Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 7, 1928 — page 49: what you’re looking at

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

TWO-GUN MAGIC. he might run into something in the darkness which would betray his pres- ence. His lips were puckered in the form they assumed when he was about to issue that soft, mournful whistle which had brought him his name, but now no sound came from them. Once he paused and stood for a mo- ment listening tensely, but the place was strangely silent. As his eyes grew more and more used to the darkness he began to make out grotesque-shaped ob- jects which he knew were the furnish- ings of a room. Frowning, he moved forward again. He had not gone far when he came in contact with a table near the wall. He returned one of his guns to its holster, then felt about the table’s surface with his free left hand. As he did so he nearly knocked over a tall oil lamp, but he steadied it quick- ly with his fingers. He felt in his pock- et for a match, then remained motion- less for an instant debating whether he dared light the lamp. He realized that in doing so he was taking a long chance, for he felt that death lurked somewhere amid the si- lence of this house. Solitaire Stevens was a brave man, but he was not in- clined to take any foolish risks. Yet he knew that only by lighting the lamp might he hope to learn what had taken place amid the darkness. He edged around the table so that his back was against the wall, then struck a match and reached over hastily and lit the lamp. As its glow flooded the room with light the whistling wad- dy looked about him anxiously, the gun in his hand ready for instant action. A’ feeling of chagrin swept over him as a quick glance told him that he was ap- parently alone. Then as he relaxed to a degree he be- gan a more extensive scrutiny of his surroundings. He found that he was ina large, comfortably furnished room, and that the fittings of the place were far superior to those which were usual- ly found in the ranch houses in that 189 section of the old roaring West of by- gone days. The furniture had evidently been imported from the East, for it was of excellent quality. Solitaire had traveled far in his wanderings, always whistling and alone, and he realized the furni- ture’s worth, as he did the framed re- productions of some of the world’s greatest works of art which hung upon the walls. In a corner of the room which was some distance from the door through which Stevens had entered stood a heavy roll-top mahogany desk. Beyond this was a window, open now, the white lace curtains which hung at either side of it fluttering in the faint breeze. As he looked about him the tall two- gun waddy continued to frown. His in- stinctive feeling that there was some- thing wrong lingered. The whispers he had heard, and the faint sounds of what had seemed to be a struggle re- mained fresh in his mind. He would have sworn it had all come from this room, yet there seemed to be no one here now. He moved toward the desk with the intention of peering out of the window, but before he reached it he halted abruptly and stood staring down. From behind the left side of the desk he had caught a glimpse of a pair of heavy black riding boots, their toes pointing upward. With a muttered exclamation Sol- itaire stepped around the end of the desk. He stopped again as he found himself gazing down at the pale face of an elderly gray-haired man. It was the latter’s expression that had caused the waddy’s ejaculation. There was something ghastly in the stare of hor- ror that lingered upon the white face even in death. Stevens knelt beside the man, thrust- ing his other gun back into its holster as he did.so. Swiftly he examined the body for any possible signs of life. There were none, the man was dead, though he had not been that way very Gomichbooks (F@)