Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 189, No. 4 — page 23: what you’re looking at

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

TICKETS TO PARADISE. “You done prezactly right, son, though they ain’t a lot of folks hereabouts that would have had the nerve to stack up against Mart Sandisfield. Most generally he has his own way quite complete.” - Kenworthy snorted his disgust. “Mean to say that there shorthorn’s got the Indian sign on the whole section? He ain’t any more’n a half portion misfit.” “Mart ain’t such a much himself, mebbe, but he’s got a choice squad of gun-slingers that are proud to do his dirty work for him, being well paid for their labor. Keep your pants on while sojourning in our happy midst.” “Thanks, I will,” Bob retorted dryly, whereat his old friend chuckled. “Guess you can take care of yourself in a jam. It’s hard, kind of, to figure out what might bust loose account of your play. One thing’s a cinch—that Sandisfield won’t advertise it, being’s he had to take the short end. Suppose we sit tight and let her ride for awhile. I'll send word to Mart that his saddle and bridle are here, and I'll see that the hoss gets good care. Otherwise I'll keep my trap closed. Savvy?” “ Keno!” was Bob Kenworthy’s indi‘fer- ent response. “ How long you planning to be in town?” Pawling inquired. “IT wasn’t aimin’ to stick a-tall, but now wild bulls couldn’t drag me off. This San- disfield party’s got me intrigued, as one might say. Things have been sort of tire- some by me lately.” Slim Pawling chuckled again, but there was a grimness latent under his chuckle. “They’s one thing I can guarantee. Knowing Mart Sandisfield fair to middling intimately like I do, you ain’t liable to be bothered unduly thataway in the future. Aside from which, big doings are slated for this burg fore long. Be a blunder, sort of, to miss the fireworks.” ‘“T don’t figure on missing a thing,” Bob said. ‘‘ Where’s a handy place to stop?” “Go to the Santa Fe. There’s a nice clean hostelry and it’s run by a white man, Johnny Evarts. Tell him you’re a friend of mine, and he’ll treat you slick. You bet- ter leave the bulk of your spare cash in his safe.” 493 ‘“T’ll do that,’ and Bob turned to leave. “Much obliged, Slim. Adios.” “Something tells me I’m going to like this town,” Bob mused, as he directed his steps toward the Santa Fe. Following Pawling’s suggestion, he engaged a room, after which came a highly satisfactory sup- per. And so, in due season, we find Mr. Kenworthy wandering about the streets in search of amusement. Bob’s attention was presently attracted by the sound of music from a brightly light- ed resort across the street. Thoughtfully, he regarded it. “The Palace, huh!” he muttered, reading the name which arched in huge letters over the doorway. ‘“‘ Guess Ill look her over. ‘ll try anything once—and sometimes twice.” He entered inconspicuously, glancing about him in idle curiosity. The place was a typical establishment of the frontier peri- od, a mahogany bar extending along one side, three or four white-aproned drink- shooters industriously taking care of busi- ness, which seemed to be flourishing. At the center of the large room was a space reserved for dancing, and surrounding this were scattered tables where patrons could partake of liquid refreshment or play cards as suited their fancy. At the back of the room were sundry games of chance run by the house—faro, Monte, roulette, and so on—together with a pool table, where two range riders were trying out their skill with the cues. Bob noted all these familiar details at a single glance. He then stepped to the bar to quench a natural thirst, approaching an end where trade for the moment chanced to have slackened. In answer to the attend- ant’s “ What ’ll it be?” Bob named a popu- lar brand of tanglefoot, and at that instant felt a light tap on his shoulder, accompanied by the sotto voce command: “T'll take your gun, cowboy!” Quick and lithe on his feet as a cat, Bob Kenworthy spun around, to find himself confronting a stern-visaged man of middle age. “What the hell will you take my gun for?” he demanded belligerently. “Don’t try to start anything, son,” the Gomichooks (EO)