Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 189, No. 4 — page 167: what you’re looking at

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

sf Aah Aarne. ae ) ed AS TOLD BY THE RAMBLIN’ the long-horn steers—gone, with the smell and moan of the herd, the night watch— calm, “neath starry skies— Shucks! this fool smoke keeps tormentin’ my dim old eyes! Jack and me were punchin’, straight, with the Circle Bar and the Lazy S, trailin’ a bunch of restless Texans, bout six thousand head, I guess, from down on the Lower Pecos ‘long the line to the Upper Cimma- ron. The herd was down for the night. Dave and me were on the graveyard watch, alone. When Parker, the night boss, shook me out to take my turn, I hadn’t intended to ride old Jack—aimin’ to rest him and take a sorrel that was in my string. But Jack whinnied, and I turned back and took him —’cause somehow, well, I was lonesome, | reckon; and anyway I had a kind of hunch to take him, for there was an uneasy feel to the air, and a tenseness out there among the bunch of wild Texas brutes, that made me want to be sure of the horse I rode. And do you know that some way I’ve al- ways felt that Jack himself knowed I was goin’ to need just him that night, more than ever before in all the years we’d been ram- blin’ ’round together— It’s that damned smoke botherin’, them ain’t tears! And I believe, too, the game old boy had a notion we were startin’ to make our last hard ride. So I took him—and old Jack did his best! To save my life that little old bronc gave his, and—died! We had swung around the herd just once. They were bedded down in a sort of horse- shoe shape; had passed Dave and was back in the bend of the band. A thundercap hung a shadow, like crape, over the rest of Eagle Tail Peak; out to the east there was a sickly glare from the risin’ moon. There was a kind of dead, sullen hush to the midnight air—a sort of silent threat. Then from the west there came a rumble and one bright streamin’ flash! Like a cloud of death them Texans were up—and gone! Straight to the south in their insane dash. And Jack and me were caught! Caught fast! No chance but to run! To run— run like a hound from hell— To run with the fear-crazed brutes—in that sea of horns —and God help us both if old Jack fell! KID. 637 A pair of shots from my forty-four showed Dave I was pinched—tight—in the heart of the wild stampede. He didn’t dare to try millin’ the herd with me in there; all he could do was follow at his bronc’s best speed. I just leaned over on old Jack’s neck and talked to him, soft and low: ‘‘ Game old horse! Good old pal! They can’t get us— Run, old sport! Now— Get down and go!” They were crowdin’ us; crowdin’ us hard; the roar of the tramplin’ feet was like the thunder of a storm-mad sea. The lightnin’ was blazin’, over there to the west; the press was fierce; but Jack was runnin’ strong and free— Then a big wild brute, just ahead, stumbled; hit a badger hole. Old Jack tried to clear the horns; the imp of hell throwed up his head! One keen point drove deep into old Jack’s breast—they were sharp as thorns! The tough little devil just barely flinched from the deadly crash; and I leaned lower, slipped my hand under his neck, and felt the gash— Then I knowed my pal was done to death, for the blood was spurtin’ in a steady stream; but the game old sport never checked a bit —just lunged right on with still more steam! Well, when I felt that ragged wound and old Jack’s blood gushin’ out, so fast and hot, I just went locoed crazy and wished every long-horn steer in the world was shot! Then, started pumpin’ my forty-four. Every time that old gun popped, one of them snortin’, murderin’, long-horn steers just crumpled up and dropped! I knowed they were bound to get old Jack and me, but ’fore they did, I just wanted to see how many of the devils I could kill. And I shot quick, and straight, and with a wicked will! So, I emptied my gun and emptied my belt—when she snapped on the last empty shell, eighteen Lazy S steers had felt my bullets— Id counted the brutes as each one fell! Then I throwed my gun and just lopped down on Old Jack’s neck and put my hand over that terrible hole; foolishly thinkin’ I'd hold in the streamin’ blood that was Gomichbooks (E@)