Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 5, 1928 — page 121: what you’re looking at

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

ROPE NECKTIES. I had no slightest doubt, you may be sure, that this open-handed attitude of Boss Deveture meant [ was on the reserve list for some damn dirty work. Nothing onusual, of course. Paid re- tainers of powerful interests was nothing new in wild cattle towns. Law reached out from county seats, but it wasn’t as fast or final as a six-gun. The conversation grew reserved and { commenced to think Shorty had shown wisdom in fitting his form to a bed. “Tf you don’t mind, gents, [ll run along. I’m tuckered out, and a bed looks like a novelty. See you in the morning, Mr. Renwood, and good night to you, Boss Deveture. You'll allus find me within call.” Deveture smiled thinly at the way I addresses him. I swaggers to the bar, calls for a nightcap, and pulling my Stetson down over my brow I leaves the Oriental flat. There is no clock there and I never has a watch, but I has a hazy ideer the cuckoo bird has coughed a couple of times since mid- night. Shorty is asleep in our room, the door is unlatched, the key inside. “Careless, I calls it,” I grumbled, but Shorty stirs and swears at me to be quiet. “Jest taking a cat-nap,” he says. “Tock the door and shut up.” I does as I’m told, pulls off my boots, and soon both of us is closed up in sleep. It must be some time after seven o’clock in the morning that I awakens, sees the sunshine streaming in, and re- members that there is business to be done. I grabs Shorty and tells him it is time to get up. He groans, turns over, but I perseveres. : “Let’s go down and see that pris’- ner,” I suggests, “and then put on some ham and eggs.” “T ain’t had forty winks,’ com- plained my bunkie, rubbing his eyes. “That liquor don’t sit well; it’s tipping over to one side this morning.” 687 “Tm going light on it, for one,” I remarks. ‘‘ ’m a hired gun-fanner now and has to have clear eyes and a steady hand.” While we gets on our boots I tells Shorty of my interview with Deve- ture. “Get the news on conditions,” I tells him, ‘‘ and I’ll sound out Mosby at the livery stable; both of us coming from the south, he seems right friendly, There must be a law-and-order party that Deveture must soon figure on bucking.” He nods, and we makes a break for the pitcher on the bureau with water in it. We pours it into the bowl and takes turns dousing our heads. I sure has decided to go slow on liquor, being as | was to be around Gorge City. A cowboy riding in for a monthly jamboree was one thing; he goes back to the range and sweats the p’isin out of his system. Sticking near where they was setting ’em up frequent was a dawg of a different color. As we leaves the room Shorty locks the door and pockets the key. I had already told him I was riding out with Renwood to the ranch. Outside, the sun was starting to beat down on as empty a street as you ever sees. A few neglected hosses, being given inhuman treatment, stands sad at hitching-posts, but there isn’t a soul in sight. The saloons is still open, but the light of lamps is yellow and sick, and they is far from pretty inside, as all who can move on their feet has gone. We saunters down to the jail, a stone building that is small but two stories high, with tiny barred windows. Shorty unlocks the door and we en- ters. ‘Dawson is up on the top tier,” says Shorty, “and as you will see him alone, mebbe, it would be safer—” But I was already draping my silk handkerchief to hide the lower part of my face. “The sheriff said to let him go in COPMICLOOKS (E@)