Timothy Wales was a quiet young man who spent most of his life on his family’s small farm. In 1904, both his parents and younger brother died of an unknown illness. When he was forced to leave the farm, Timothy moved into the center of town and took a job at a bar located on Scots Street near the train station.
Despite his shy demeanor, he was a favorite of the men who would stop in for a drink. He had a particular fondness for men his own age, often serving them the liquor they could otherwise ill-afford.
On the afternoon of December 9, I saw a pair of men stumble out of the bar and was shocked at the state of them. Their hair was thin, their eyes sunken, and the pallor of their skin was horrific. They were drunk and unsteady on their feet, and when I asked them what they had been drinking, they muttered about Timmy Wales’ special brew.
An angry, cold sensation settled in the pit of my stomach, and I walked into the bar, took a seat where I could see the young man, and I watched him for the night. For three more days, I returned, observing him and those he served, and the bottle from which he poured their drinks. On the night of the twelfth, I made sure to be the last patron in the bar.
When Timothy came over to tell me it was time to leave, I placed my Colts on the table and told him he needed to get his bottle and sit with me a spell. He told me he would not and that I needed to kill him. I replied that I’d blow his kneecaps out and tell the town what he’d been up to with strangers, and what it meant regarding his family.
Timothy brought the bottle to the table.
It took him two hours, but he choked the contents down. The poison took effect within moments of his last drink, and in seconds he was on his hands and knees, vomiting blood onto the floor.
In the end, he lay in a pool of blood, bile, and intestines, weeping as he died.
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