Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 14, 1928 — page 41: what you’re looking at

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

THE MAN FROM THE RIO GRANDE. There, halfway above the elbow, on Jake’s bare left arm was tattooed a large blue star! Judge Wilson fairly leaped over the prostrate Jake and glared into his dim eyes. “Yuh—the killer?” he shouted. “ Speak, man, speak!” Even as death was settling over old Jake, his lips again settled in scorn. “Yuh—yuh thought I was an old bluff, didn’t yuh?” he wheezed. “ But yuh see I hain’t. If—if I hadn’t fired them two shots in—in th’ cave, tuh make believe I’d—I’d chased th’ killer out th’ back way, you fools would— would be buffaloed yet. I was reckon- in’ on leadin’ yuh in afterward and— and showin’ yuh th’ way he got out. But I wasn’t figurin’ on jarrin’ loose any rocks. And that’s what got me.” “But how come yuh walked up th’ trail, after we'd all got here?” the judge asked, rubbing his hands nerv- ously. Old Jake tried to chuckle. “ That was easy. I’d only tuh crawl out—out of that hole in—in th’ back, walk down that—that gully a piece, bury th’ money near a spring down thar, and— and cut over tuh th’ trail, *bout a quar- ter mile down. “JT figured that would be a heap safer than—than tryin’ tuh make a quick get-away, “cause—’cause yuh fellers *d never think tuh look fur— fur th’ killer right in yore own crowd. ‘And yuh wouldn’t know it yet if—if 1 hadn’t been fool enough tuh—tuh take off my shirt and hide it in th’—th’ brush ’fore I pulled off both jobs. 1 THE Le Lo} 179 thought my red sleeves might—might be a dead give-away as—as I stuck my arms through th’ poncho while—while I used my guns.” : “The old devil!” some one growled. “ And that hat—th’ hat with th’ fun- ny leather band—that was rich!” old Jake rambled on. “‘ That hat I brought all th’ way from th’ Rio Grande, but— but kept it out of sight in—in th’ cave. I dug in and got it ’fore—’fore I fired them two shots in th’ air, when yuh fellers was—was right behind—down Roaring River way.” “T always thought thar was some- thin’ queer about that hat!” Judge Wil- son choked. Jake’s eyes started to close. ' “Some of them tinhorns didn’t— didn’t believe I'd knocked off Mocte- zuma Joe,” he murmured in the man- ner of one talking to himself. “ But I did, all right—back in them days along th’ Rio Grande. But I wasn’t tellin’ them—them tinhorns I plugged him cold so’s—so’s I could become th’ lead- er of his band. “Not much! It wouldn’t do fur them tuh—tuh know that. Nor how afterwards, when I led them greasers across th’ river fur—fur nice fat cat- tle, they called me th’ Killer of th’ Rio Grande. That day down—down in Presidio when—when I shot it out with—with th’ sheriff and—and—” Judge Wilson bent lower and placed his ear on Jake’s chest. “ He’s dead, boys!” the judge mum- bled. “‘ And I guess he wasn’t string- in’ us with his: yarns at that—only twisted ’em around a bit.” END Lv} When the West was young, and passions strong, an easy-going gun- slinger is changed to an agent of vengeance. Read ROPE NECKTIES By JOHN WILSTACH a stirring serial, whose first installment appears next week. CORICLOO© (C@)