. He then
walked to the front door of the
club and waited until the police arrived, 
according to a witness in
the club.
Ironically, an electrical shortage
caused a fire to break out several
hours later at the same spot Ayers
died.
Ayers was employed at the Memphis 
Pecan Company. He was the
father of seven children. He and
his wife were separated.
Among survivors are his mother,
Mrs. Anna Ayers of the same Eastmoreland 
address: four brothers,
Tommy, Daniel, Gus, and Raymond
Campbell all of Memphis; two sisters, 
Mrs. Sarah Washington and
Miss Georgia Ayers.
Funeral arrangements were incomplete. 


Grant School To

versity to open its doors to Negroes.
Memphis State soon thereafter
came up with its "integrate a class
a year" plan, which would start
integration of the graduate level
one year, the senior class the next
year, the junior class, the sophomore 
class, and finally the freshman 
class in that order. However,
the university at the same time initiated 
entrance examinations which,
strangely, Negroes seeking to get
in the MSU graduate school failed
to pass.
After two well-educated Negro
women, Mrs. Laurie Sugarmon and
Mrs. Maxine Smith, were barred
from the university on peculiar
technicalities in the spring of 1957
and an appellate court struck down
the school's integrate a class ayear 
plan, the State Board of Education 
in November of the same
year ordered MSU to open its doors
to Negroes in the fall of 1958. However, 
in August of 1958, MSU President 
Jack Millard Smith, an admitted 
segregationist, went to Nashville 
to appear before the State
Board, asked it to postpone integration 
a year under the pretense
that he believed "violence will be
brought on because of strong political 
campaigns against integration." 


Postal Employee O. Z. Evers filed
the bus segregation suit in April
of 1956, had it thrown out by a
three-man panel in June of 1958,
and re-instated by the United
States Supreme Court in December
of the same year. The new trial is
expected to be held sometime in
the near future.
The suit to end segregation in
public libraries, filed by Jesse Turner 
of the Tri-State Bank in July of
1958, was slated to be heard by
Judge Boyd last February, but Boyd
excused himself from the case three
days before its hearing on the
grounds that his son, Marion Boyd,
Jr., was one of the lawyers representing 
the defendants.
The suit to end segregation in
public recreational facilities has not
been heard yet, but is expected to
run into delays as have the others.
Atlanta, Ga., Montgomery, Ala.,
Miami, Fla., and New Orleans, La,
all deep South major cities have
integrated their buses. City officials
in Atlanta voluntarily integrated
the libraries there. Despite the
school crises in Little Rock, Ark.,
most of the other public facilities
there we integrated. But "Colonel

Memphis," faced with several longdrawn-out 
suits which segregationists 
have delayed every desegregation
case.

BOYD FAVORS
SEGREGATIONISTS

versity to open its doors to Negroes.
Memphis State soon thereafter
came up with its "integrate a class
a year" plan, which would start
integration of the graduate level
one year, the senior class the next
year, the junior class, the sophomore 
class, and finally the freshman 
class in that order. However,
the university at the same time initiated 
entrance examinations which,
strangely, Negroes seeking to get
in the MSU graduate school failed
to pass.
After two well-educated Negro
women, Mrs. Laurie Sugarmon and
Mrs. Maxine Smith, were barred
from the university on peculiar
technicalities in the spring of 1957
and an appellate court struck down
the school's integrate a class ayear 
plan, the State Board of Education 
in November of the same
year ordered MSU to open its doors
to Negroes in the fall of 1958. However, 
in August of 1958, MSU President 
Jack Millard Smith, an admitted 
segregationist, went to Nashville 
to appear before the State
Board, asked it to postpone integration 
a year under the pretense
that he believed "violence will be
brought on because of strong political 
campaigns against integration." 


Postal Employee O. Z. Evers filed
the bus segregation suit in April
of 1956, had it thrown out by a
three-man panel in June of 1958,
and re-instated by the United
States Supreme Court in December
of the same year. The new trial is
expected to be held sometime in
the near future.
The suit to end segregation in
public libraries, filed by Jesse Turner 
of the Tri-State Bank in July of
1958, was slated to be heard by
Judge Boyd last February, but Boyd
excused himself from the case three
days before its hearing on the
grounds that his son, Marion Boyd,
Jr., was one of the lawyers representing 
the defendants.
The suit to end segregation in
public recreational facilities has not
been heard yet, but is expected to
run into delays as have the others.
Atlanta, Ga., Montgomery, Ala.,
Miami, Fla., and New Orleans, La,
all deep South major cities have
integrated their buses. City officials
in Atlanta voluntarily integrated
the libraries there. Despite the
school crises in Little Rock, Ark.,
most of the other public facilities
there we integrated. But "Colonel

Memphis," faced with several longdrawn-out 
suits which segregationists 
have delayed every desegregation
case.

LIBRARY SUIT

versity to open its doors to Negroes.
Memphis State soon thereafter
came up with its "integrate a class
a year" plan, which would start
integration of the graduate level
one year, the senior class the next
year, the junior class, the sophomore 
class, and finally the freshman 
class in that order. However,
the university at the same time initiated 
entrance examinations which,
strangely, Negroes seeking to get
in the MSU graduate school failed
to pass.
After two well-educated Negro
women, Mrs. Laurie Sugarmon and
Mrs. Maxine Smith, were barred
from the university on peculiar
technicalities in the spring of 1957
and an appellate court struck down
the school's integrate a class ayear 
plan, the State Board of Education 
in November of the same
year ordered MSU to open its doors
to Negroes in the fall of 1958. However, 
in August of 1958, MSU President 
Jack Millard Smith, an admitted 
segregationist, went to Nashville 
to appear before the State
Board, asked it to postpone integration 
a year under the pretense
that he believed "violence will be
brought on because of strong political 
campaigns against integration." 


Postal Employee O. Z. Evers filed
the bus segregation suit in April
of 1956, had it thrown out by a
three-man panel in June of 1958,
and re-instated by the United
States Supreme Court in December
of the same year. The new trial is
expected to be held sometime in
the near future.
The suit to end segregation in
public libraries, filed by Jesse Turner 
of the Tri-State Bank in July of
1958, was slated to be heard by
Judge Boyd last February, but Boyd
excused himself from the case three
days before its hearing on the
grounds that his son, Marion Boyd,
Jr., was one of the lawyers representing 
the defendants.
The suit to end segregation in
public recreational facilities has not
been heard yet, but is expected to
run into delays as have the others.
Atlanta, Ga., Montgomery, Ala.,
Miami, Fla., and New Orleans, La,
all deep South major cities have
integrated their buses. City officials
in Atlanta voluntarily integrated
the libraries there. Despite the
school crises in Little Rock, Ark.,
most of the other public facilities
there we integrated. But "Colonel

Memphis," faced with several longdrawn-out 
suits which segregationists 
have delayed every desegregation
case.

Taken Away


As I rot away slowly in this
inhuman place, I think back to how
I was living on the outside. Was it
really any better the days of
sleeping on park benches and in
boxcars? I think of one night when
the two drunk policemen came upto
me. "Where you going, nigger.
What you doing out this late at
night?" Before I got a chance to
answer, they were on me like a cat
on a rat. Next morning my battered
body was in a bed at John Gaston
Hospital, thanks to a kind-hearted
lady who had taken me there.
YOU NOW know the rest of my
story. Of the way the cruel Mrs. R.
got out a warrant for my arrest, of
the way I got out of town, and of
they way they arrested me When I
returned and framed me with murder. 
FRAMED! FRAMED! FRAMed! 
Oh, the misery of it all. The
words of the trustee in the Memphis
jail go through my mind and nearly
run me crazy: "YOU HAD BETTER
SAY YOU KILLED THAT MAN
OR THEY WILL KILL YOU." I
didn't want to say I killed that
man, cause I never killed - or - hurt
anybody in my life. But they kept
on beating me. They kept on. "SAY
YOU KILLED HIM NIGGER! SAY
YOU KILLED HIM!" "YOU KNOW
YOU DID IT, YOU KNOW
YOU DID IT! YOU BETTER SAY
YOU DID IT OR WELL KILL
YOU, WONT TALK, HUH!
TOUGH NIGGER. HUH? WELL
DAMMIT, WELL MAKE YOU
TALK!"
My body racked with pain, blood
streaming down my face, they kept
on beating me, day after day, night
after nght, they whipped me. A man
can take so much until he will do
anything to make them stop. ANYTHING! 
That's why I confessed to
the murder. I couldn't take any
more. I later changed my plea to
"NOT GUILTY," but it was of little 
use. And I was later whipped for
that. The State defendent did me
little good.
Living in prison for 20 years is
worse than leading a rat's life. Rats
come and go out of their holes; that
is they live in holes but are free
to come and go as they please. I
too live in a hole. But when you
come in a hole like this on a murder 
rap you stay in the hole. You
rot, you rot. You rot slowly and
completely. There seems to be no
way out. When the parole board
turns you down, you continue to rot,
only the rotting is more miserable
than ever.
I never did anything to Wind up
like this, and that's what makes is
so bad. Why must a man suffer forever 
for a crime he did not commit? 
For a crime he knew nothing
about?
I ONCE lived in hopes that the
guilty man would be caught or that
he would confess so I could get out.
I have lost all hopes now.
My baby brother has three or
four children. He won't even send
me their pictures. He only sends
me a Christmas card every year. A

letter from him would mean so much
to me. But in a place like this,
everybody forgets you.
My daughter writes me every
week and tells me about my four
grandchildren. She does what she
can for me. But with four children
of her own and one of her mother's 
little boys, she has her load.
She and her husband are separated.
WELL, maybe things will change.
So many men are getting out now
that have been given more time
than I have. But they do have
a little help. I have seen so many
people who, have been out and
back in since I have been in here.
WHAT DOES the future hold for
a man like me? You name it. I
guess I'll close here and return to
the chain gang. Back to the old
rat race. And to you on the outside,
all I will say is Help! Help!
Help-p-p-p!!

FRAMED! FRAMED! FRAMED


As I rot away slowly in this
inhuman place, I think back to how
I was living on the outside. Was it
really any better the days of
sleeping on park benches and in
boxcars? I think of one night when
the two drunk policemen came upto
me. "Where you going, nigger.
What you doing out this late at
night?" Before I got a chance to
answer, they were on me like a cat
on a rat. Next morning my battered
body was in a bed at John Gaston
Hospital, thanks to a kind-hearted
lady who had taken me there.
YOU NOW know the rest of my
story. Of the way the cruel Mrs. R.
got out a warrant for my arrest, of
the way I got out of town, and of
they way they arrested me When I
returned and framed me with murder. 
FRAMED! FRAMED! FRAMed! 
Oh, the misery of it all. The
words of the trustee in the Memphis
jail go through my mind and nearly
run me crazy: "YOU HAD BETTER
SAY YOU KILLED THAT MAN
OR THEY WILL KILL YOU." I
didn't want to say I killed that
man, cause I never killed - or - hurt
anybody in my life. But they kept
on beating me. They kept on. "SAY
YOU KILLED HIM NIGGER! SAY
YOU KILLED HIM!" "YOU KNOW
YOU DID IT, YOU KNOW
YOU DID IT! YOU BETTER SAY
YOU DID IT OR WELL KILL
YOU, WONT TALK, HUH!
TOUGH NIGGER. HUH? WELL
DAMMIT, WELL MAKE YOU
TALK!"
My body racked with pain, blood
streaming down my face, they kept
on beating me, day after day, night
after nght, they whipped me. A man
can take so much until he will do
anything to make them stop. ANYTHING! 
That's why I confessed to
the murder. I couldn't take any
more. I later changed my plea to
"NOT GUILTY," but it was of little 
use. And I was later whipped for
that. The State defendent did me
little good.
Living in prison for 20 years is
worse than leading a rat's life. Rats
come and go out of their holes; that
is they live in holes but are free
to come and go as they please. I
too live in a hole. But when you
come in a hole like this on a murder 
rap you stay in the hole. You
rot, you rot. You rot slowly and
completely. There seems to be no
way out. When the parole board
turns you down, you continue to rot,
only the rotting is more miserable
than ever.
I never did anything to Wind up
like this, and that's what makes is
so bad. Why must a man suffer forever 
for a crime he did not commit? 
For a crime he knew nothing
about?
I ONCE lived in hopes that the
guilty man would be caught or that
he would confess so I could get out.
I have lost all hopes now.
My baby brother has three or
four children. He won't even send
me their pictures. He only sends
me a Christmas card every year. A

letter from him would mean so much
to me. But in a place like this,
everybody forgets you.
My daughter writes me every
week and tells me about my four
grandchildren. She does what she
can for me. But with four children
of her own and one of her mother's 
little boys, she has her load.
She and her husband are separated.
WELL, maybe things will change.
So many men are getting out now
that have been given more time
than I have. But they do have
a little help. I have seen so many
people who, have been out and
back in since I have been in here.
WHAT DOES the future hold for
a man like me? You name it. I
guess I'll close here and return to
the chain gang. Back to the old
rat race. And to you on the outside,
all I will say is Help! Help!
Help-p-p-p!!

WORSE THAN RAT'S LIFE


As I rot away slowly in this
inhuman place, I think back to how
I was living on the outside. Was it
really any better the days of
sleeping on park benches and in
boxcars? I think of one night when
the two drunk policemen came upto
me. "Where you going, nigger.
What you doing out this late at
night?" Before I got a chance to
answer, they were on me like a cat
on a rat. Next morning my battered
body was in a bed at John Gaston
Hospital, thanks to a kind-hearted
lady who had taken me there.
YOU NOW know the rest of my
story. Of the way the cruel Mrs. R.
got out a warrant for my arrest, of
the way I got out of town, and of
they way they arrested me When I
returned and framed me with murder. 
FRAMED! FRAMED! FRAMed! 
Oh, the misery of it all. The
words of the trustee in the Memphis
jail go through my mind and nearly
run me crazy: "YOU HAD BETTER
SAY YOU KILLED THAT MAN
OR THEY WILL KILL YOU." I
didn't want to say I killed that
man, cause I never killed - or - hurt
anybody in my life. But they kept
on beating me. They kept on. "SAY
YOU KILLED HIM NIGGER! SAY
YOU KILLED HIM!" "YOU KNOW
YOU DID IT, YOU KNOW
YOU DID IT! YOU BETTER SAY
YOU DID IT OR WELL KILL
YOU, WONT TALK, HUH!
TOUGH NIGGER. HUH? WELL
DAMMIT, WELL MAKE YOU
TALK!"
My body racked with pain, blood
streaming down my face, they kept
on beating me, day after day, night
after nght, they whipped me. A man
can take so much until he will do
anything to make them stop. ANYTHING! 
That's why I confessed to
the murder. I couldn't take any
more. I later changed my plea to
"NOT GUILTY," but it was of little 
use. And I was later whipped for
that. The State defendent did me
little good.
Living in prison for 20 years is
worse than leading a rat's life. Rats
come and go out of their holes; that
is they live in holes but are free
to come and go as they please. I
too live in a hole. But when you
come in a hole like this on a murder 
rap you stay in the hole. You
rot, you rot. You rot slowly and
completely. There seems to be no
way out. When the parole board
turns you down, you continue to rot,
only the rotting is more miserable
than ever.
I never did anything to Wind up
like this, and that's what makes is
so bad. Why must a man suffer forever 
for a crime he did not commit? 
For a crime he knew nothing
about?
I ONCE lived in hopes that the
guilty man would be caught or that
he would confess so I could get out.
I have lost all hopes now.
My baby brother has three or
four children. He won't even send
me their pictures. He only sends
me a Christmas card every year. A

letter from him would mean so much
to me. But in a place like this,
everybody forgets you.
My daughter writes me every
week and tells me about my four
grandchildren. She does what she
can for me. But with four children
of her own and one of her mother's 
little boys, she has her load.
She and her husband are separated.
WELL, maybe things will change.
So many men are getting out now
that have been given more time
than I have. But they do have
a little help. I have seen so many
people who, have been out and
back in since I have been in here.
WHAT DOES the future hold for
a man like me? You name it. I
guess I'll close here and return to
the chain gang. Back to the old
rat race. And to you on the outside,
all I will say is Help! Help!
Help-p-p-p!!

BABY BROTHER
WON'T WRITE


As I rot away slowly in this
inhuman place, I think back to how
I was living on the outside. Was it
really any better the days of
sleeping on park benches and in
boxcars? I think of one night when
the two drunk policemen came upto
me. "Where you going, nigger.
What you doing out this late at
night?" Before I got a chance to
answer, they were on me like a cat
on a rat. Next morning my battered
body was in a bed at John Gaston
Hospital, thanks to a kind-hearted
lady who had taken me there.
YOU NOW know the rest of my
story. Of the way the cruel Mrs. R.
got out a warrant for my arrest, of
the way I got out of town, and of
they way they arrested me When I
returned and framed me with murder. 
FRAMED! FRAMED! FRAMed! 
Oh, the misery of it all. The
words of the trustee in the Memphis
jail go through my mind and nearly
run me crazy: "YOU HAD BETTER
SAY YOU KILLED THAT MAN
OR THEY WILL KILL YOU." I
didn't want to say I killed that
man, cause I never killed - or - hurt
anybody in my life. But they kept
on beating me. They kept on. "SAY
YOU KILLED HIM NIGGER! SAY
YOU KILLED HIM!" "YOU KNOW
YOU DID IT, YOU KNOW
YOU DID IT! YOU BETTER SAY
YOU DID IT OR WELL KILL
YOU, WONT TALK, HUH!
TOUGH NIGGER. HUH? WELL
DAMMIT, WELL MAKE YOU
TALK!"
My body racked with pain, blood
streaming down my face, they kept
on beating me, day after day, night
after nght, they whipped me. A man
can take so much until he will do
anything to make them stop. ANYTHING! 
That's why I confessed to
the murder. I couldn't take any
more. I later changed my plea to
"NOT GUILTY," but it was of little 
use. And I was later whipped for
that. The State defendent did me
little good.
Living in prison for 20 years is
worse than leading a rat's life. Rats
come and go out of their holes; that
is they live in holes but are free
to come and go as they please. I
too live in a hole. But when you
come in a hole like this on a murder 
rap you stay in the hole. You
rot, you rot. You rot slowly and
completely. There seems to be no
way out. When the parole board
turns you down, you continue to rot,
only the rotting is more miserable
than ever.
I never did anything to Wind up
like this, and that's what makes is
so bad. Why must a man suffer forever 
for a crime he did not commit? 
For a crime he knew nothing
about?
I ONCE lived in hopes that the
guilty man would be caught or that
he would confess so I could get out.
I have lost all hopes now.
My baby brother has three or
four children. He won't even send
me their pictures. He only sends
me a Christmas card every year. A

letter from him would mean so much
to me. But in a place like this,
everybody forgets you.
My daughter writes me every
week and tells me about my four
grandchildren. She does what she
can for me. But with four children
of her own and one of her mother's 
little boys, she has her load.
She and her husband are separated.
WELL, maybe things will change.
So many men are getting out now
that have been given more time
than I have. But they do have
a little help. I have seen so many
people who, have been out and
back in since I have been in here.
WHAT DOES the future hold for
a man like me? You name it. I
guess I'll close here and return to
the chain gang. Back to the old
rat race. And to you on the outside,
all I will say is Help! Help!
Help-p-p-p!!

MEMORIAL STUDIO

Designers, Builders & Erectors
of Monuments, Outstanding
many years for courteous service 
and reasonable prices.


NOT BY GUNS ALONE
By E. M. Barker
© 1958, M. M. Barker; Published by arrangement with Paul
R. Reynolds & Son; distributed by King Features Syndicate
Upon her arrival in New Mexico to
stay at the ranch of her grandmother,
Rachel Kilgore, whom she has never
seen before. Martha Kilgore finds
herself in the midst of a feud. For
when dumped into a creek by her
balky horse. She was rescued by Slade
Considine and taken to the ranch of
Slade's uncle. Nick Considine, to get
dry and warm. Hearing her name
was sufficient to cause Nick to order
her off his land and tell his nephew
to stay away from all the Kilgores
to be disowned. Nick Considine and
Rachel Kilgore have been bitter enemies 
for forty years.
All the ranchers in the Chupaderos
have had a common problem thrust
upon them. The Government has
established a new Forest Service and
is taking steps to impose regulations
on the use of range that the ranchers
considered theirs by right of possession. 
Rachel Kilgore has called a
meeting of the ranchers at Wynn
Thomason's place to discuss ways and
means of blocking the Forest Service's 
measures.
WYNN THOMASON'S T Anchor 
ranch was a secondrate 
outfit. It always had been.
Wynn's father, old Jeff Thomason, 
had been an easy-going, goodnatured 
sort who never seemed
really to care whether he had
much money or not. The bigger
and move powerful 143 and Walking 
K outfits to the west had
gradually edged his cattle down
into the foothills, so that the most
of his grazing land was the small
area around the home ranch.
That is, except for the strip of
rich  land on upper Escabrosa 
Creek, known as the Valle
Medio.
They could probably have taken
that too, if they had wanted it,
but they liked old Jeff Thomason
and without anything ever being
said about it Nick Considine and
Rachel Kilgore had just kept their
cattle out of there. This was easy
to do, since only by way of the
long, cliffed-in box canyon of Escabrosa 
Creek could the Valle
Medio be reached.
The T Anchor home ranch was
a ramshackle-looking mess. Old
Jeff had built the house himself
forty years ago, and it looked as
if he had never heard of a level
or a square. The corners jutted
out at drunken angles, the floors
all sloped downhill. But he had
had big ideas at first. He had
built a huge log framework, then
something had come up and he
hadn't got around to finishing it
inside. Thereafter something had
always seemed to come up, although 
up until the week he died
he had talked big plans for fixing
up the house some day.
In some ways Wynn seemed to
be a chip off the old block. Certainly 
he had never done anything 
to slick up the place. But
where old Jeff had been goodnatured 
and easy-going, Wynn
was bitterly bitten by a driving
ambition.
He worked hard but he never
seemed to have any money. He
complained because the 143 and
the Walking K had shoved him
out of good grazing country, and

retaliated by putting cattle on the
land they had always claimed.
The Valle Medio, he said, wasn't
any good any more. It was so
full of larkspur and wild parsnip,
especially around the old beaver
ponds, that he didn't dare let his
cattle run there.
With the exception of Tony
Miller, his right-hand man, who
had now been with him for two
years, he never kept regular help.
He couldn't afford it, he said.
Seasonally, When he needed extra
hands, he got either Jose or Patricio 
Guajardo to help him out
for a month or two.
The Guajardo boys were competent 
enough when they would
work which wasn't very often or
for very long. There were some
suspicious persons who wondered
where they got so much spending
money, and others who distrusted
their skill with rope and branding
iron. But working for Wynn had
improved their, reputation, for the
Thomason family had always been
respected, and folks approved of
the way Wynn had settled down
and gone to work after his
father's death.
While the Guajardo boys may
have been rascals, they were
charming rascals. Even the folks
who had reason to distrust them
most liked them, liked their ready
wit, their friendliness, their willingness 
to help out anyone who
was in trouble or short-handed
provided, of course, that the work
didn't last too long.
Slade Considine was thinking
of all this as he rode along, ducking 
his head against the blast of
cold east wind. A head of him as
he rounded a curve in the road,
the lights of the old Thomason
house blinked out at him.
There was a buggy in the front
yard, and close beside it Rachel
Kilgore's two-seated surrey, with
side curtains snapped in place to
keep some of the wind and rain
out. Tied to the hitch-rack was
the bony, sag-backed bay that
Frenchy Quebedeaux habitually
rode. Slade put out a hand and
scratched the horse's ear. So
Frenchy had decided to beard the
lions in their den and come to
this meeting. But it was right
that he should be here, for he
certainly had as big a stake in
the apportionment of the Chupaderos 
as any of them.
The well worn, almost rotten
boards on the front porch sagged
and creaked under his weight
when he stepped on them, and
Pat Guajardo, sitting by the door
inside, must have heard the noise
for the door opened just as Slade
raised his hand to knock.
"Hallo, Slade! Come in!"
Pat Guajardo had never been
out of New Mexico in his life, but
sometime he must have had a
schoolteacher from Texas, for he
and his brother both spoke English 
with a pleasing but somehow
funny mixture of Mexican accent

and Texas drawl. He rolled his
black eyes at the cowboy, jerked
a shoulder toward the room behind 
him, and Slade understood
that there had been a quarrel
simmering and that the witty
little Mexican was enjoying it.
To a stranger coming to that
room, the air-so tense with a
half a dozen old resentments and
grievances-would have struck
him in the face like a blow. But
to Slade Considine it was no different 
than he had expected. His
eyes swept coolly around the
room.
The stage was all set. Everybody 
was here. Jim Ned Wheeler
and Hud Livingstone from the
Kilgore ranch were hunched down
on the floor, half-smoked dead
cigarettes hanging from their
leathery lips.
Tony Miller leaned nonchalantly 
against the fireplace, a long
curved pipe dangling from one
corner of his mouth. Tony Was
buck-toothed, slight and blond.
Some of the old-timers who should
have known, said he looked like
Billy the Kid, and Tony must
have found the fancied resemblance 
flattering, for he copied
other mannerisms of the noted
outlaw. He was something of a
dandy, always wearing handsome,
expensive clothes and a pearlhandled 
Colt 45 strapped low
over his hip, and he cultivated a
cold, fish-eyed stare. But there
the resemblance ended. Whereas
the Kid had at times been gay
and fun-loving, Tony was slowtongued 
and usually sullen.
Nick Considine, sitting in a
corner without any of his cowhands 
for moral support, even in
his pride and anger, was somehow 
a lonesome and pathetic
figure.
Big Frenchy Quebedeaux, a
little apart from the others on a
chair much too small for him,
was squirming and perspiring uncomfortably 
under Rachel Kilgore's 
coolly malicious gaze.
Martha, on a low footstool near
the fireplace, turned her head and
smiled at Slade. His heart warmed
toward her, for it Was as if she
had stretched out her hand across
that hostile room in a gesture of
normal, pleasant friendship.
He was struck anew by her resemblance 
to her grandmother,
but now that he saw them together 
there was a difference beyond 
that of age. They had the
same lovely, long-lashed eyes, the
same proud tilt to the chin, the
same imperious arch of dark eyebrows 
but in the girl there was
a gentleness, a fineness, that was
lacking now in the older woman,
and maybe it had never been
there.
Martha, he felt sure, would
never enjoy making Frenchy
squirm as Rachel was doing
now. . . .
()

WHAT HAS HAPPENED
By E. M. Barker
© 1958, M. M. Barker; Published by arrangement with Paul
R. Reynolds & Son; distributed by King Features Syndicate
Upon her arrival in New Mexico to
stay at the ranch of her grandmother,
Rachel Kilgore, whom she has never
seen before. Martha Kilgore finds
herself in the midst of a feud. For
when dumped into a creek by her
balky horse. She was rescued by Slade
Considine and taken to the ranch of
Slade's uncle. Nick Considine, to get
dry and warm. Hearing her name
was sufficient to cause Nick to order
her off his land and tell his nephew
to stay away from all the Kilgores
to be disowned. Nick Considine and
Rachel Kilgore have been bitter enemies 
for forty years.
All the ranchers in the Chupaderos
have had a common problem thrust
upon them. The Government has
established a new Forest Service and
is taking steps to impose regulations
on the use of range that the ranchers
considered theirs by right of possession. 
Rachel Kilgore has called a
meeting of the ranchers at Wynn
Thomason's place to discuss ways and
means of blocking the Forest Service's 
measures.
WYNN THOMASON'S T Anchor 
ranch was a secondrate 
outfit. It always had been.
Wynn's father, old Jeff Thomason, 
had been an easy-going, goodnatured 
sort who never seemed
really to care whether he had
much money or not. The bigger
and move powerful 143 and Walking 
K outfits to the west had
gradually edged his cattle down
into the foothills, so that the most
of his grazing land was the small
area around the home ranch.
That is, except for the strip of
rich  land on upper Escabrosa 
Creek, known as the Valle
Medio.
They could probably have taken
that too, if they had wanted it,
but they liked old Jeff Thomason
and without anything ever being
said about it Nick Considine and
Rachel Kilgore had just kept their
cattle out of there. This was easy
to do, since only by way of the
long, cliffed-in box canyon of Escabrosa 
Creek could the Valle
Medio be reached.
The T Anchor home ranch was
a ramshackle-looking mess. Old
Jeff had built the house himself
forty years ago, and it looked as
if he had never heard of a level
or a square. The corners jutted
out at drunken angles, the floors
all sloped downhill. But he had
had big ideas at first. He had
built a huge log framework, then
something had come up and he
hadn't got around to finishing it
inside. Thereafter something had
always seemed to come up, although 
up until the week he died
he had talked big plans for fixing
up the house some day.
In some ways Wynn seemed to
be a chip off the old block. Certainly 
he had never done anything 
to slick up the place. But
where old Jeff had been goodnatured 
and easy-going, Wynn
was bitterly bitten by a driving
ambition.
He worked hard but he never
seemed to have any money. He
complained because the 143 and
the Walking K had shoved him
out of good grazing country, and

retaliated by putting cattle on the
land they had always claimed.
The Valle Medio, he said, wasn't
any good any more. It was so
full of larkspur and wild parsnip,
especially around the old beaver
ponds, that he didn't dare let his
cattle run there.
With the exception of Tony
Miller, his right-hand man, who
had now been with him for two
years, he never kept regular help.
He couldn't afford it, he said.
Seasonally, When he needed extra
hands, he got either Jose or Patricio 
Guajardo to help him out
for a month or two.
The Guajardo boys were competent 
enough when they would
work which wasn't very often or
for very long. There were some
suspicious persons who wondered
where they got so much spending
money, and others who distrusted
their skill with rope and branding
iron. But working for Wynn had
improved their, reputation, for the
Thomason family had always been
respected, and folks approved of
the way Wynn had settled down
and gone to work after his
father's death.
While the Guajardo boys may
have been rascals, they were
charming rascals. Even the folks
who had reason to distrust them
most liked them, liked their ready
wit, their friendliness, their willingness 
to help out anyone who
was in trouble or short-handed
provided, of course, that the work
didn't last too long.
Slade Considine was thinking
of all this as he rode along, ducking 
his head against the blast of
cold east wind. A head of him as
he rounded a curve in the road,
the lights of the old Thomason
house blinked out at him.
There was a buggy in the front
yard, and close beside it Rachel
Kilgore's two-seated surrey, with
side curtains snapped in place to
keep some of the wind and rain
out. Tied to the hitch-rack was
the bony, sag-backed bay that
Frenchy Quebedeaux habitually
rode. Slade put out a hand and
scratched the horse's ear. So
Frenchy had decided to beard the
lions in their den and come to
this meeting. But it was right
that he should be here, for he
certainly had as big a stake in
the apportionment of the Chupaderos 
as any of them.
The well worn, almost rotten
boards on the front porch sagged
and creaked under his weight
when he stepped on them, and
Pat Guajardo, sitting by the door
inside, must have heard the noise
for the door opened just as Slade
raised his hand to knock.
"Hallo, Slade! Come in!"
Pat Guajardo had never been
out of New Mexico in his life, but
sometime he must have had a
schoolteacher from Texas, for he
and his brother both spoke English 
with a pleasing but somehow
funny mixture of Mexican accent

and Texas drawl. He rolled his
black eyes at the cowboy, jerked
a shoulder toward the room behind 
him, and Slade understood
that there had been a quarrel
simmering and that the witty
little Mexican was enjoying it.
To a stranger coming to that
room, the air-so tense with a
half a dozen old resentments and
grievances-would have struck
him in the face like a blow. But
to Slade Considine it was no different 
than he had expected. His
eyes swept coolly around the
room.
The stage was all set. Everybody 
was here. Jim Ned Wheeler
and Hud Livingstone from the
Kilgore ranch were hunched down
on the floor, half-smoked dead
cigarettes hanging from their
leathery lips.
Tony Miller leaned nonchalantly 
against the fireplace, a long
curved pipe dangling from one
corner of his mouth. Tony Was
buck-toothed, slight and blond.
Some of the old-timers who should
have known, said he looked like
Billy the Kid, and Tony must
have found the fancied resemblance 
flattering, for he copied
other mannerisms of the noted
outlaw. He was something of a
dandy, always wearing handsome,
expensive clothes and a pearlhandled 
Colt 45 strapped low
over his hip, and he cultivated a
cold, fish-eyed stare. But there
the resemblance ended. Whereas
the Kid had at times been gay
and fun-loving, Tony was slowtongued 
and usually sullen.
Nick Considine, sitting in a
corner without any of his cowhands 
for moral support, even in
his pride and anger, was somehow 
a lonesome and pathetic
figure.
Big Frenchy Quebedeaux, a
little apart from the others on a
chair much too small for him,
was squirming and perspiring uncomfortably 
under Rachel Kilgore's 
coolly malicious gaze.
Martha, on a low footstool near
the fireplace, turned her head and
smiled at Slade. His heart warmed
toward her, for it Was as if she
had stretched out her hand across
that hostile room in a gesture of
normal, pleasant friendship.
He was struck anew by her resemblance 
to her grandmother,
but now that he saw them together 
there was a difference beyond 
that of age. They had the
same lovely, long-lashed eyes, the
same proud tilt to the chin, the
same imperious arch of dark eyebrows 
but in the girl there was
a gentleness, a fineness, that was
lacking now in the older woman,
and maybe it had never been
there.
Martha, he felt sure, would
never enjoy making Frenchy
squirm as Rachel was doing
now. . . .
()

CHAPTER 7
By E. M. Barker
© 1958, M. M. Barker; Published by arrangement with Paul
R. Reynolds & Son; distributed by King Features Syndicate
Upon her arrival in New Mexico to
stay at the ranch of her grandmother,
Rachel Kilgore, whom she has never
seen before. Martha Kilgore finds
herself in the midst of a feud. For
when dumped into a creek by her
balky horse. She was rescued by Slade
Considine and taken to the ranch of
Slade's uncle. Nick Considine, to get
dry and warm. Hearing her name
was sufficient to cause Nick to order
her off his land and tell his nephew
to stay away from all the Kilgores
to be disowned. Nick Considine and
Rachel Kilgore have been bitter enemies 
for forty years.
All the ranchers in the Chupaderos
have had a common problem thrust
upon them. The Government has
established a new Forest Service and
is taking steps to impose regulations
on the use of range that the ranchers
considered theirs by right of possession. 
Rachel Kilgore has called a
meeting of the ranchers at Wynn
Thomason's place to discuss ways and
means of blocking the Forest Service's 
measures.
WYNN THOMASON'S T Anchor 
ranch was a secondrate 
outfit. It always had been.
Wynn's father, old Jeff Thomason, 
had been an easy-going, goodnatured 
sort who never seemed
really to care whether he had
much money or not. The bigger
and move powerful 143 and Walking 
K outfits to the west had
gradually edged his cattle down
into the foothills, so that the most
of his grazing land was the small
area around the home ranch.
That is, except for the strip of
rich  land on upper Escabrosa 
Creek, known as the Valle
Medio.
They could probably have taken
that too, if they had wanted it,
but they liked old Jeff Thomason
and without anything ever being
said about it Nick Considine and
Rachel Kilgore had just kept their
cattle out of there. This was easy
to do, since only by way of the
long, cliffed-in box canyon of Escabrosa 
Creek could the Valle
Medio be reached.
The T Anchor home ranch was
a ramshackle-looking mess. Old
Jeff had built the house himself
forty years ago, and it looked as
if he had never heard of a level
or a square. The corners jutted
out at drunken angles, the floors
all sloped downhill. But he had
had big ideas at first. He had
built a huge log framework, then
something had come up and he
hadn't got around to finishing it
inside. Thereafter something had
always seemed to come up, although 
up until the week he died
he had talked big plans for fixing
up the house some day.
In some ways Wynn seemed to
be a chip off the old block. Certainly 
he had never done anything 
to slick up the place. But
where old Jeff had been goodnatured 
and easy-going, Wynn
was bitterly bitten by a driving
ambition.
He worked hard but he never
seemed to have any money. He
complained because the 143 and
the Walking K had shoved him
out of good grazing country, and

retaliated by putting cattle on the
land they had always claimed.
The Valle Medio, he said, wasn't
any good any more. It was so
full of larkspur and wild parsnip,
especially around the old beaver
ponds, that he didn't dare let his
cattle run there.
With the exception of Tony
Miller, his right-hand man, who
had now been with him for two
years, he never kept regular help.
He couldn't afford it, he said.
Seasonally, When he needed extra
hands, he got either Jose or Patricio 
Guajardo to help him out
for a month or two.
The Guajardo boys were competent 
enough when they would
work which wasn't very often or
for very long. There were some
suspicious persons who wondered
where they got so much spending
money, and others who distrusted
their skill with rope and branding
iron. But working for Wynn had
improved their, reputation, for the
Thomason family had always been
respected, and folks approved of
the way Wynn had settled down
and gone to work after his
father's death.
While the Guajardo boys may
have been rascals, they were
charming rascals. Even the folks
who had reason to distrust them
most liked them, liked their ready
wit, their friendliness, their willingness 
to help out anyone who
was in trouble or short-handed
provided, of course, that the work
didn't last too long.
Slade Considine was thinking
of all this as he rode along, ducking 
his head against the blast of
cold east wind. A head of him as
he rounded a curve in the road,
the lights of the old Thomason
house blinked out at him.
There was a buggy in the front
yard, and close beside it Rachel
Kilgore's two-seated surrey, with
side curtains snapped in place to
keep some of the wind and rain
out. Tied to the hitch-rack was
the bony, sag-backed bay that
Frenchy Quebedeaux habitually
rode. Slade put out a hand and
scratched the horse's ear. So
Frenchy had decided to beard the
lions in their den and come to
this meeting. But it was right
that he should be here, for he
certainly had as big a stake in
the apportionment of the Chupaderos 
as any of them.
The well worn, almost rotten
boards on the front porch sagged
and creaked under his weight
when he stepped on them, and
Pat Guajardo, sitting by the door
inside, must have heard the noise
for the door opened just as Slade
raised his hand to knock.
"Hallo, Slade! Come in!"
Pat Guajardo had never been
out of New Mexico in his life, but
sometime he must have had a
schoolteacher from Texas, for he
and his brother both spoke English 
with a pleasing but somehow
funny mixture of Mexican accent

and Texas drawl. He rolled his
black eyes at the cowboy, jerked
a shoulder toward the room behind 
him, and Slade understood
that there had been a quarrel
simmering and that the witty
little Mexican was enjoying it.
To a stranger coming to that
room, the air-so tense with a
half a dozen old resentments and
grievances-would have struck
him in the face like a blow. But
to Slade Considine it was no different 
than he had expected. His
eyes swept coolly around the
room.
The stage was all set. Everybody 
was here. Jim Ned Wheeler
and Hud Livingstone from the
Kilgore ranch were hunched down
on the floor, half-smoked dead
cigarettes hanging from their
leathery lips.
Tony Miller leaned nonchalantly 
against the fireplace, a long
curved pipe dangling from one
corner of his mouth. Tony Was
buck-toothed, slight and blond.
Some of the old-timers who should
have known, said he looked like
Billy the Kid, and Tony must
have found the fancied resemblance 
flattering, for he copied
other mannerisms of the noted
outlaw. He was something of a
dandy, always wearing handsome,
expensive clothes and a pearlhandled 
Colt 45 strapped low
over his hip, and he cultivated a
cold, fish-eyed stare. But there
the resemblance ended. Whereas
the Kid had at times been gay
and fun-loving, Tony was slowtongued 
and usually sullen.
Nick Considine, sitting in a
corner without any of his cowhands 
for moral support, even in
his pride and anger, was somehow 
a lonesome and pathetic
figure.
Big Frenchy Quebedeaux, a
little apart from the others on a
chair much too small for him,
was squirming and perspiring uncomfortably 
under Rachel Kilgore's 
coolly malicious gaze.
Martha, on a low footstool near
the fireplace, turned her head and
smiled at Slade. His heart warmed
toward her, for it Was as if she
had stretched out her hand across
that hostile room in a gesture of
normal, pleasant friendship.
He was struck anew by her resemblance 
to her grandmother,
but now that he saw them together 
there was a difference beyond 
that of age. They had the
same lovely, long-lashed eyes, the
same proud tilt to the chin, the
same imperious arch of dark eyebrows 
but in the girl there was
a gentleness, a fineness, that was
lacking now in the older woman,
and maybe it had never been
there.
Martha, he felt sure, would
never enjoy making Frenchy
squirm as Rachel was doing
now. . . .
()

Judge Ends Elk Case

the case with prejudice and that
the plaintiffs and no others can
bring the same or a similar complaint 
in any jurisdiction because
the dismissal was by a court in
New Jersey, the domicile of the
corporation.
After the dismissal, Mr. Howard
reported that there was general
handshaking, and making up.
"With all of the charges, rumors 
and whispers about the financial 
affairs of the order, "Mr.
Howard pointed out that there
was no testimony which reflected
upon Mr. Hueston and his record
in any way. He added that none
of the testimony reflected upon
any of the grand lodge officers.
John C. Drew of Camden, N. J.,
recently elected president of the
Jersey State Elks Association, was
in court with the plaintiffs and
joined in the efforts to settle the
case.
Robert H. Johnson, Elks grand
exalted ruler, was not present at
the trial because of a recent illness, 
Mr. Howard said, but he
kept in touch with developments
by telephone from his Philadelphia 
home.
Hobson Reynolds, director of
the Elks civil liberties department
and Charles McClane of Steelton,
Pa., grand public relations director, 
in addition to Mr. Hueston,
were among the grand lodge officers 
present in the courtroom
on Monday and Tuesday.
The suit was brought by John
W. Jones, Linden, N. J.; John A.
Whitaker, Newark; William Royster, 
East Orange, N. J.; Louis C.
Spicer, Vaux Hall, N. J.; W. Hollis 
Plinton, Westfield, N. J., and
Carvie G. Hobson, Plainfield, N.
J. Mr. Hobson died recently.

FEVER HOSPITALIZES CAREY
Third baseman 
Andy Carey of the New York
Yankees is in Lenox Hill Hospital
to recuperate from a fever caused
by a virus.

Federal Court Voids

certainly hope the board formulates 
plans to open the schools in
September," Wiley Branton, the
lawyer who represented the National 
Association for Advancement
of Colored People before the three
judges, said.
The three federal judges who
ruled are Eighth U. S. Circuit
Court of Appeals Judge John S.
Sanborn Of St. Paul, Minn.; U. S.
District Judge John S. Miller of
Fort Smith, Ark., and U. S. District 
Judge Axel J. Beck of El
Point, S. D.
The laws they declared unconstitutional 
were Acts 4 and 5 of
a special anti - integration "package" 
the Arkansas Legislature
passed last fall for Faubus.
Act 4 allowed him to close the
schools, which he did to keep Negroes 
from attending, and Act 5
allowed him to withhold public
funds from closed schools.

Oak Ridge Elects

welfare appointed by Town Council, 
a member of the executive
committee of the Oak Ridge Community 
Relations Council and a
member of the Tennessee Council
on Human Relations.
Upon his election, Butler, thanking 
his constituents stated that
"It is evident that the City of
Oak Ridge will eventually become 
the most important city in
the state - industry - wise, employment 
- wise, and as an example 
of the democratic way of
life.
"As a member of the first and
probably the most decisive City
Council, I will work to help attract 
new industry to the area,
thereby providing additional avenues 
for employment. By voting
for incorporation, the citizens expressed 
their desire for self government. 
I will make every effort
to insure that citizens may participate 
fully and freely in local

government. I thank God and the
citizens of Oak Ridge for the opportunity 
to serve."
The officials took their offices
on Tuesday, June. 16.

CITY DESTINY FORECAST

welfare appointed by Town Council, 
a member of the executive
committee of the Oak Ridge Community 
Relations Council and a
member of the Tennessee Council
on Human Relations.
Upon his election, Butler, thanking 
his constituents stated that
"It is evident that the City of
Oak Ridge will eventually become 
the most important city in
the state - industry - wise, employment 
- wise, and as an example 
of the democratic way of
life.
"As a member of the first and
probably the most decisive City
Council, I will work to help attract 
new industry to the area,
thereby providing additional avenues 
for employment. By voting
for incorporation, the citizens expressed 
their desire for self government. 
I will make every effort
to insure that citizens may participate 
fully and freely in local

government. I thank God and the
citizens of Oak Ridge for the opportunity 
to serve."
The officials took their offices
on Tuesday, June. 16.

NEWLY
CONSTRUCTED
HOMES
3 BEDROOM BRICKS
Gas Forced-Air Heat
Immediate Possession
See These Homes At
EDWARDS & UNIVERSITY
Open Daily
Other Homes Available
Terms To Suit
Will Accept Trades
FHA or Conventional
Financing
Agents: Phone JA 6-4317 or
HORNE REALTY CO.
1936 Chelsea
BR 6-6194

Arkansas Jury

who testified in the accused man's
behalf at the West Memphis preliminary, 
didn't want to appear
again, and wouldn't unless he was
subpoenaed. Walter, Jr., seemed upset 
when he was interviewed last
week. The 16-year-old Alonzo Locke
student testified that Erwin was
at his house the day of the alleged
rape. 'I just glimpsed him on the
phone," Walter, Jr., said. All of
the Joneses, including the grandfather, 
Sam Jones, have said they
do not know Erwin well.
Something that might be good
news for Erwin, however, is that
Memphis police, according to Atty.
Andrews, have turned over to Arkansas 
authorities a picture of a
"CLARENCE MILAM," the alleged
man who Erwin says borrowed his
car, probably put on a "Forest Hill
Dairy" uniform and who probably
is guilty of attacking the small
girl. Atty. Andrews said he had not
yet found out whether Erwin had
identified the police picture as the
alleged "Milam."
Mrs. Mary Erwin, the accused
rapist's wife and mother of seven
small children, has remained calm
through the ordeal, even in the face
of the possibility of Tom getting
the electric chair. Atty. Andrews
has stated emphatically that "Marion, 
Ark., is a dangerous place for
a colored man to be tried" and that
the maximum penalty for rape in
Arkansas is death in the electric
chair.

WHERE'S CLARENCE MILAM?

who testified in the accused man's
behalf at the West Memphis preliminary, 
didn't want to appear
again, and wouldn't unless he was
subpoenaed. Walter, Jr., seemed upset 
when he was interviewed last
week. The 16-year-old Alonzo Locke
student testified that Erwin was
at his house the day of the alleged
rape. 'I just glimpsed him on the
phone," Walter, Jr., said. All of
the Joneses, including the grandfather, 
Sam Jones, have said they
do not know Erwin well.
Something that might be good
news for Erwin, however, is that
Memphis police, according to Atty.
Andrews, have turned over to Arkansas 
authorities a picture of a
"CLARENCE MILAM," the alleged
man who Erwin says borrowed his
car, probably put on a "Forest Hill
Dairy" uniform and who probably
is guilty of attacking the small
girl. Atty. Andrews said he had not
yet found out whether Erwin had
identified the police picture as the
alleged "Milam."
Mrs. Mary Erwin, the accused
rapist's wife and mother of seven
small children, has remained calm
through the ordeal, even in the face
of the possibility of Tom getting
the electric chair. Atty. Andrews
has stated emphatically that "Marion, 
Ark., is a dangerous place for
a colored man to be tried" and that
the maximum penalty for rape in
Arkansas is death in the electric
chair.

SEEK URANIUM IN
NORTHERN NIGERIA
A team of geo-chemists from the
London Imperial College of science 
and technology is currently
investigating the distribution of
tin, niobium, rare earth and radioactive 
minerals in the rocks of the
Jos plateau.

LAFF-A-DAY
"why don't you just bury
BONES like other dogs?!"

PRISON RIOT —
Prisoners in
Havana's City Jail scale the
battlements of the former
Spanish fortress to tear down
the flag during an eight-hour
battle with guards and police.
Inmates of the Cuban jail
were protesting conditions and
demanding an amnesty law.
Three were injured as police
fired into the air to calm them.

MEMPHIS WORLD

Want Ad Information
Call JA. 6-4030
Deadline For Classified Ad is
Tuesday for Saturday's Edition and
Saturday for Wednesday's Edition

REPAIR SERVICE
Call as for Refrigeration Repairs,
Air Conditioners, Washing Machines, 
Electrical, Appliances.—Fast
courteous service.

1923 Madison
Phone BR. 2-7617

REMODEL-REPAIR-PAINT

On FHA terms. Free estimates
easy payments — Carports, dent
garages, rooms, enclosures, paint
ing, roofing, concrete, brick paneling, 
siding, 'additions. Phone for
estimate.
Home Builders Supply Co.
820 S. willet
BR 5-8128

BUSINESS WOMEN - SELL
To fellow employees on lunch hoar
and breaks. Add $20-530 a week to
present Income. Avon Cosmetics are
In demand everywhere. Call JA
5-6933.

NEWSBOYS WANTED
To Sell the Memphis World Tuesday 
and Friday. JA 8-4030.

GET YOUR VITAMINS
Vitamins Add Years To Life—Add
Life To Years. Buy your vitamins
wholesale and save 40&. Moneyback 
guarantee. Phone FA. 7-5742,

REPAIRS
All types of gas appliances installed 
and repaired. Williams Repair
Shop, 1232 N. Bellevue. Ph.: JA.
3-1494. Licensed and Bonded. Day
or night service. O. C. Williams.

HELP WANTED - FEMALE
Houseworkers for live-in positions.
Mass., Conn., N. Y. — $30 to $50.
References required. Carfare advanced. 

Barton Employment Bureau
Great Barrington, Mass.

HELP WANTED
MALE - FEMALE
Man or Woman, no experience
needed, to teach new course. Ragins, 
118 Looney Avenue.

HOMES FOR SALE
In Walker Homes Subdivision, this
2-bedroom house, newly decorated.
Can be bought at reasonable price
and easy terms, Make offer. Vacant
move right in.
BR. 5-7231 or BR. 5-8638

FOR SALE
48-INCH ATTIC FAN
Good Condition
UTILITY CABINET-FRIGIDAIRE
Call BR 8-1791

FOR SALE
HOUSEHOLD GOODS
Apt Gas Range, $30; Sewing
Machine, Utility Cabinet, Chest
of Drawers, Porcelain top table,
miscl.
Ex 8-1533
Whitehaven

FOR SALE
2 1/2 ACRES OF LAND
at
3674 Weaver Road with two
new houses.
WH. 6-0882

FOR SALE
— Also —
Piano Tuning and Repairs
1726 Lamar
BR 2-2862

LAMAR PIANO SALES
— Also —
Piano Tuning and Repairs
1726 Lamar
BR 2-2862

CAFE FOR SALE
Fine industrial location. Now
serving white and colored. Can
convert to all colored . . . adding 
beer, can make some real
money for high type colored
man and wife.
BR 5-5727 after 5:30 P. M.

FOR SALE
3 lots with 3 houses on them,
One business place on the 3 lots
which will pay for itself.
2017 Casts St, Memphis," Tenn.
Phone WH 6-0882