Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 14, 1928 — page 71: what you’re looking at

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

GUNPLAY ON MOONLOW. ed outside the cabin. Both men lis- tened intently. Dad listened, too. Being nearest the door, he came to his feet. Now-.was his chance. “What was that?” he asked incuri- ously. : He walked to the door, slowly, the long fingers of one hand reaching ten- tatively downward and backward to- ward his gun. There was a quick, slapping step behind him. The gun butt was jerked out from under his very fingers. The instant the gun left the holster, he turned. ‘The tip of the barrel stuck, just for an instant, and, within that in- stant, Dad snatched the second gun from beneath his vest and fired from the hip. The shot struck Mossin in the wrist. The man yelled. The gun flew from his fingers. Jean Cudjo dropped be- hind the table. Dad sent two shots in spanking suc- cession, one on either side of the spot where Cudjo crouched, hidden in shadow, then he dodged aside. A fu- sillade of shots from Cudjo’s auto- matic, answered. All of them thudded harmlessly into the log wall several feet away. Dad stretched a long leg out of the shadows and kicked over the flimsy table. Cudjo crouched against the wall, fumbling with his automatic pistol, which had apparently jammed. “Stick ’em up, Cudjo! You, too, Mossin!” Both men obeyed with alacrity. “Don’t start no talkin’ now. I cain’t argue wuth a damn. I know you both, an’ we’re startin’, pronto, fer Alton- ville.” Calmly, unhurriedly, Dad bound Cudjo’s hands securely behind his back. Mossin’s arm was smashed at the wrist. He séemed stunned. Dad recalled that Mossin was a clever cracksman. Evidently the pos- sible loss of his right hand impressed him greatly. It was Cudjo who first a his composure. | A 209 ‘Listen here, pop. We—” But once more came that noisy clat- ter of footsteps, just outside the cabin. Dad edged away from the open door- way, just as a black rifle barrel poked inside. Without an instant’s hesitation, Dad knocked the gun barrel down, seized it and jerked strongly, forward and down. The other end of the rifle gave way easily. A man stumbled into the cabin and, still clutching the rifle—Dad’s new Winchester — sprawled face down on the floor. “Sam Dodd!” Dad gasped. “ W’y, you danged ol’ idjit—whut you doin’ here?” Old Sam raised a white face glisten- ing with the sweat of weakness. His wavering glance took in the trussed up Cudjo; Mossin, clutching his bleeding arm—and Dad Williams. “ You—you—you—” Words evad- ed him. He clambered up on a chair, relinquishing the rifle to Dad’s insis- tent grip. “You, whut?” Dad was angry. Old Sam needed a lesson. “You ain’t in on this, too, be you, Dad? You ain’t aimin’ on robbin’ me? No, no—o’ course you ain’t. But, I thought—mebbe—eain’t trust nobody these days. An’ I’m rich, Dad; thet claim is richer’n all git out; half a mil- lion, easy—” s pi whut of it? ’Tain’t yourn.” ee 9 is.’” “Not till you register on it.” “Waal, you know how I feel about sich things—” , “Yeah, an’ I know yo’re goin’ t’ start feelin’ different right soon. Yo’re goin’ t’ town with me, right now an’ register on thet claim. Ef you don’t T’ll file on it myself.” With his troubles over, new life seemed to flow through Sam Dodd’s overtaxed body. On the way to Alton- ville with the silent prisoners, he cleared up several points on which Dad was still hazy. | Gomichbook (E@)