Argosy All-Story Weekly, December 4, 1926 — page 65: what you’re looking at

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

EXCITEMENT TRAIL, “Surely, senor. It will be easy to accom- plish.”’ “Tt ought to be. Now I’ve been thinking it might be better if I pretended to be a sight worse off than I am. I don’t want to stir up suspicion by getting well too fast, so when the next guard comes in I'll be flat on my back, dead to the world. And it might be a wise hunch for you to drop a remark to the effect that my goose is about cooked, or something like it. Get me, amigo?” The vaquero smiled knowingly. ‘“We will fool them, sefor, you and I,” he said. ‘Before you go I'll absorb the rest of the food you got,” Rusty observed. “I won’t have any chance afterward.” Three hours later he ate another meal, delighted at finding new strength flowing through his veins, The dizziness had now wholly passed, and the pain from _ his bruised head was less severe. ‘A few hours’ sleep and I’ll be back in rare form,” he thought contentedly, lying back on his cot. At midnight, according to schedule, the relief guard came on duty. “How is he, this pig who is to hang?” he asked. ‘‘T think he will rob the gallows,” Rusty’s friend said carelessly. ‘‘ Most of the time he is out of his head, with mutterings that make no sense.” “ Too. bad, amigo. I had hopes of seeing him dangle.” ‘A dipper of water now and then may perchance aid in keeping him alive till the appointed time. Adios!” And the first vaquero departed. Rusty took a cue from the remarks passed between the two, and at such times as he was awake played well the part of a man in the throes of delirium. In the morning food was brought— enough for both prisoner and guard—but Rusty, though the smell of hot coffee nearly drove him distracted, kept on valiantly with the self-imposed réle of a man at the very gates of death. The hours of daylight dragged even more slowly than those of darkness, but finally came time for another shift. There was a - the wall. 315° stir outside—the sound ot subdued voices: the door of the makeshift prison swung open. “ Does he give you any troubie, this Americano?” a harsh voice demanded. ‘““No more than a sick puppy. I think they will have to hang a corpse.” But blank dismay was gripping at Rus- ty’s heart. All his carefully laid plans came tumbling about his ears, for this new voice sounded like that of an -utter stranger. Warily he opened one eye, and his worst fears were confirmed. Something had gone amiss somewhere along the line. This man who now came on duty was not his friend of the day be- fore, the one bribed to aid his escape. “Good night!” thought Rusty. “ This is a hell of a note! They’ve switched guards on me!” CHAPTER VI. TRAIL’S END. NCE certain that his original scheme“ had missed fire, Rusty wasted no time in vain regrets. He was a re- sourceful chap, was young Mr. Towers, and immediately his fertile brain began casting about for a new way out of -the difficulty. Through eyes that were nearly closed he surveyed the man who had just come on duty. He was dressed much as the first—the one who had been unable to keep his prom- ise to bring the prisoner a gun—but was older, his thin, cruel features stamped with a look of cunning and duplicity. “ Can’t risk trying to bribe him,” Rusty thought. “ He’d double cross me sure.” Rusty’s eyes gleamed at sight of a Colt .45 slung to a brass studded cartridge belt around the fellow’s waist. ‘ There’s a gun for me,” he mused. “ All I got to do is get it.” The vaquero sent a careless ian at the prisoner, yawning indolently as he sat down in the chair, tipping it back against Yet he nevertheless kept his eyes on the man he was detailed to guard. | From this whole discouraging train of com Gboo S.con =