Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 189, No. 4 — page 24: what you’re looking at

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

494 other said in not unkindly tones. “ Just fork over your shooting-iron peaceable like. You'll get it back when you leave.” “What sort of game is this you’re run- ning?” Bob grunted, half angry, — half puzzled. | “He doesn’t understand, Jim,” came in a soft, musical voice, and in response to this interruption, Bob whirled to the left, staring in amazement at the speaker—a young woman and one of rare beauty. This was a period when the so-called Princess gowns were in vogue, truly stun- ning when worn by a woman fortunate enough to possess the physical qualifications demanded by the style. It was at such a creation—and such a woman, too—that Bob now goggled, like a fish out of water. The gown, of black velvet, was cut dar- ingly low on her bosom, its bodice tapering beneath to a waist astonishingly small, yet without the string-tied-around-a-pillow ef- fect that was too often the price paid for artificial slenderness by fair ones at the time. Perhaps we are guilty of a serious faux pas in giving the gown precedence over the wearer. We have intimated that she was beautiful. What more need be added? Save, perhaps, that she seemed as much out of place in those surroundings as did the gown which graced her rich beauty. She dazzled like a splendid diamond in a miserable setting. But among all precious stones the diamond is the hardest, and one could sense, even in the soft, melting glance of this dance hall queen, a hardness, and, - thinly veiled beneath her silken lashes, more than a hint of tragedy. Bob Kenworthy did not stare to the point of rudeness. Instantly he swept off his Stet- son with a flourish, bowing in courtly grace. “What you just said is true, ma’am,’ said he. ‘“ This gent asks for my gun, but he’s powerful chary about backing up the demand with reasons. I sure don’t under- stand the game a-tall.” She smiled approvingly on young Mr. Kenworthy, the smile enhancing her own beauty. “Tt’s house rules,” was the explanation vouchsafed. ‘“ We prefer to have cus- tomers check their guns. Shooting scrapes ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. are messy—and bad for business,” she add- ed demurely. “TI see,” Bob temporized, though he didn’t—quite. ‘“ But who are you, ma’am, if you'll excuse me for inquiring?” “Why,” she rejomed, with an almost imperceptible trace of hesitation, “I hap- pen to be the owner of this dance hall.” “Qh!” Kenworthy ejaculated. Things were clearing up. The man who had ac- costed him was without doubt a profes- sional bouncer—a gun slinger of proved ability hired to enforce the house ruling on weapons, and other matters. The require- ment was unusual—yet it was also unusual to find a woman of this type running such an establishment. But Bob’s sharp eyes detected one or two points that seemed to call for further explanation, “That rule of yours don’t work the same on everybody, looks like,” he quietly sug- gested, nodding toward one or two men not far distant, men whose leather gun sheaths sagged under the weight of conspicuous 45s. They got a drag—or something?” Bob concluded. His tone was now chal- lenging, perhaps even faintly hostile, though still courteous. At this point the bouncer entered the — conversation. ‘‘ Look a-here, Miss Lucy,” he suggested. “You don’t need to bother squaring your- self or your house with this range rider. What say I give him arush? He’s a-asking for it, strikes me.” Miss Lucy’s face flushed; imperiously she stamped a slippered foot. “That’s quite uncalled-for, Jim,” she told her retainer. ‘“‘ You may go. I'll deal with this gentleman.” The bouncer accepted her rebuke with surprising humility and no trace of resent- ment, “T’m begging your pardon, ma’am,” he mumbled, and started to withdraw. “I was meaning for the best, though.” His fair employer instantly relented, flashing on him a winsome smile that showed a row of even white teeth. “I know that, Jim. Forgive me for being nasty.” With a friendly, confiding little gesture she rested her hand on the arm of Gomicbooks (EO)