Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 5, 1928 — page 117: what you’re looking at

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

ROPE NECKTIES. As no paper shows up in the search, I bet Renwood is anxious to get back to the ranch for to have a look-see, but he makes no remarks on that score. In a few minutes Mr. Barnes puts in an appearance; a little feller who could pass for a grave digger anywhere. He makes a superficial examination of where lead had been distributed, and then declares that Leary has come to an untimely end at the hands of par- ties unknown. This doesn’t come un- der the heading of news from the front. Sheriff Martin takes possession of the revolver, from which two shells has been fired, showing Leary has tried to defend himself, but had been slow on the draw and bad on the aim. As an object of interested inspection, Renwood’s late right-hand man is in the discard. I believe Renwood alone worries as to who removes his foreman from the scene of Gorge City festivities. He must have been an unpop’lar cuss, cause I don’t hear no regrets ’bout the pore departed; he’s regarded as out of sight, to mem’ry not so dear. Renwood turns to me, particular. “If it is agreeable to you, Mr. Flint, I’d like to have you ride out with me to the ranch in the morning. You don’t scorn work none?” “No,” I replies, cautious, “but I aims to breathe Gorge City air for a few days, as a change from the open range. But I’ll be glad to drift out with you. What time, say?” “?*Bout ten o’clock. Dll meet you in front of the Oriental.” “ All right,” I told him. “ My part- ner and me is going to locate a room at the hotel ’fore they are all gone. Mebbe see you later.” All has the thought of leaving that shack, and we files out with Renwood in the lead, me following behind him. As the cattle owner steps to the wood- en pavement a rough looking varmint darts from the side of the building. 683 His gun is drawn, but he holds it with the barrel pointing up, a fool way to carry a shooting iron. He is in his cups, lurching a bit, but none the less dangerous. i Blast you, Renwood!” he cried. se 4 | a And at that instant I drew and smashed him over the head with the heavy barrel of my Colt. I’d bent my gun over his skull, and it is a wonder that I didn’t break it. This hombre staggered forward, suddenly slid to his knees, and then fell in a heap on the sidewalk. He was knocked out cold as old toast. The revolver fell from his relaxed fingers, and the blood started to drip from a little rivulet starting at his forehead. Altogether this quick scene was a matter of seconds. Renwood, too late, if I hadn’t inter- fered, half drew from his holster, but I grabbed him by the arm. “IT downed this cuss before he could slaughter you in cold blood,” I an- nounces, “ but the feller is drunk as a boiled owl, so I didn’t fire. That’s why I bends my gun over his head.” The cattleman surveyed the pros- trate figure with scorn. The man’s eyes were glazed, and the dripping blood seeping down over his dirty beard made him look like something the coyotes refused to have for dinner. “You saved my life, I guess,” Ren- wood said slowly. ‘ This yere is Hink Dawson, a desperate sort of charac- ter; he’s a no-good cow-puncher I fired several weeks back, for private rea- sons. He swore he’d get me, but I put it down to a drinking man’s ravings, and paid no attention.” “Why not put him where he can’t do no more harm to-night?” I sug- gests. ‘ He’ll wake up thinking he’s growed a mountain on his head with a volcano init. You-all have a reg’lar, honest-to-goodness lockup?” “Shore, that’s a good ideer,” said the sheriff, “and we have a jail fairly pining for prisoners. Gerry and COPMICLOOKS (E@)