All-Story Weekly, Vol. 112, No. 1 — page 90: what you’re looking at

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

80 heavier roan could get into his stride. Then, making it a merry chase, they went over the trail together, toward the wayside drinking hole. Glad to be rid of his new employer for a while, tired of being kept close at the heel of the man who fed him, clothed him, armed him and paid him; tired, too, of teaching the seemingly slow heir of Ox Bow the elements of weaponry, Lars Maltrane yawning, uneasy, fared forth on the main trail, afork of his horse, and turned his steed’s head toward the Chaparral Cock He had not had his accustomed toss of aguardiente for days; had not bantered with the bar woman there; had got played a hand of poker with some one of the place’s habitués. The dead King of Ox Bow had given him stated times off for such relaxation as could be obtained; so far, the new ruler had not seemed to care whether Lars ever rested from his lazy labors of retainership. Maltrane was in one of those moods when his silent nature craved for excitement—the jog of the un- usual. It was fully dark when he set forth. He let his mount go slowly, and as he rede he fingered his guns, new ones from the Ox Bow armory—a pair of the dead man’s that Barney had thought best to give Lars. Maltrane was meditative, his mifid running upon the curious fouling of his gun in the fight; his failure to kill Peters, although his thumb, fanning the hammer, had sped the six shots within the space of a triple heart- beat. He thought over again each detail of the swirling scene—in vain. It was be- yond him. Heretofore he was sure when he shot that that which he aimed at would die. But now— The lights of the Chaparral Cock shone dimly. With the gunman’s usual caution, Lars did not make a direct approach. Sundry exploits there had made him ene- mies, and it was always best not to take the risk of a direct line of fire! He left his horse, reins on the ground, at a safe distance, sure that the animal would remain where he left it. He came to the entrance at an angle and brushed past several men who were about the door, evidently con- cerned with what was going on inside. He ALL-STORY WEEKLY. . heard voices high, angry; one most famil- iar. He had happened into the midst of a tense little drama that had its beginning when Barney Barnquist had arrived with Maretta long before. _ When the two had ridden up to the Chaparral Cock, Maretta had sent the two horses to be cared for by one of the ubi- quitous Mexican muchachos hanging about. She had indicated to Barney that for the time being he was to amuse himself about the place, while she, in deference to custom, supervised the early details of the dribble of traffic over the bar and in the kitchen. Tortillas and frijoles, carne in several modes, were served to Barney at a little table aside from the main groups, and he relaxed, smoked, jingled his gold. The Mexican habitués of the place drifted in and out. Many games sprang into action— chuck-aluck, poker, monte. The place was too small for faro—small in usual traffic. A couple of Mexicans in their steeple hats, little bells ajingle, began to throw dice softly on one corner of the bar. Barney, his mind vacant, his senses limp, yearned for some excitement to bridge the present over into the future hours on which he was counting so much. The rattle ‘of the dice caught his ear. He strolled over to the bar and watched the play. Maretta was not behind the-bar, her place being taken temporarily by Aguilar, who greeted Barney courteously. Barnquist always had had a desire to gamble, man-fashion, but owing to his father’s policy in keeping ready cash for him, had not been able to gratify his pas- sion. He had played for small stakes with the ranch hands and once had diced in Coppered Jack on credit, only to have his father’s heavy hand upon him, when he was discovered at it. And new— Barnquist shoved forward. Gamecock- like, he was athirst for battle, for big deeds, : measured according to his standards. He had been bred to look down upon Mexicans as “mere greasers.” ‘That the two dicing there had any rights that he was bound to respect entered not into his head. He wanted to dice, to sprandle his money on to the bar, to hear it chink. He shouldered between the two Mexi- COMICOooe SS C©