Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 22: what you’re looking at

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

656 _ ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, He paid no attention to the drifter, who was standing near the gate watching him. He placed the saddle on the top rail of the corral fence and.with the coiled rope still upon his left arm began to lift the bar of _the corral gate. ‘Sort of short-spoken this mornin’, eh?” said the drifter. The drifter was now facing Channing. His arms were folded loosely just above his hips. He was slowly rocking back and forth, and his ridiculous legs were sprawled far apart. There was a mirthless grin on his lips, which were spread enough to reveal his yellow teeth. ‘“Meanin’ what?” asked Channing. Channing had stiffened at the drifter’s - voice. He stood, one hand on the wooden bar of the corral gate, trying to read the riddle of the drifter’s manner. He felt the menace of the drifter’s mirthless smirk, he was aware that behind it lurked violence. He had been caught at a disadvantage, and he knew that if he drew his right hand away from the bar of the corral gate it must go unerringly and rapidly to the gun at his right hip. He knew the distance was too great. The drifter meant to kill. “ Keep a-hangin’ onto that bar, Chan- ning!” warned the drifter. “ Keep a-hang- in’ onto it! If yore fingers slip one little wee slip I'll bore you right through the guts! “ Yore Rip Channing, eh? Old-time gun- slinger! Used to raise all kinds of hell in this neck of the woods! Made ’em all walk soft an’ easy when you was around, eh? Snuffed out Krell, the gun-man Bassett brought over from Red Mesa to salivate you, eh? Finally got Bassett, eh! Well, damn yore hide, Dave Bassett was my friend! Understand? An’ I come around here to talk to you about him an’ you don’t give me no satisfaction! Tappin’ yore gun like a damned swell head when I asked you what Dave died of! myself to death! ‘But I’m givin’ you yore chancest; more than you give Bassett, most likely, you sufferin’ shorthorn. I’m tellin’ you fair that when you move yore hand from that bar I’m lettin’ daylight through you! An’ I’m tellin’ you—Now!” Tellin’ me I’d talk. Channing’s hand left the bar of the corral fence and moved with amazing swift- ness across his body to his right hip. With the first muscular movement that had re- leased the grip of Channing’s fingers on the bar the drifter’s skinny, stealthy arms had got in motion and the right hand had slid into the bulging folds of the waistband of his overalls. The hand came out again. There was a glint of metal in the sunlight. Swift as Channing had been, the drifter’s movement had been swifter. But the drifter’s gun was not fully ex- posed to view when there came a spiteful crash from one of the windows of the bunk house. The drifter spun around, screamed with pain and fury. His right arm, shat- tered by a bullet from the bunk house win- dow, hung crookedly across his stomach, like a broken arm in splints. The gun muzzle, still sticking in the waistline of the overalls; was held there, rigid, by the paralyzed fingers gripping the stock of the weapon. Channing’s gun was now out, its muzzle toward the drifter. But Channing did not fire, surmising that Vallon had sped the bullet which had saved his life. He waited, watching the drifter. The drifter, screaming with rage and agony, his eyes flaming with malevolence, reached for the gun at his left hip. Again came a spiteful crash from the bunk house window. This time the drifter’s voice was stilled. His mouth jerked open, he stiffened, spread his crooked legs wide, and shuddered. His left hand dropped from the butt of the gun at his hip, he slumped against the corral fence, doubled forward and went down, his right shoulder striking first. Then a spasmodic muscular motion straightened him and brought him erect, sitting, so that his legs stretched out in front of him, while his back was against the fence. He sat there, his chin on his chest, his shattered right arm limp, the other resting in the dust at his side. Vallon came out of the doorway of the bunk house, rifle in hand. He moved to- ward the drifter, his eyes alert, cold. But he spoke to Channing. “« Slick, eh?” he said passionlessly, ‘“‘ He bothered me some. I couldn’t seem to oO COLA Ehoo <S CO.