All-Story Weekly, Vol. 112, No. 1 — page 93: what you’re looking at

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

MIDNIGHT OF The depths of the new cattle prince’s pas- sions she had not plumbed—even his mas- tery of the gamblers had not opened her eyes. She had wound so many pliant men about her pink-white finger tips that to wind this one more completely seemed easy of accomplishment. | “ Paff, for you, Pedro,” she said to her- self again. Pending her triumph, she was a prisoner of hope, chained to the four walls of the wayside joint by the fear of the man whose will, up to a not remote day, had been her. master. It was interest and a certain tiger- cat admiration for the suave Mexican that had kept her with him for so long. But now other ideas had entered her handsome head, and her eyes blazed as she teased her imagination by pondering upon them. As te left the barroom, Aguilar first glanced about to make sure that he was not observed. Then he stole away, cat- like, toward the hidden stable where Mid- night was. The Mexican had treated the horse well —fed and watered him regularly. The stable was roomy, with one window that was so screened by low bushes that it was not discernible to the casual passer-by. The horse at first refused food and even water from the hands of the stranger, but, finding that no harm was done him, he gradually began to drink and eat, when no one was about. Sundry bits of salt and sweets had solaced him, yet every time he felt the hand of the Mexican on his silken coat, Midnight trembled with disgust. Often he bared his teeth, squealed, kicked. Yet, quick as he was, the expe- rienced horse thief was quicker. Aguilar kept out of the stable and was depending on kindness and usage to make the horse amenable to his will. He did not want to sell the horse injured, broken. He knew the value of the animal and meant to sell him in prime condition—hence his extreme care of Midnight. As Aguilar edged back the hidden door of the concealed stable, there was a flash of hoofs, a sequel. The stallion had kicked at him. Aguilar, missed by a hair, stepped back and laughed. THE RANGES. 83 “In time, my friend, in time,- you, will yield,” he chuckled. He shut the door, al- most, and waited. He talked to Midnight who stood, ears a-cock, listening to those smooth, flowing, nearly lisping tones, seek- ing in them for sounds that would appeal to him. For in truth, the horse, used to the air, the sun, the tang of wind, was lone- some and anxious for friendly nuzzling, a loved voice to answer his own deep whick- ering. Aguilar’s voice flowed on and on. The great stallion’s head drooped, his eyes paled. He shook a fly from his mane with quick tremors of his” shining skin. He stamped nervously with one forefost, then another, - Aguilar inched the door open, slid in- side, talking, crooning, reaching for the nose of the lonely animal. Midnight seemed to drowse. The soft hand touched the soft nose. At the touch a shiver of hate ran through every fiber of Midnight’s being. The feel of the man’s cold palm on his own warm nose brought into the animal’s memory the agony of the constricting rope, the heavy fall, the long, blind, fearsome walk over the prairie. Midnight became a whirlwind of anger. His head went up. He blared in rage, lashed out before and behind. Aguilar, caught off-guard, yet had wit enough not to dash for the door, but into a corner. The stallion whirled, as if on a_ pivot, sought his foe in the dark space and missed * him, for the agile Mexican slid, viperlike, from gloom to light and, flicking loose the guard chain, was outside before the stal- lion could wheel again in that narrow, pent-up stable. Aguilar barely had time to turn and draw the door to when the thrum- ming hoofs crashed against its timbers and the stallion’s squeals told of his rage and disappointment over his lack of suc- cess. Aguilar stood outside for a moment, his face scowling. Then he smoothed the scowl from his features and smiled. ‘“All the better, when you do become mine,” he said to himself. Then, puffing calmly at a fresh cigarro, Pedro went to- ward the Chaparral Cock again. There he COmiIclooOo SS C©