Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 14, 1928 — page 64: what you’re looking at

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

202 ageless men, who roam, quiet and un- assuming, but amazingly capable, through so many vital pages of the history of the West. To those who knew him well, Dad Williams was a definite entity, a force to be reckoned with seriously under any and all con- ~ ditions. It is safe to assume, however, that if Dad could have foreseen the diffi- culties which were to ensue from this altruistic pilgrimage into the hills, there would have been less healthy con- fidence in his sturdy old heart, as he trudged purposefully on through the sweet-scented thickets toward Sam Dodd’s tumble-down cabin. _ Along about noon, Dad topped a knob-like hill, which served as an ex- cellent vantage point from which to view the semiopen country for miles around. While his eyes were becom- ing accustomed to the shimmering sun on the sandstone ledges across the val- ley, the sound of a rifle shot drew his casual attention to the opposite direc- tion. He was not particularly interested at first—probably some wandering in- dividual like himself taking a pot shot at a rabbit—and then the scene came clear, abruptly. Men—a man hunt: there were three of them, following one man. The fleeing man scuttled like a scared rabbit up the side of a brush grown slope. His pursuers followed, not so swiftly, hampered no doubt by unfamiliarity with the country. From time to time one of the three men fired his rifle, but the range was long and the target an elusive thing at best. All four men were afoot. Dad failed to recognize any one of the four at first, then, the fugitive dodged out from behind a huge bowl- der and stood in plain sight, breathing hard— Sam Dodd! The fugitive was Sam Dodd! Characteristically, Dad Williams did not pause to ponder upon the whys and wherefores of the matter: Sam Dodd ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. certainly was in trouble, as Joe had said, and he, Dad Williams, would give Sam a hand. Swiftly he mapped out a course of procedure. He would intercept Sam, down there on that wooded ridge, and hold the three men off until Sam got away. Swinging the rifle about ready for instant use, he started away, running swiftly and surely down the rocky slope toward the spot where he figured Sam Dodd would come out. He was hidden from all four of the men, tem- porarily, by a razor-backed ridge of glistening sandstone. Reaching the lower level, which was a continuation of the flat-topped ridge on which Sam Dodd had stood, Dad stepped behind a jagged bowlder and waited. He had not long to wait. His la- bored approach, presaged by a clatter- ing of loose gravel, Sam Dodd stag- gered wearily out into the open. The little man was in the last stages of exhaustion. His face was gray. The breath hissed in short, staccato gasps through his white lips. _ He was unarmed; his clothes were dirty and torn, his hands and face blood smeared. “ce Sam ? Dad Williams fronted the weary fugitive. Dodd stopped; his little bloodshot eyes glared wildly; his enarled hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically, as though he was about to throw himself upon the lean, dark- skinned man who faced him. — “Til hold ’em off, Sam. You make fer Mad Muller’s cabin. I'll meet you there.” Doubt replaced the desperation on Sam Dodd’s thin face. He hesitated a moment. ‘No time now t’ talk. Git goin’. Here they come—” Dad Williams threw his rifle to his shoulder, and fired, once, twice, thrice, in the general direction of a vague shape, that was creeping up the slope, CEOPMICLOOKS (E@