Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 7, 1928 — page 54: what you’re looking at

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

194 On both sides of him were the rough wooden buildings of the place: Stores with their tall, false fronts containing bright, crudely painted signs proclaim- ing the wares of the place beneath, an occasional dwelling nestled in among them, all grouped along the one and only street of which the little cow town boasted. At the hitching rail of the Full- House Saloon the puncher dismounted a bit stiffly, for he had ridden nearly fifty miles that day. Far behind him along the trail he had left the ranch on which he had been working as a top hand for awhile; it was not his way to linger in one place for any length of time. It was midsummer now and the eter- nal wanderlust that hung over the whistling waddy and made him one of the greatest riddles to those who knew him had again come upon him. Al- ways he had followed the urge that sent him onward, ever seekine new coun- try to explore. He preferred to go riding about the range land whistling and alone. | His cognomen of the Whistling Waddy was vaguely familiar to many who had never even seen him. The humors of a man’s reputation occasion- ally traveled far in those days, and Solitaire Stevens was known as a grim figure who possessed two-gun magic in the ruthless, lightninglike swiftness with which he could draw the heavy Colts strapped low on his legs. He was said to be a grim killer when aroused, but there were none who dared to say that he had ever shot a man in any but a fair fight. Now he tied his mount to the hitch- ing rail at the end of a long string of cow ponies, and walked across the rough wooden planking which led to the swinging doors of the bar of the Full-House. Solitaire had gathered a double thirst; he craved a drink and in- formation. He glanced quietly around him as he entered. It was still rather early in the ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, evening, and the big barren room with its many tables and its ornate mirrored bar had not as yet thrown off the lassi- tude of the sweltering August day. At a table in one corner four men were deeply engrossed in a game of cards, at another a faded dance hall girl in a short spangled dress chatted list- lessly with a gray-bearded prospector from the desert. A stout, moon-faced man dressed in a wrinkled blue suit and with a straw hat thrust far back on his moist fore- head stood beside the bar chatting with the barkeeper, a sad-faced individual whose countenance resembled that of an Irish terrier. “ But that ain’t half as good as what the old lady says to the station agent,” said the fat man with a laugh as Stevens strolled up to the bar. He turned and gazed at the puncher. “Good evenin’, stranger.” * Reckon it is,” remarked Solitaire as he ordered his drink. “I seen two or three better ones down around th’ Panhandle way, but tuh-night ain’t nothin’ tuh kick about.” “That’s a good one!” the fat man laughed. ‘Glad to meet you.” He held out a flabby hand. “ Mintz is the name, Herman Mintz.” “ Howdy, mine’s Stevens.” The fat man frowned as Solitaire squeezed his hand in a viselike grip, and the latter smiled. “Yuh live around here?” he asked. “T should live in a place like this!” Gingerly Mintz flexed his fingers as the puncher released them. “No, I’m a traveling man. I gotta swell line, fancy notions for the ladies—imported novelties.”” His tone became eager. “* Maybe you'd like to see some of them, huh? Might get a little gift for the missus, yes?” “No,” said Solitaire slowly. “I ain’t married.” That the fat salesman might even suspect him of such a thing as being a married man amused the whistling waddy greatly. Women had always COPMICLOOKS (E©)