Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 7, 1928 — page 84: what you’re looking at

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

74 the Whistling Waddy, was once again exploring new territory. The man was an enigma to all who knew him. A quiet, taciturn individ- ual who was reputed to be exceedingly dangerous when aroused—he wan- dered ever onward, pausing but seldom and never making the slightest effort to explain his actions. He appeared to be eternally in quest of some one or something, although there was not one among the many who knew him who had ever learned the motive for his wanderings. He had become a mounted vagabond of the trails, and it was not an in- dolent nature that had made him so. There were a number of ranchers who would have been glad to have Solitaire Stevens in their outfit, for he was known as a top hand and possessed a reputation as a broncho-buster as well. Some of them had even gone so far as to offer him a job with them. But the Whistling Waddy had always smil- ingly declined and gone on his way. A month ago Stevens’s one and only close friend, an old prospector named Jerry Grimshaw, had been murdered by a band of outlaws just after the old desert rat had made a rich gold strike. Solitaire, returning from his wander- ings on one of his periodical visits to his friend, had learned what had oc- curred and had avenged the deed by wiping out the three men who had killed the old prospector. It had been a fair gun fight, and the Whistling Waddy had won, thanks to the sense of fair play shown by the leader of the trio, a man named the Eagle, who, when he saw that one of his men was about to shoot Stevens in the back, had shot the man himself and prevented the deed, although by so doing the Eagle had forfeited his own chance for life. For awhile Solitaire had worked the rich claim which Grimshaw had found in Lost Hope Cafion, but the wander- lust had soon returned. The urge to be ever moving, to travel on had caused ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. the Whistling Waddy to sell out, and, after placing the greater part of the money received for the claim in the safe keeping of the bank, he had ridden on, searching for that which he alone knew as he moved over the vast ranges of the old West—ever whistling and alone. Solitaire ceased whistling abruptly as he heard a slight sound beyond the clump of trees in front of him. Then suddenly the roar of a gun echoed loudly from somewhere ahead. As a bullet whistled by his head the puncher slid off his horse and drew his two heavy guns in one rapid motion. He stood now, Colt in each hand, his eyes narrowed as he gazed across his saddle toward the trees that obstructed his view of the rest of the cafion. For a long moment after the echoes of the gun had died away there was silence—then it roared again, and with the sound came the clatter of a horse galloping in the opposite direction from where the wandering puncher stood, the hoofbeats growing steadily fainter until they died away. Again silence, grim, ominous hung over the ravine. Stevens waited patiently. He was not one inclined to make sudden or foolish moves at a time like this, for his was a cool and cautious nature. He continued to stare about him, watching all sides. Growing tense as he heard a crashing among the trees, he trained his guns in the direction of the sound. The noise grew louder, then a figure appeared amid the trees and moved toward the Whistling Waddy. It was a white-haired man who approached, staggering weakly. As he drew nearer, Solitaire saw that his face was lined with pain, and blood was oozing slowly down his gray flannel shirt from a spot near his heart. He was within ten feet of Stevens now, and as he caught sight of the puncher the elderly man shuddered and paused. (e(0) DOOKS AAI (E@)