Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 107: what you’re looking at

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

Lane Laem Nid ts ing Tim Holloway—did not possess. Tim had never known that it is the hardest trick in the world to hit a man with a six- eun, and if you fire two guns at once, it is well nigh impossible. Tim banged away, each shot kicking back at him with such energy that he thought both of his wrists were broken. McCorkle, having: disarmed Cameron, stood up and looked at this little mouse-eyed tousle- headed figure hurling his shots in every cor- ner of the room. The big man burst into a roar that cut in sharply with the hoarse barking of the guns. He had often boasted that he would let any two-gun man stand up and pot away at him—provided, of course, that he used both guns. And here was this little urchin, backing away with each kick of the guns, making an heroic at- tempt to kill four men—succeeding only in breaking a large amount of valuable glass and antiques. He kept pulling the triggers. A crock- ery vase smashed to bits; a leaded pane in the stained glass window burst into a thousand cracks like a spider’s web; a Peruvian jug split in half with a shower of red wine. Then abruptly, Tim Hollo- way’s two guns snicked on empty shells. His heroic réle was over. There was a sudden silence, an exhilarating smell of powder and spilled wine in everyone’s nos- trils; a tangle of smoke lifting upward over the candles which, flickering in the series of percussions, again resumed their pallid ver- tical flames. Again McCorkle’s roar burst into the silence. He bellowed in his laughter like an OX. “ Here you, Parson!” he cried, pointing to Cameron, “take this swob’s iron and keep him covered!” Parson obeyed, going up to the landing, and standing guard over the disarmed and helpless Cameron. “No, don’t kill him,” McCorkle advised. “No killin’ unless expressly called for. We'll save him. He might know where some treasure’s hid. We can break his legs —sure! But no wanton killin’ as the sayin’ goes.” McCorkle thumped down the stairs, and, with tremendous shoulders and mountain- BUCCANEER BLOOD. ous belly still rolling in chuckles, he crossed the room toward Tim Holloway. | Tim stood very much disillusioned with his réle of two-gun man. He sniffed in anger and embarrassment, wiping his nose with his sleeve. He crouched as the giant McCorkle approached him, as if threatening to spring at the man’s throat. “You lay a hand on me, you pot-bellied lubber, and I'll tear your liver out with me bare hands!” Tim’s hair gave the definite effect of bristling. -“Zowie! but he’s got a bit of spirit— this little wharf rat!” McCorkle roared with delight. “ Now then, my little cocky, let me have them irons!” “Avast there, or I'll let you have ’em athwart yer chin!” McCorkle reached for the boy, gathered a fistful of his costume and tossed him into the air. Catching him again by one leg he held him upside down, giving him a good shaking. He not only shook out the two guns from his grasp, but likewise an aston- ishing shower of cartridges that had been stowed away in every part of his costume. “So help me God, you'll pay dearly for this!” Tim cried when he was again set upon his feet. “ Tim Holloway never for- gets!” He yanked viciously at his shirt. which had worked up in a tangle about his arm- pits. “ Whoever ye are, ye’ll never smell grass again—not if I know it! Ye can lay to that!” He pulled down his sleeves, and took another hitch in his belt. “ Tl never forget—not till me dyin’ day, so help me!” In between his incontinent guffaws, the ponderous McCorkle managed to say: “Damned if he ain’t built after me own heart! Just the sort I’ve always wanted for to pipe me up in the mornin’—for to whistle for a breeze when the weather ain’t makin’. He’d be a mascot to bring good luck to any ship, b’God! Come on, Puss-in-boots, I’m goin’ to sign ye wp. Thought I’d have to bump you off into hell —where that scruffer up there’s goin’—” he pointed a turtle-shelled thumb towards Cameron—“ but I’m goin’ to save ye. Ye’re too good to bump off. Ye’re a little treasure—that’s what! .And.’m_ spin’ to