Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 18, 1928 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

BLUE STEEL. which he meant to be cynical. “ That’s jest what I’ll do.” “ Say, maw,” suggested Davy, “ why cain’t Billy take the mail for Dunstan along with ‘im, too? He’ll be passin’ the Bar X on his way to the Wagon Wheel, an’ he might as well drop in thar. It ‘Il save one o’ the boys a trip to town.” A slight scowl appeared on the bronzed face of the young puncher, and after two or three puffs which withered his wheat- straw cigarette, he said: “JT don’t like that danged remittance man, but I'll tote his mail along if you want. I'll do it for you—but not for him!” “Why, Willie Perkins!” exclaimed Maw Dibble. ‘ You shouldn’t speak so ’bout a gentleman like Mr. Lafayette Dunstan. You don’t have a proper respect for no one. Mr. Dunstan’s older brother, they say, is a lord in England. Mr. Dunstan comes from royalty,” she added, meaning the no- bility. “T don’t care what he comes from,” growled Perkins. “I don’t like him, an’ there’s no law what says I gotta.” “‘ Me, neither,” chimed in Davy. too durn friendly like an’ smooth.” “ Hear him!” said maw derisively. “ He kicks ’cause a man’s too friendly. Davy Dibble, y’ ought to be plumb ashamed 0’ yourself for makin’ any ‘sich remark. Course Willie’s only a boy, an’ he don’t know no better.” “ Say!” exclaimed the exasperated Per- kins, who wished to pose as anything but “ec He’s a boy. “It’s gittin’ late, an’ I gotta be skimmin’ along. If you'll gimme that mail—” “ Here ’tis, Billy,” said Davy, extending the letters which he had taken from two cubbyholes in the rack behind him. “ This here one’s for your boss. Looks like it came from his boy, Ballou.” “Blue Steel!” exclaimed Billy in a wor- shipful tone of voice. ‘‘ Gosh dang it, but T wish he’d come back to these parts. I remember him when I was only a kid. May- be he’s comin’ back.” “ Maybe,” Dave agreed. “You cain’t never tell. An’ these other letters are for ‘Dunstan. There’s three or four of ’em, 805 an’ one of ’em’s the dough from London; that long one, I reckon. He gits one every three months. I’ve heered tell it’s on condi- tion thet he stays outa England.” Billy’s conversation was cut short by Maw Dibble, who wished to close up. The youthful puncher swaggered bow-leggedly out of the store, forked his pinto horse, and loped swiftly down the street toward the Corral Saloon, the one drinking place in Poco, CHAPTER II. FIRE. HE Corral was a rambling frame structure, wide and long, and a low veranda, or “gallery,” slouched across the front of the building. By the light of a bright moon Perkins saw that there were twenty-odd horses tied to the hitching rail. He rode swiftly up to the rail, slipped easily from his saddle, and, leaving the reins dangling toward the ground, walked up the veranda steps. He was determined not to linger in the saloon, as it was already rather iate, and he had a two-hour ride ahead of him. Through the closed door came a babel of ribald voices, and through one of the win- dows came eddies and swirls of blue smoke with which the Corral was usually impreg- nated. Opening the door, Perkins walked into the saloon and peered through the smoke in search of the two companions with whom he had galloped in from the Wagon Wheel. He noticed that a group of punchers from the Lazy S, Tom Tolliver’s ranch, were standing at the front of the bar. Big Dan Naylor, apparently somewhat the worse for liquor, was discoursing in a loud and provocative voice. “A man,” he said, “ that “ll cut-a fence had oughta be strung up like a hoss thief!” It was an ambiguous statement, that — might have been of a general application, but Perkins knew that it was a dangerous utterance under the circumstances. Only three weeks before a long section of fence — (E(@) S miEDoOo (<0) eS ieee 54 Di \% ret ils 1 AN, > wld VARY EEA halt }