Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 5, 1928 — page 111: what you’re looking at

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

ROPE NECKTIES. they is sitting around on stoops listless- like. We continues on our way mebbe a block and a half when I sights the post office, a nice brick building; next door to same is the white shack the barkeep tells us about, and there is a light with- in. Crossing the street we hits some fine mud, sticky as glue, but finally pulls ourselves out to the opposite sidewalk. We tries to scrape some of it off, but it's no use. We marches up the two steps and knocks on the sheriff’s door. “Come in,” booms a big voice. The latch is off and we enters a huge room blue with tobacco’ smoke. Through it I sees at the end of the large room three men playing cards around a table. “1 was looking for Sheriff Martin,” I said, hesitating at the door. “'That’s me,” boomed the same voice, and I notices a mountain of a man, with drooping whiskers, and a star pinned on his shirt, who is dealing the cards. “This visit isn’t exactly social,’ I explained. “‘ By that I means it has something to do with your office.” “Go right ahead, feller; these two gents are my deputies.” But he lays down the pack of cards and all three men push back their chairs a bit. Now that we has attracted a little attention, so to speak, Shorty and me come forward. “Fact is, sheriff,” I says, “we are two drifting cow-punchers, Shorty Smith and Harry Flint. Some miles back on the prairie we rescues Miss Mary Renwood, and a chap who dies on our hands, from a war party of In- juns. We delivers both to the Ren- wood ranch, where we has dinner with the young lady. She is there alone with the cook, now. “On the way back my pony stum- bles over a dead body on the plains, bushwhacked it looks like, and I thought you might be interested, so to speak.” 677 All three men jumped to their feet, but more in excitement I savvies than with hostile intent, because they has their hands well above their guns. “ Did you examine this here corpse?” drawls the sheriff. “Only *nough to see that he was plugged through the heart and head, and the body being cold, I figure he’d gone out like a light some hours since.” “Could you describe him a-tall?” I pauses a bit, reflective, as if trying to remember. “Two things strikes me,” I said, slow ; “he wore bat-shaped chaps, and the six-gun dangling from one hand had what looks to be a home-made wooden butt.” “ Leary,” whispers one of the depu- ties. “He clung to that old we’pon though he could afford a dozen new ones. And the bat chaps; they was of Mexican leather and made for him special.” “ Well,” announces Martin, “some one has to take the buckboard out and bring i the body. You say, boys, you came direct from the Renwood ranch ?” “Yeah,” I replies, “ we made a bee line.” . The two deputies is looking at one another. The sheriff grins. “ Mebbe both of you had better go, eh, Burke?” The man addressed growled behind six days’ growth of beard that made him look like a pole cat. “One man can search as well as two. Gerry, we'll match to see who goes out and drags in that stiff.” Sheriff Martin produced a dollar and spun it in the air above the table. “You call,” he demands of Burke. “Heads!” yells that husky. Then he swears to beat the old Nick. The coin had come tails. “We'll search the body when you brings it in,” cautions Martin. “ There’s been too many bodies found with the pockets turned inside out.” Burke turns on him a couple of blood-shot eyes. COPMICGLOOOKS (C@