Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 189, No. 4 — page 19: what you’re looking at

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

TICKETS TO PARADISE. rected to a section of the range not far distant. We present to you another rider, of a type quite different from the one whose exploit has just been described. Meet Bob Kenworthy, a particular friend of ours! He is a good scout, is Bob, and we hope you'll like him. In essential details Kenworthy’s equip- ment resembled that worn by Sandisfield, with the exception that Bob’s accouterments were all designed for strict utility instead of garish display. Also his legs were incased in chaps, or hair pants, an item omitted by Sandisfield, who made no pretense of quali- fying as an_ honest-to-goodness cow- puncher. Still more marked was the difference be- tween the two men themselves. Bob was about twenty-five—that is to say, some ten years younger than Martin. He was slim and muscular in build, the skin of face and arms tanned to a healthy bronze by expo- sure to sun, wind, and weather on the vast expanse of the cattle ranges. His honest gray eyes twinkled merrily, in quizzical good nature—eyes that one could see were made for laughing, but eyes that could on occasion be as hard and un- compromising as the cold sheen of winter sunlight on the blue steel of a pistol barrel. Young Mr. Kenworthy jogged onward at an easy pace, chanting—for his own amusement—snatches of a familiar old trail ballad: As I was out riding one morning for pleasure, I met a young cowboy a-riding along, His head was thrown back and his spurs was a-jingling, As he came toward me a-singing this song. He rolled off the rollicking whoopee-ti-yi- yo chorus with gusto, vague thoughts in mind of times when he and fellow punchers had bedded down a herd to that and simi- lar tunes; of times when restive steers had been kept quiet on a night so sultry that the very air seemed fraught with threats of a stampede—for range cattle are pecu- liarly susceptible to the sound of the human voice. The rider interrupted his vocal efforts to manufacture deftly a cigarette out of the inevitable makings which formed a part of every cowboy’s personal belongings. Be- 489 tween puffs he then ran through other verses, religiously following each one by a rendition of the swinging lilt of the chorus. The music ceased abruptly as Bob round- ed a low hogback and came within sight of another rider a short distance away—a rider who seemed to be having some little trouble with his mount. “Ride ’er, Zeke! She’s a-r’aring!” he chuckled, watching in keen interest the ef- forts made by this stranger to subdue what appeared to be a horse gone loco. But presently Bob Kenworthy drew in his breath with a sudden, savage grunt, for that was about the time when Martin San- disfield settled down to grim business with the quirt. ‘“T’m a son of a sea cook!” Bob growled, scowling. “‘ What’s the notion of treating a cayuse thataway? Guess we’ll amble over and give the side show a look-see.” Acting on this impulse, Kenworthy turned his mount toward the point where Sandisfield, in the throes of uncontrolled passion, was doing his best to ruin a per- fectly good horse. The intruder’s scowl deepened as he drew near, for Bob Ken- worthy loved horses, and had never been one to tolerate uncalled-for severity on the part of any rider. The present scene was not hard to understand, and Bob found welling up-in his heart a savage rage that almost matched Sandisfield’s, though it was a righteous rage and under full control. Sandisfield remained wholly ignorant of the fact that he had acquired an audience, so intent was he on his evil task. Then came the unexpected dénouement which sent Mart sprawling helpless to the turf. ‘Nice work, cayuse!” Bob applauded in hearty approval. ‘“ The skunk had it com- ing to him! Here’s hoping it jolted his liver plumb out of shape.” But already the puncher was unfastening his lariat from the saddlehorn, having in mind a shrewd sur- mise as to what might follow. ‘What I sure ought to do is let the Cayuse stamp that guy clean down to China,” he grumbled. “ It wouldn’t be any more’n he deserves, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t hardly do. Likely I’d better yank him out of the jam he’s gone and got him- self into.” Gomichbooks Gor