Argosy, Vol. 112, No. 2 — page 137: what you’re looking at

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

LUCK. “Not a bit, old-timer. But about this glove?” “Oh, that’s one of mine.”’ She took it and slipped it into the bosom of her shirt—the calm blue eye of Pierre noted. He said: ‘‘ We'll eat and forget the rest of this, if you want, Jack.” ‘And you ain’t mad at me, Pierre?” “Not a bit.” There was just a trace of coldness in his tone, and she knew perfectly why it was there, but she chose to ascribe it to another cause. She explained: ‘‘ You see, a woman is just about nine-tenths fool, Pierre, and has to bust out like that once in a while.” “Oh!” said Pierre, and his eyes wandered past her as though he found food for. thought on the wall. She ventured cautiously, after seeing that he was eating with appetite: ‘“* How does the pin look?” “Why, fine.” And the silence began again. She dared not question him in that mood, so she ventured again: “ The old boy shoot- ing left-handed—didn’t he even fan the wind near you?” “That was another bit of carelessness,” said Pierre, but his smile held little of life. ‘““ He might have known that if he /ad shot close—by accident—I might have turned around and shot him dead—on purpose. But when a man stops thinking for a min- ute, he’s apt to go on for a long time making a fool of himself.” ‘“ Right,” she said, brightening as she felt the crisis pass away, “ and that reminds me of a story about—”’ “By the way, Jack, I’ll wager there’s a more interesting story than that you could tell me.” “What?” ‘About how that glove happened to be on the floor.” “Why, partner, it’s just a glove of my own.” ‘“Didn’t know you wore gloves with a leather as soft as that.”’ “No? Well, that story I was speaking about runs something like this—”’ And she told him a gay narrative, throw- 303 ing all her spirit into it, for she was an ad- mirable mimic. He met her spirit more than half-way, laughing gaily; and so they reached the end of the story and the end of the meal at the same time. She cleared away the pans with a few motions and tossed them clattering into a corner. Neat housekeeping was not numbered among the many virtues of Jacqueline. ‘ Now,”’ said Pierre, leaning back against the wall, ‘‘ we’ll hear about that glove.” ‘Damn the glove!” broke from her. ‘Steady, pal!” ‘“ Pierre, are you going to nag me about a little thing like that?” “Why, Jack, you’re red and white in patches. I’m interested.” He sat up. ‘I’m more than interested. The story, Jack.” ‘Well, I suppose I have to tell you. I did a fool thing to-day. Took a little gallop down the trail, and on my way back I met a girl sitting in her saddle with her face in her hands, crying her heart out. Poor kid! She’d come up in a hunting party and got separated from the rest. “So I got sympathetic—”’ “About the first time on record that you've been sympathetic with another girl, eh?” ‘Shut up, Pierre! And I brought her in here—right into your cabin, without think- ing what I was doing, and gave her a cup of coffee. Of course it was a pretty greenhorn trick, but I guess no harm will come of it. The girl thinks it’s a prospector’s cabin— which it was once. She went on her way, happy, because I told her of the right trail to get back with her gang. That’s all there is to it. Are you mad at me for letting any one come into this place?” ‘““ Mad?” he smiled. ‘“ No, I think that’s one of the best lies you ever told me, Jack.” Their eyes met, hers very wide, and his keen and steady. Then she gripped at the butt of her gun, an habitual trick when she was very angry, and cried: “ Do I have to sit here and let you call me—that? Pierre, pull a few more tricks like that and I’ll call for a new deal. Get me?” She rose, whirled, and threw herself sul- lenly on her bunk. Gomichbooks (EO)