Cowboy Short Stories, November 1939 — page 89: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

90 COWBOY SHORT STORIES voice, for his own amusement and Larkin’s. “A bo’n crook, if they evah wuz sich a thing in human body. Thet’s Mark Larkin! A thief, a safe-crackah, a highway-man, a thug, a robbah, a bandit! Ma’k my word, boys. Nevah trust thet same Larkin fo’ a second. Fifty-eight cents it wuz, haza’ded in the noble game of chance, an’ he took it frum me by foul cahd play. Not wu’th killin’ a man ovah, I told m’self. But he _ cheated it frum me! It ain’t the loss of the money so much thet peeves me, but it is the fac’ thet a outfit like the A-Bah-1 will employ sich likes of ‘im!’ ” “Yeah?” said Larkin sullenly. He forgot for a moment that Lew Springer was the ownetr’s son. “Yeah? Well, this same Mark Larkin is ridin’ buckaroo boss for the old A-Bar-1 in the Sandy Crick country, come the first of next month. He was picked from ten other cowboys for the job. And just about then this same Larkin may be in- sistin’ on a bit of hirin’ an’ firin’ of his own, like as not. The Jinx is one man that had better watch his step.” ‘“Aw!’’ said Lew. ‘Aw, don’t take him serious like that, Larkin. Hell’s bells, man —the Jinx ain't to be took serious. That's all. Besides, the Old Man has a strange likin’ for him. He’s been wagon cook with us ‘most since the time I can remember.”’ ‘He gets on my nerves,” snapped Lar- kin, but he remembered now that Lew was Old Man Springer’s son. ‘Sure, I know. He’s a good wagon cook as wagon cooks go. But he sure does need one lesson!” Lew Springer was in decided agreement with this. ““He does. He sure does, Larkin. But first one of the boys, then another, has been decidin’ that same thing for the last six-seven years I can remember, an’ been tryin” to give the Jinx his lesson. So far no one has succeeded to his entire satisfaction.” Hoofs clicked on the dry road; saddle leather creaked. One of the boys started to whistle a mournful tune, which broke off gradually in a dry throat. Dust settled over the cook wagon, and the rocking Jinx, who needed a lesson, slept on in peace. Finally Mark Larkin turned to Lew again. “I got an idea,” said Larkin, measuring the happy-go-lucky Lew out of the cornets of his eyes. “A good idea. Lew, it must be quite a sum of money you're carryin’ back to the Old Man?” “Yeah,” said Lew. “Yeah, it is. “Most $3000 cash, along with cheques.” Lew tapped his left-hand saddlebag. “All here. The Old Man banks up home, y’know.” Larkin nodded. “Look here, Lew: S’pose you'd keep all that cash in one parcel like, an’ give it to the Jinx for safe-keepin’, come about sundown this evenin’, We'll just about make "Dobe Flat for an early night's camp. If you was to give the Jinx that cash to keep for you, it would swell his chest near to bustin’, I reckon. It would make him feel about the most important man on the face of the earth. He’d carry on, tellin’ what gun-play he’s took part in an’ his early sheriffin’ experiences.” “Yeah,” agreed Lew Springer. ‘““‘He sure would. What point, though, in swelling his chest more’n it is?” ‘“Lis’en!’’ continued Larkin. “He'd feel the responsibility of that cash more’n an old hen feels day-old chicks, if you ever see that sight. He’d strut till he breaks shirt buttons. He’d begin givin’ the boys all ad- vice, all over again—pointin’ to himself as the one man in the outfit that you'd trust with so much money. Get me?” “Yeah,” said Lew. “I know all that. But then what?” “Then,” said Larkin, ‘then, come sun- down or thereabouts a bold, bad bandit rides in on him. He’s alone, see? Get it? I got a hundred dollars in my pocket, Lew, that says the Jinx will hand over your money without a move to protect it. After all his high-falutin’, big-chest blowin’, he'll be a wiltin’ violet when the moment comes. With the boys watchin’ the scene from a distance, I reckon the kiddin’ he'll just natchurly get afterward will hold the Jinx at normal for no tellin’ how long.” ‘Who's to be the big, bad bandit?” asked Lew. ‘“‘Me! Ain't he got me figured for the world’s worst crook anyhow, if he does happen to recognize me?” Lew Springer, the Old Man’s son, began to quiver all over. Chuckles shook him in the saddle. HAT was the trouble with the Jinx. He was superior. He was boastful. He liked to hear himself talk. The boys could vouch for it. Whenever possible he cor- nered some one of the unwary and ex- pounded various theories, mixed doctrines, cook wagon philosophy, boast and advice. As somebody expressed it, he was “hell on advice.’ Each knew he lied profusely. With a studied contention, he talked gooseneck stickers in a land of curved- Conniclooo S (©