Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 160: what you’re looking at

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

736 ‘“ The place is ha’nted!” Jen Parker cried - in horror. “Tt’s ha’nted by Shank Miller,” Doxey scoffed in disgust. ‘“‘ That ole drunk ain’t give up tinkerin’ with the crazy phonograft yet! ” “Sure it’s Shank Miller,’ Quiggley snorted disdainfully. ‘‘ He ain’t come out yet. Nor has Fred Hayden either.” Sam had no sooner made this remark than the crowd saw Hayden leap through the front door of the saloon, scooting like a sage rabbit fleeing from a jackdog. Fred Hayden, for the first time within the memory of any Sun-up inhabitant, made his appearance with his red hair badly disheveled. Indeed, his tight fitting suit was ripped down the back, displaying a large flashing area of silk striped shirt. But it was when he turned his white face on the crowd that they received the real shock. His eyes were wild, as wild and red as a Papago’s who has been guz- zling mescal before a religious ceremony. “Make him stop it!” he cried voice- lessly, frantically. ‘‘ I’m going crazy with the sound of it. It’s Denver singing out to me! God!” He stopped looking about, collecting his wits. ‘“ What’s the matter? Do you think Im drunk? Do you think I’m crazy? Can you jackasses stand there and listen to that dead man singing to you?” “Tt’s only the phonograft,” Quiggley said in a voice he customarily used in soothing drunken vaqueros. “ Don’t carry on. Take a lemon soda and your head will clear up.” He stepped to Hayden to pat him on the back, but the latter, muttering an inco- herent string of oaths, turned on his heel and fled down the street. The crowd watched him as he vaulted into his little car. Without waiting to find a hat or the necessary brown duster in which he always appeared in Sun-up, he started the rattling little machine whirling out of a sand rut, and banged away toward the county road. The brown smother of alkali received him. No citizen of Sun-up ever ordered a silo through Fred Hayden from that day on. Coming from underneath the front door ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. of the saloon in the same manner as his predecessor—on all fours—Shank Miller burst upon the crowd. In his hand he held a bottle of purple sirupy stuff. . ‘“What’s the matter with that kook?” he said, nodding his head in the direction of the disappearing salesman. ‘‘ Must have a powerful jag on! It ain’t night to drink thataway!” A laugh was his only answer. And those men who had taken part in the fight against this tartar slunk off into the back- ground of the crowd without any further delay. “The sun’s up already,” Shank said, rubbing his dry lips with the back of his hand. ‘ And it sure does make you pow- erful thirsty!” At this he popped open the little bottle he held in his hand and took a swig. His eye caught sight of the unlucky Noah Doxey, who was apparently frozen to the spot with apprehension at the giant’s ap- pearance. “‘ Ah!” Shank cried triumphantly. last we are face to face.” Doxey wilted, trembling at the knees. “T ain’t done nothin’, Shank,” he said, bringing a laugh from the crowd of women as well as from thé men. “I got out when you was fighting the crowd.” “Where is the crowd? What’s hap- pened?” Shank asked, scowling horribly. “ They’ve all fled!” said Doxey. ‘“ You scared hell out of them!” | “So I did win the fight, did I?” “Sure you did!” Doxey agreed diplo- matically. ‘‘ And the one you beat worst was Hayden when you started that phono- graft. He was outen his head, if I know anything. Thought John Denver was call- ing to him. * Drink! That’s what did it!” Shank cried, dramatically holding up the purple bottle of soda water. ‘‘ Let me warn you- all, every man jack of you, and you ladies likewise: swear off on this here purple and green stuff. It ’ll burn the guts out of you. It won’t give you a kick like cuevo or jack- ass, no. But it ’ll slowly and surely corrode your bellies worse than any liquor this side of. the Rio Grande. Hayden never drank nothing stronger than this, did he?”’ TGomichbooks ns : c¢ At