Argosy All-Story Weekly, December 4, 1926 — page 54: what you’re looking at

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

prompted the affair. 364 from the roasting pits, where the carcasses of three steers and a half dozen sheep were being barbecued. The uninvited guest tied his pony to one end of a hitching rail, and then proceeded to wander around, curious as to the occa- sion which prompted this lavish display of hospitality. No one paid him the least attention. At length Rusty accosted a vaquero of about his own age. “ What’s back’ of all the excitement?” he inquired. “You do not know, senor?” ‘““ Thunderation!”? Rusty grunted in cil: natured derision. “If I knew I wouldn’t be asking, would I? What’s up?” “Oh! The Don Perenzo is giving a baile, you understand.” Under his breath Rusty cursed the fel- low’s stupidity. “Yes, yes!” he snapped impatiently. “T got that three hours ago from an old padre I met on the road. But why’s he giving this baile? Don’t be so tight with your facts.” “Don Perenzo has invited here his friends and neighbors to do honor to—” A loud shout came from the direction of the roasting pits, evidence that the sweat- ing corps of chefs had started hashing out barbecued meat and other highly-seasoned delicacies. Without a word of apology the vaquero broke short his explanation and galloped briskly toward the point of chief interest. “Can you beat it?” Rusty grumbled. “ And they talk about the never failing po- liteness of Spanish blood. That chap must figure there ain’t enough chow to go around, and he aims to collect his at the first table. Women and children last, is his motto.” Rusty tried to pump information from one or two others, but all those present seemed concerned solely with the problem of filling themselves with food while the getting was good. “ Guess I might as well clamp on the nosebag myself,” he reflected, abandoning for the time any efforts to learn what ‘And meanwhile I'll keep an eye open for the chap I want in ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. my business—the lad that shot Chuck Peters in cold blood. He’s bound to be somewhere about the plate, and when I spot him I’m liable to turn this baile into a Fourth of July picnic.” After the hunger of the crowd had been appeased—the thirst, also, for various casks of liquor were opened—the sound of music called young and old to the dance. Rusty quickly discovered that the affair was being given in two sections; middle class guests were entertained in an outdoor pavilion, some distance from the main buildings, while personal friends of Don Perenzo made free with the patio or any other part of the hacienda that took their fancy. The broad veranda, agleam with gayly colored lanterns, served as an open air ball- room, the alluring strains of a waltz sound- ing forth. Several couples were already dancing. “Guess I'll amble up and look the senoritas over,” Rusty muttered. Then he suddenly gasped, “‘ Great guns! Rosita might be here!” A feeling of guilt oppressed him, for events of the past two days had centered Rusty’s attention on the rustler’s trail. “You're a hell of a guy,” he accused himself, “ to forget her, even for a minute! Serve you right if Rosita was here and wouldn’t speak to you!” Quickly he slipped up toward the veran- da, eager eyes searching for trace of a slender, graceful figure. Something with- in Rusty now assured him positively that Rosita was not far away. The music ceased, whereupon the dancers scattered; one couple paused an instant at the end of the veranda, in the full glare of lanterns suspended above their heads. The cavalier bent toward his companion, whispering in her ear, and Rusty’s heart gave a great throb. The girl was Rosita— his Rose of Mexico—dressed as he had last seen her, all in black, with the tight girdle of flaming crimson about her waist. No other color combination would have suited so well her type of beauty. This time, instead of the jewel-studded comb, a red rose was twined among the locks of glossy, jet-black hair, (E©) (OPMICLOOKS