Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

LORETTA - Chilton was so enthralled with these souvenirs of the splendid and unforgettable past, that he did not notice the lateness of the hour. The proprietor reminded him of dinner. Chilton looked at his watch. As he might have expected, that befuddled Dr. Rivers was late—unforgivably late. “Yes, bring on your chile con carne, senor,’ he said. ‘“I was waiting for a friend—who must have forgotten the Street.” The proprietor brought out his dishes from an alcove in the rear of the room. There Chilton caught a glimpse of a fat dark woman with a broad face and high cheek bones. She was lazily engaged at kneading and flattening tortillas on a rock slab. Placing the dish of parched maize and chile before Chilton, the proprietor stood scratching at his gray beard. “T’ve seen men like you, senor, out there,” he said. ‘‘ Your eyes she is gray like the desert hombre. Your hand she is steady—like the gunman—non? I see the mark on your trigger finger! You are _ Vaquero maybe?” He changed his esti- mate upon noting the elegance of Chilton’s attire: “‘ Maybe cattle king?” “ Never been West,” Chilton said as he burned his mouth with the chile. ‘You have shoot the gun? ride the cayuse?”’ “The what?” “The ’orse?” “Oh, yes! And I try a little sharp- shooting just once in a while. The last time it was at a shooting gallery in Coney Island.” ‘Bueno! I was right! Thees New York hombres—ees no good. ‘The eyes she is not steady. The ’and she shak’ very mucho like mesquite twig! You are not New York. You can handle the six-gun. Non? Thees gun here—’ He removed the revolver from the hand-tooled holster hanging on his cigar stand. “ You see the notch? Too many to count. Every notch—she is mark for dead carcass!” Chilton smiled—not skeptically. He was greatly pleased. That yarn he had been reading made a specialty of “notched You have BRODELL. 8250 “Wan bullet—here—” the proprietor showed him the chamber. “ Ees silver bul- let. No man has fired thees bullet! And yet from when the gun was construct’ thees bullet she remains there.” Chilton ventured the opinion that if you tried to fire the bullet the gun might ex- plode. ‘Bueno! Ees very like! For why? Thees bullet is for the owner of the gun— when he is cornered by the renegados. Or when the Apache Indians will take him, the owner of thees gun he can kill himself to death. Ees good idea—otherwise the Apache mak the torture!” | ‘How much do you want for that gun, senor?” The swarthy and gray haired proprietor - shook his head. ‘“ My kinsman who was general in Sonora—he give me this gun. He say thees gun she is never fire’-—except wan man is kill! No target practice; no hunting; jus’ for the man! And never has she miss’. For long time ago a Hopi witch doctor he mak the charm on thees gun, I never sell. Some day when the police come in for to steal my cash, or to mak the extortion and the threat, then I use thees gun. J will kill five police hombre first. Then the silver bullet!” He went out for the enchilada. Chilton gazed through the big, fly-specked, dusty window at the wet scene outside. The driz- zie had turned to a miserable fall of snow— one of the late March storms. The golden haired lady under the arc: light was emerging in a glory of newly made curls. The dentist’s window was emitting its ghastly sputtering blue. The Chinese restaurant on the corner second story, was aflame with dancing red and green bulbs. Times Square was growing noisier every minute. : sere Chilton turned back to the setting of the wild frontier. His friend, Dr. Rivers, had arrived. It was quite easy to see that the doctor’s slight befuddlement of that afternoon had completely cleared. He stood there, his blue eyes focused upon Chilton with a keen and peculiar expression. Something evi- dently had happened to bring about this ab- rupt sobering process. L| GComichboo <S (E@)