Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 14, 1928 — page 65: what you’re looking at

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

GUNPLAY ON MOONLOW. dodging from bowlder to bowlder. Sam Dodd slipped wearily away. Dad devoted his efforts to the strate- gic covering of Dodd’s retreat. He wouldn’t shoot—to kill—of course, un- less it became absolutely necessary. Chances were, a few carefully placed shots would discourage old Sam’s pur- suers; if they had any sense at all, they would soon discover that he had them bottled up. They couldn’t reach the ridge top without exposing themselves, and, by the time they had circled about to come in from the rear, old Sam would be safe in Mad Muller’s long deserted, cavelike retreat. Little chance that any one of those three men down there had ever heard of Mad Muller’s place. The location of that stone shack, built in a crevice in the rocky walls years since by the madman, Carl Mul- ler, was known to but few men; prob- ably not more than four or five of the oldest inhabitants of Alton County. Sam Dodd knew where it was, and Toe Muskrat, and perhaps a couple of others; that was all. Dad emptied his rifle; reloaded and emptied it again, distributing the shots indiscriminately over the rock-littered slope below. There were no answering ones. Dad grunted his relief. Standing there in the shade of the overhanging bowlder, realization had come to him that he was mixing in a quarrel which he knew nothing about. It was just as well, therefore, that he should not be called upon to shoot a man; at least, not until he knew what it was alf about. Assured that Sam had got well away, the old ex-sheriff finally backed cautiously off, and, keeping well out of sight behind the hog-backed ridge, made for the towering rock pile that hid Mad Muller’s cabin. Pausing for one last inspection of the sun-lit val- ley, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the three men; they were circling the steep ridge, planning to come upon him from the rear. 203 Grinning, Dad strode away, con- sciousness of a job well done making pleasant little wrinkles about his eyes. II. It was dusk when he toiled wearily up the steep, weed-grown trail to Mad Muller’s cabin. At a distance of a dozen yards, there was nothing to dis- tinguish the stone shack from the ir- regular, moss-covered rock wall of the mountain. Dad Williams found the entrance without difficulty, however. Crawling on hands and knees through the nar- row opening that served as a doorway, he paused, staring at dark red splotches on the gray rock. Blood! Old Sam had preceded him. Was the poor old cuss injured? His suspicions were quickly verified. Sam Dodd lay sprawled out, face down, on a moldy bunk, in a semi- stupor. All one side of his tattered khaki shirt was discolored with blood. With skilled fingers, Dad explored the injury. It was not serious—just a flesh wound running along the ribs —but old Sam had lost much blood, and this, together with the physical ex- haustion, had used up the last of the little man’s resistance. Dad dressed the wound as best he could. By the time the task was com- pleted, Sam Dodd was gently raving. His pale eyes glared wildly. He shook a bony finger at Dad Williams. “Ye'll never git me. you. Rob a pore ol’ man, would ye, ye scum. ‘I make a strike—fust one in thutty years—an’ then— I didn’t do nothin’, I tell you. Never teched ’em, neither of ’em. They lied. It’s a frame-up. I won’t go with ye. Come an’ git me, dang ye—” Exhausted, Sam Dodd lay back on the bunk. Dad Williams whistled si- lently through his dry lips, and strove to reconstruct something that made sense out of the delirious man’s ram- blings—without success. EOPNICLOOOLK< Never, I tell. (E@)