Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 27: what you’re looking at

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

LORETTA Another added more explicitly: “ An escaped gunman out’n New York is wanderin’ around up in Mesquite desert. This here tenderfoot is a deputy from New York. He’s sure doin’ up his business brown!” The barkeep—an ugly fellow with matted hair which gave the impression of hiding a big-ear on one side and a scarred depression on the other—fawned obsequiously on the Brodells. He abruptly forsook serving his other guests and beamed upon the three heroes of Cobb’s Coulee. “How are you, Skeeter?’ he asked deferentially. “ How are you, Buck? How are you, Jack?” “ We're lookin’ for a gent with a broke’ jaw,” Buck announced. Thorpe elbowed his way toward them: “T figure I’m the man you’re looking for, gentlemen. My name’s Thorpe. New York police force. Let’s have a drink all around.” “A drink on the house,” the barkeep said. ‘‘ Whenever a Brodell comes in here he drinks on the house.” He poured the orders. 3 Buck Brodell, a heavy-set, bull-necked fellow with a mass of wavy black hair, a leathery face and bloodshot eyes, immedi- ately ordered another round. “ Powerful dry to-day!” he said huskily. Skeeter, a lanky, rawboned man with a drooping rust-colored mustache, turned his clear brown eyes on the New York detec- tive. Skeeter was considerably disap- pointed. He expected to find a man built on the heroic lines of a western sheriff. In- stead he was looking down on a pudgy ten- derfoot with a bandaged face and a derby. The youngest of the brothers, Jack, was a. well built boy with gleaming black eyes, a fine square jaw and an outfit of khaki and puttees. He looked at Thorpe for a mo- ment, then burst out into a jovial laugh. ‘‘ Who busted you in the jaw, hombre?” he asked. “The man we’re all after,” Thorpe re- plied. “IT tell you—” “Why didn’t you bust him back so’s he wouldn’t wake up?” Jack laughed. ‘“‘ That’s a good one lettin’ a man get off to the desert and he didn’t even have a horse! Don’t you know he’ll git sunstroke afore 2A < BRODELL, you may git a chance to hit him back = agin?” “T seem to feel better!” the red-faced Buck Brodell said. ‘‘ Let’s set down and leave the gentleman tell us his troubles.” The crowd made way for them as they retired to one of the booths. ‘ Tt’s this way, gents,” Thorpe said, when they were gathered at the table. “It’s not a secret. I’m on the force back in New York City. A man by the name of James — Chilton plugged a member of one of them high-brow clubs. Then the same night— within a hour or two as near as could be figured, he bought a ticket for Chicago. “ Didn’t go to Chicago. Knew he was shadowed. Jumped the train. We caught him again in Missouri by telegraphing ev- erywheres. I was able to catch up with him because he kept gettin’ off the overlands, taking side trips and such. When we got to Arizona I picked his trail up again in Pheenix. Easy to get his description. “He’s a tall fellow about your size,” he nodded to Buck who was not as tall as the lanky Skeeter and not as short as the prepossessing Jack. ‘“‘ He’s got gray eyes, brown hair, a long face with a long nose which ain’t too straight. Got it broken playin’ polo. “He’s got broad shoulders, and a long hand with a coat of tan and black hair on it. And there’s a scar under his eye which makes him look like he’s scowling. That’s his description, gents.” Skeeter Brodell, who rarely spoke a word, nodded his head, rolled a cigarette and lit it. Jack, the man who preferred playing a guitar at the Grand Central to punching up the cattle of the Brodell out- fit, reached over to a slot in the wall where he put in a nickel for the piano. He did a syncopated dance with his fingers to the banging ragtime. Buck Brodell ordered another drink. | *“ Now, then, gents, I don’t know any- thin’ about this travelin’ in the desert. I couldn’t go out there with a horse and — wagon and get anywheres. And they tell me you can’t negotiate those desert roads . in @ Car. ‘But listen to this: the man’s on foot! Get that? He dropped off the train be- Eomic boo: SS Se —