Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 24: what you’re looking at

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

“YT reckon it was!” Pasqual laughed quite jovially. | CHAPTER V. THE THREE BELLICERENT BRODELLS. HAT afternoon the belated train drew into a cow-town on the southwestern part of the desert. A heavy man wearing a gray tweed suit, a wilted collar and a derby, stepped down from one of the coaches and asked the station agent to direct him to the nearest doctor. There was no doctor in Cob’s Coulee, but there was a very reputable veterinary who had had considerable experience in treating broken bones and gun wounds during his forty years’ practice in that locality. ' Mr. Thorpe found the veterinary’s shack sandwiched in between a saloon and a ‘dance hall, and some time later he emerged with the lower half of his face bandaged. He then hurried into a lunch wagon which was drawn up in the sand and rattle- weed of a lot across the street. Here he ordered two raw eggs in a glass of milk. The old man who kept the wagon said that he could have a chuck of beef stewed, or chile and beans, or ham and coffee, but— “although Cobb’s Coulee was a cow-town, it was next to impossible to get a glass of milk anywheres west of the Box-B outfit.” The old man suggested that if Mr. Thorpe had a broken jaw the best thing to drink was a prairie cocktail. “ It'll keep you alive the rest of the day,” he said, ‘“‘ and it’s what every one takes in these parts when they cain’t chaw.” “The next thing I want is the sheriff,” Mr. Thorpe said after he had finished his cocktail, which consisted of several raw eggs in half a cup of Worcestershire sauce. ‘“« Ain’t no sheriff in these parts.”’ “No sheriff!” Mr. Thorpe muttered be- tween his teeth. ‘‘ A hell of a joint this is: no law, no doctors, no milk!” “Tf some hombre busted your chin for you, pard, all as you have to do is to throw a gun on him.: Ain’t no law agin that in these parts. You’re a heavy man, and.I’m light, but we’re free and equal, bein’ all as we need is a trigger finger.” ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. “Tl shoot him all right!” Thorpe growled. “But I got to find him first. What I’m after is an escaped criminal. I’ve got to have horses, men, a guide to go out there in the desert. The man dropped off the train halfway up there to Mesquite. And there’s a reward for him—ten thousand —he killed a man back in New York.” “That bein’ the case what you-all need to do is to find one of the Brodell brothers. They’re the ones which keeps law and order in this county. The real sheriff he’s up to Mesquite and no one pays much at- tention to him, bein’ it’s generally suspected he’s under the thumb of a bandit.” ‘Where do I find these Brodell broth- ers?” Thorpe asked. ‘* Wall, generally speakin’, you'll find Skeeter Brodell over to Pedro’s place where he hangs out playin’ stud or monte. Jack Brodell—he’s harder to find. Sleeps all day, but at night you kin find him at the Grand Central Dance Pavilion, bein’ he’s sort of gentleman cowboy, which the can- tina girls is all crazy about him. Perhaps the best one for to go on your man-hunt with you is Buckshot Brodell which, how- ever, he’s always drunk.” ““That’s sure sounds like a fine troupe to take out on a man-hunt!” Mr. Thorpe muttered scornfully. ‘“ Can’t I get any one else to ride out there with me—some one I can rely on?” ‘Rely on?” the old man laughed. “ Ain’t no one but the Brodell brothers in this town which you can rely on them. The others is all cow-punchers driftin’ from one outfit to the other, rustlers most of ’em; and chulos, You cain’t tell if you-all got ’em.out thar in the desert when they’d double-crost you and side up with the hombre you're after. Then, of course, they’s a bunch of Papagoes, and a good heap of barkeeps—” ‘Nothin’ doin’!” Thorpe said desper- ately. ‘* And a lot of ole prospectors with white beards which has spent fifty years ridin’ out there in Gold Pan Cafion and south with a gun and a burro and a—” ‘Which one of the Brodell brothers can I find the quickest?” Thorpe interrupted impatiently. “T reckon bein’ Buckshot Brodell sleeps O COMMicoooxs (S@)