The Argosy, April 1912 — page 136: what you’re looking at

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

122 the gringo go too easily, but I tell you what we shall do. My cricket will fight your cricket. If my cricket wins, the gringo’s life is mine; if yours wins, you have him to do with as you please.” Solis looked about on the barbarous faces of his followers. “Ts it agreed, hombres?” he asked. “ Agreed,” they muttered, grinning at Flume with friendly diabolism. IT. THE sun was now up. Solis led the way to the clearing in front of the hut. The five bandits closed in around Flume, who did not dare make any attempt to arm himself. He did not have on his person even a knife. As they passed from the hut, Flume had taken from its place near the door the cricket bowl in which the Chinaman con- ducted their fights. This was a round piece of wood, about two feet in diameter and scooped out in the middle. The bowl] was placed on the ground and the six Mexicans squatted around it, while Flume explained to them, in a friendly manner, as if he were utterly oblivious of the momentous character of the occasion, how a cricket-fight is conducted. It was necessary for the two opponents to kneel, on opposite sides of the bowl, each holding in his hand his wicker cage. Then both, simultaneously, must raise the trap- doors to the cages and let the crickets out. The crickets would do the rest. Before the encounter began Flume plucked a string of red thread from Solis’s serape and tied it around the thigh of his cricket. Then he took a blue thread from Valdez’s serape and similarly marked his cricket. Then, for the first time in his life, Flume uttered a prayer. It bore his urgent desire for the blue cricket to win. The childish Mexicans, grasping their rifles, with their knives protruding from their belts, crowded about the bowl in eager expectation. For the moment they had far- gotten everything except this novel method of mortal combat, which was a form of life- taking, combined with a game of chance, of which they had never before dreamed. Valdez opened the trap-door to his cage and the blue cricket advanced into the bowl. Solis opened his door and the red cricket came forth. with dark suspicion. THE ARGOSY. The combat was as instantaneous and as fatal as the quickest cockfight. With one stroke, which no man could mark, so sud- den and so well aimed was it, the red cricket killed the blue! With a shout of savage delight the five bandits leaped to their feet and drew their knives. Solis waved them aside with a gesture. “Ts it not agreed,” said he, gringo is mine?” Surlily they sheathed their knives. Solis turned to his cricket with an ecstatic ap- preciation. It was the joy of a sportsman who lavishes his caresses on the animal that has won for him. Withal it was a Spanish “that the joy. With his brawny fist Solis grasped the red-stringed cricket and kissed it. As the cricket touched his face it kicked vig- orously and he dropped it in terror. The sting, or kick, or whatever it was, did not pain him so much as the sudden impact of the unfamiliar. He was in a country of tarantulas, scorpions, and rattlesnakes, and he was suddenly filled with a superstitious fear, for, had he not seen this tiny insect only the moment before deal out death to one of its kind? Could it not, therefore, bring death to a human being? Swifter even than thought Flume McCool saw his opportunity. His life had been forfeited, but he would use his wits to save it. A look of horror came over his face. “ Amigo!” he cried, and rattled on, this time in Spanish, at which the bandits looked at him with consternation and then “What have you done! It is fatal! The sting of the cricket will kill you! It is poisonous!” Even under his thick tan it was apparent that Solis was turning pale. “Hound!” he yelled, drawing his knife, and rushing on his victim, “you have planned this, but I will get you first.” “Wait!” cried Flume, and something in his manner stayed the bandit chief. “I have a way to save your life.” There was a glimmer of intelligence left under the craven fear of Solis and he re- flected that he had not better despatch what was perhaps his sole means of escape from what he firmly believed would be his death. “Speak, gringo!” he commanded. “Tell me—what is it?—before I kill you.” cComicloool. CO