Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 14, 1928 — page 66: what you’re looking at

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

204 It was evident, however, that old Sam was in trouble; serious trouble of some kind. He had made a strike— so much seemed clear. But what then? And what could he, Dad Williams, do about it? Nothing, certainly, just now. Chances were old Sam couldn’t be moved for a day or so, anyhow. Mean- While, his duty lay, right here, at the sick man’s side. All during the night Dad Williams sat on a rickety stool beside the ancient bunk, patiently tending the injured man. ‘Toward morning, Sam Dodd slept, quietly, peacefully, the health- giving, profound slumber of a sick child, which sleeps its way back to health. . Dad Williams slept, too, propped uncomfortably against the wall at the foot of the bunk. He came awake with a start—an in- ward start—no one, watching him, would have known that he was awake. He did not even open his eyes. Nevertheless, he knew—just as sure- ly as though his keen eyes had told him —that there was a third person in the room. <A guttural grunt solved the mystery. Joe Muskrat! The old Indian crouched in the cav- ern-like entrance to the cabin. His lit- tle bead-like eyes were fixed with a curious intentness on Dad Williams’s face. Sam Dodd was still sleeping. A shaft of sunlight crept in through a chink in the rocky wall, advertising the fact that a new day had come. After making sure that his patient was com- fortable, Dad joined the silent Indian. “Waal, you squint-eyed ol’ sphinx, whut in heck you doin’ here? Any news? But whut am I wastin’ breath askin’ you fer? Nothin’ short of a earthquake would git you t’ do any- thin’ else but grunt.” Joe Muskrat evidently had some- thing on his mind, however. He mum- bled unintelligibly at first. Finally his vague thoughts found ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. their way into words. Brief words, true, but startlingly potent. “Sam in bad trouble, for sure. Deputy an’ t’ree men chase ’em, No it. Dad Williams gasped. “ The law? D’you mean the law is after Sam Dodd?” Joe Muskrat nodded solemnly. * Jiminetty—whut fer, Joe?” The old Indian merely shrugged. Evidently, he did not know—what for —and Dad realized that it really did not make much difference what the charge was. The point was that Sam Dodd had got crosswise with the law, and he, Dad Williams, who confidently expect- ed to be the next sheriff of Alton Coun- ty, had openly aided a lawbreaker to escape. To Dad Williams, whose faith in the infallibility of the law was childlike in its unquestioning sincerity, this action on his part constituted a downright catastrophe. How could he ever ex- plain? He couldn’t. He had blun- dered into things, without looking where he was going. No excuse, there was no possible ex- cuse for his foolhardiness. But who, knowing Sam Dodd, would ever have suspected that that simple mouse- hearted little man would ever have got in wrong with the law? It was almost beyond belief. Still, the impossible had happened. And now— Forgetful of the silent Indian’s pres- ence, forgetful even of Sam Dodd— the cause of it all—Dad Williams squatted on the dirt floor, cold pipe set tight between his teeth, his lean face wrinkled in troubled thought. There was only one thing to do, this his worrying quickly told him; make a clean breast of it. Go to town, see Calderwood, and tell his story—every- thing—exactly as it had happened. He would get scant sympathy from Gus Calderwood, and this individual could be trusted to use the information CONIC OOOKS (F@)