Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 14, 1928 — page 30: what you’re looking at

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

163 had been the subject of much specula- tion among the patrons of the Lucky Strike Saloon. Some contended that old Jake had actually been the bold and deadly hero he pictured himself, while others were of the firm opinion that he was nothing but a bragging old bluff. And for want of other and better subjects, this discussion of the true status of Jake Hawkins had become the leading topic in casual conversation in Copper Gulch. “T just caught that last remark of yourn, Jake—how things was too tame in these parts.” Silk Wilson, the dis- trict judge and an outspoken opponent of old Jake, was the speaker. “ I guess yuh hain’t heard about Bryden, the Loder paymaster, and his two helpers, Sam Saxe and Cherokee Joe.” Judge Wilson had just walked into the Lucky Strike as old Jake was in the midst of his daily boastings to the noon hour crowd lined along the bar. What was to have been Jake’s fifth drink halted abruptly before it reached his mouth as he stared silently and wide eyed at the judge. “ No—no!” “ What’s up, judge?” “ Anything critical?” A mixture of - voices broke out from the crowd. “ Critical!’ the judge roared, one hand clutching at the long lapel of his faded frock coat, his distinct emblem of authority in a region of flannel shirts and buckskin jackets, while the other tugged nervously at his bushy, iron gray mustache. “It’s more than that! Them three Loder fellows are deaders right—each single one of ’em has got a hole bored clean through him with a forty-five. And it was all pulled off by a lone trigger tickler at that! But he didn’t get a blamed cent—Bry- den’s satchel was only stuffed with samples of rock.” “And you don’t know who the fel- low was-—the fellow what did the shootin’, I mean?” old Jake asked, hitching up his wide cartridge belt and moving closer to the judge.. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. “Naw, we ain’t even got any idea. Sam Saxe was still alive when some of th’ boys found ’em lying in the brush a little while ago, but all he could tell "em, fore he cashed out, was that the man had a blue handkerchief tied over his face, wore a long black poncho, and was of about ordinary size. And one thing I near plumb forgot—Sam saw a big blue star tattooed above the kill- er’s left elbow as his bare arms stuck out from the slits in the poncho while th’ killer worked his gunst But even that don’t tell us anything. “When the boys first found Sam, Bryden and Cherokee Joe were as dead as doornails. And by the time I got up thar Sam was a deader, too. “Tt seems th’ killer sprang out from th’ brush on them Loder fellows as they was goin’ through the pass to their No. 2 shaft this mornin’, and got ’em all ’fore any of ’em could nail him, the mean devil thinkin’ Bryden’s satchel was filled with pay money. ‘““ While to-day’s the regular pay day for the Loder outfit, it *pears Bryden, for some reason or other, wasn’t goin’ tuh hand over th’ dough tuh th’ boys till to-morrow. But, of course, the kill- er didn’t know that!” “ That fellow, whoever he was, must have been as fast as greased lightning with his guns!” the bartender ex- claimed. “Sam Saxe and Cherokee Joe was th’ two best gun spitters we had in these parts! And tuh think he could catch ’em both, with Bryden thrown in! Seems mighty funny Sam wouldn’t have some idea who he was— a fellow what could work a trigger like that oughtn’t be no stranger to him!” — “Some of th’ boys got a hunch he’s Alkali Pete, that terrible killer from down Arizona way. But whoever he is, it’s pretty sartain he’s a stranger around these diggin’s.”’ The judge reached into his coat pocket and produced a curious braided thong hatband, its rough edges resem- bling the teeth of a coarse saw, and held it up for inspection. (C@ _OoOK (C@