Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 7, 1928 — page 144: what you’re looking at

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

134 “ Probably just galloped all the way to pass the time of day,” the editor said. Guns flapping on either hip—for Jingling Jessup was a straight-shooting person able to make a pair of forty- fives rime when occasion required— he walked back to his desk, busied him- self with pastepot and shears Jessup’s best friend, Sheriff Del Lewis, had just left for Alkali Flats, over to the southeast, on the trail of cattle rustlers. He had left his deputy, Hank Style, in charge. The big editor, his mind cutting back gloomily to the misfortune of young Danny Skinner, almost absently took a piece of paper and inserted it in an ancient writing machine. “ Sheriff Lewis has departed over ‘Alkali Flats way,’ he wrote. “It’s our opinion that those rustlers will have to be hustlers and run like—if they get away from Del. Hank Style, chief deputy, is acting as sheriff pro tempore.”’ Jingling Jessup was smiling at his own sly fun—picturing mentally the many inquiries of “ What the tarnation does that there pro tempore mean ?”’— when hurrying boots creaked on the porch boards, the door was flung open, and a fat, red-faced man with a huge star on his shirt, burst in. “ Hello, Hank!” Jessup said slowly, turning in his chair, an easy smile on his face. “I was just making you famous. Doing my stint, by putting you into print, as it were.” Deputy Hank Style’s little eyes, seemingly smaller because of his plump red face, fairly popped excitement. He was panting-so hard that he could hard- ly get his breath to speak. Jessup shoved a chair behind him, and gently pushed him into it. “Tt must be at least a murder,” the editor said. The deputy leaped up. “Good cripes, Jingling,” he gasped, “how did yuh guess it?” . “And over in the Coyote Cafion district ?” ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. The deputy’s large mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Yeah, Jingling, but who told yuh about it?” “Nobody,” answered Jessup mys- steriously. He enjoyed using his native sense of deduction, especially with Hank Style. Hank, when the sheriff was away, was always inclined to be just a little bit cocky. “Wait a minute, Jingling,” demand- ed Style. “ This here ain’t no matter for triflin’. It’s plumb serious. If yuh know anything, I want to know where yuh learned it.” So saying, the deputy pounded the table, but pounded it too hard, and his plump fist, bruised, involuntarily went to his mouth. Jingling Jessup repressed a smile. He saw that Style was terribly in earnest. “ Don’t get irate, Hank,” Jessup ex- plained. “I was just guessing at the murder part. Figured it would take at least that to make you run all the way here from the office. And I saw Cass Hargrove from Coyote Cafion come riding in hell-bent about five shakes ago and stop in at your office. I just put two and two together. Now come clean—spill the news. Lord knows I need it. I only hope it wasn’t some sheepherder that killed another one. That wouldn’t make such a good yarn.”’ “Good cripes, Jingling,” protested Style. “Don’t joke. Somebody’s killed Dad Skinner!” “Dad Skinner!” Jingling Jessup’s exclamation was one of mingled horror and grief. All vestige of jesting evaporated. He leaped to his feet. His usual slow drawl disappeared as he barked questions at the deputy. “When did it happen—and how? Do they know who did it?” “Happened some time last night,” Hank Style answered. “ Hargrove just come in with the news. But that ain’t the worst.” CORMCEOOOKS (E)