Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 5, 1928 — page 116: what you’re looking at

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

682 I’m watching Shorty. He only pulls one gun, from low on his hip, but it burns powder immediate. Jest one, shot, but Burke clutches at his right shoulder and topples back from the force of the bullet; his legs collapse beneath him, and he falls back- ward on the floor. There wasn’t six paces between the two of them, and a forty-five slug has some kick. Shorty is standing with smoking gat, peering around for any friend who wishes to join Burke. There is no one who seems to want to buck his game. Jest then the silence is broken by another cry. A cow-puncher, whom [| guess I first heard ’way at the back, runs forward grabbing his left arm. “That damn deputy is a _ rotten shot,” he yells. “ Burke hit me in the arm, and I was clear out of the line of fire.”’ Renwood spoke to the barkeep: “Send a messenger for Doc Bradley; a couple of cases for him.” Shorty is gazing steady at the sher- iff. It is up to him, after all, and I’m watching Gerry with particular atten- tion. Martin made up his mind sudden. “Gents,” he announces, ‘‘ Burke has been asking for it ten days past. Plain contrary and hostile. 1 watched his game ; and he reached for his guns first. A cl’ar case of self-defense. Besides which he ain’t my deputy any more; he’s a rotten shot. A hombre who misses that close, a target plain as a barn door, oughtn’t to be allowed to go armed.” I laughs, as does the rest, gen’ral. Burke is laid over in a corner. That puncture in the right shoulder may lay him up some, but it ain’t dangerous. It is where a gun-fanner shoots when he wants to put a man on the shelf for a spell, not kill. “Thank you, sheriff,” says Shorty, hearty. “I likes your style and I cares for your gait. And if you needs a new deputy I’m your man.” They shake hands like brothers, and ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. now I’m onto Shorty’s game. He out- thinks me. There was meaning and method behind this ruckus. “I buys a drink to let us forget this little annoying unpleasantness,” I an- nounces. Renwood grunts, but joins, and he downs his quick. We crooks our ed- bows, likewise, like a salute. ‘““ Now that the air’s cleared,” says Martin, “ suppose we all goes over and inspects what’s left of Leary.” I looks for Shorty. He is jest re- turning from unpinning Burke’s badge from his shirt, and is shining it up on his sleeve before putting it on. “All right, sheriff,” he says, with a grin. “ Your new deputy is with you all the way.” CHAPTER XVI. GETTING IN STRONG. E promenades from the Oriental in a body, eight of us, with Burke elrm’nated, and walks down to where the team and buckboard waits in front of the sheriff’s shack. As there seems to be no volunteers, Shorty and I lifts the body of the dead foreman and carries same into Martin’s office. That peace officer sends a hurry-up call for Sam Barnes, the coroner, and waves back the idle crowd that is beginning to gather. Inside there is no bench or sofa on which to lay the remains proper, so we planks our heavy load down on the floor. “Sheriff, you being im _ charge, search Leary’s clothes,” suggests Ren- wood, who stands puffing at a ciga- rette and looking down at his ex-fore- man without a trace of sorrow. Martin kneels down and goes to work like an expert pickpocket show- ing off for company. ‘The total re- sults is nothing to get excited about: ten dollars in gold, some loose silver, a bag of tobacco, a claspknife, a cheap silver watch, and a bunch of keys. (e(0) OOO KS mile (C@)