Pulp Fiction, 1923 · page 157 of 180
Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 157: what you’re looking at
A restored page from Pulp Fiction, 1923. Page through the whole issue in the reader above.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
2H ba a+ hi = . . » “ —- 2 at ea Ms — . —- ~~ oes | 4 va) ’ = sf = =~ 4 bd —— - p Ors Bex) a 2 wr : Y == = . 4 Ts é a — = = —— . aa Sk ee “i “9 ——————— Ff ~ 2 : ~ > 3 . soon : > i YW ‘ tJ A "> . + me aE -- a — eee AY i ell = Se ae > . ~ * . ‘ x Ss“ “a q . , .” = * = =s > +. 7 ~ >! te = an ¢, > Pe A . By JAMES ey ELL, Dick, we got through, and WV they said it couldn’t be done.” The big man in the broad hat descended from the two-horse sleigh drawn up before the Turnerville Hotel, half hid- den by the swirl of snow. He swung his arms vigorously, to warm himself, then turned to the sleigh. “Come on, old fellow,” he called, “ let’s get inside. This is worse than Montana.” A second man uncurled from beneath the robes. The horses fretted at the reins, sensing the end of a hard journey and anxious to reach the warm stable. “T’m frozen, Jim,” said the second man, “but we must get these guns.” They rustled under the tarpaulin on the back of the sleigh and brought forth a pair of rifles and their kits. Then the door of the hotel was opened and a voice called, as though far away: “ Who’s there?” “Two of us, and hungry as wolves.” The man on the porch came down the steps, shielding his eyes with one hand to keep away the driving snow. “ How’d you get through?” he asked. “T wouldn’t ’a’ thought anybuddy could come up that road.” C. YOUNG Then he recognized the driver, and heard how the party had been all day on the way, a twelve-mile drive from the railroad. The two men left him to bring the lug- gage and went inside. “ My, but it’s good to get out of that storm!” said the one who answered to the name of Dick. ‘A three-day snow is something the Berkshires seldom have in deer week. We deserve a shot at a big buck after all this trouble.” “* Oh, we’ll get one—that is, if you have any deer around here,” replied his com- panion. ‘‘ This snow will slow them down, and if it holds up to-night their trail will be plain as a path. Why, I remember in Montana last winter—”’ While he was telling the details the two men warmed themselves before the blaze in an old-fashioned fireplace, filling the room with the pleasant odor of burning wood. Both were foreign to their surroundings. Jim—otherwise James Buchanan, Montana rancher—was big of body and heavy of voice. His face bore the tan of the open, and he had the easy movements of powerful strength, a man accustomed to do things with his hands. Richard Harmsworth, New York banker, 783 COMmicloooks (C@