The Argosy, December 1905 — page 77: what you’re looking at

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

JIM DEXTER—CATTLEMAN. “{ didn’t ask the sheriff to accom- pany me. Here are Kalispel’s guns. ‘Tell Haverstraw to send them over to the O. D. K. range and leave them with one of the boys.” Davis took the weapons and went away, thrilled with things unspoken and dren his own conclusions. When he had finished his late breakfast, Dexter proceeded to the small building which he and Roy made use of for their per- sonal headquarters. The cattleman had no other home than this. There was a smart hostelry in Omaha which knew him for a fort- night or a month in the fall, and an- other in Chicago, where two or three times he had lagged out the winter, and naturally the roof of the Siwash tavern was more or less over his head, but this twelve-by-fifteen one-story frame held the hallowed place in his bachelor heart. There was space but for two rooms— one called the “ parlor” by courtesy of its function, and the other a bedroom, occupied jointly by himself and Roy. The parlor was neatly carpeted and papered, contained a store of well- thumbed books in a packing-box book- case and a crowning feature in the shape of a “ what-not” manufactured by one Shorty Burke out of a dozen spools, some clothesline and three nar- row boards. Shorty had labored over the what-not o nights, in the bunk-house, and had headed a delegation of punchers which had waited on Jim his last birthday— the thirty-seventh—and bashfully pre- sented the piece of furniture in token of their esteem. A nail was driven and the what-not hung up, then the cowboys filed through and proceeded to load it down with fur- ther evidences of their regard. French John’s offering was a bouquet of wax flowers in a round glass case; Brazos Bill and Tobe Henry contributed the navy sixes which have already insin- uated themselves into this chronicle; Mike Meagher presented a pin- -cushion on a base of petrified wood; Red Bas- comb laid bare his devotion with a copy of “The James Boys,” in cloth; Juan Moreno looped a horsehair rvata around the nail that upheld the fabric; from og Jake Haverstraw, foreman, a_ silver- mounted dirk, touchingly inscribed, “The handle for a friend, the point for an enemy”; from Barney O’ Rourke, an elk tooth famed as a luck producer, and from Roy—God bless him!—a little daguerreotype of a sweet-faced woman in a frilled cap, framed in solid gold: Dexter’s mother. Ah, that thirty-seventh birthday! Could the bachelor cattleman ever for- get it? His eyes filled as they rested on the what-not, and his voice was husky as he went out in front and tried to say a few words to the boys, but succeeded only in breaking down. When he came back, he put his arms around Roy and gave him a bear’s hug. Among other articles in the parlor may be mentioned the battered old case standing up in one corner and contain- ing Jim’s violin. This violin had been his delight even before Roy came into his life, and when the boy was absent at college it had soothed away the lonely hours. On this morning when Jim had rid- den in with his six hundred dollars he entered the parlor softly and tip-toed his way to the door of the bedroom. Roy was there, partly dressed and sprawled out on one of the beds. He was not asleep. His hands were clasped under his head and he was looking up at the ceiling with the vacant stare on one in deep thought. Roy Burnham was a handsome young fellow, tall and slender, with dark- brown, curly hair, brown eyes, and a face as delicate in feature as a girl’s. There were dark lines under his eyes as Jim looked at him now, and he was pale and haggard to an extent that aroused his guardian’s apprehension. “Roy!” exclaimed Dexter, starting across the chamber. The young man gave a start, rose up on one elbow and extended his hand. “Jim! Pve been waiting for you, old chap. When I got here and found that you were away it didn’t seem like the same place.” Jim took Roy’s hand and sat down on the edge of the bed, still holding nH. “You found out where I had gone, didn’t you?” he queried. COmiICLOO°okKs (C@