Argosy, Vol. 117, No. 2 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

162 bandry. Yet he escaped unpunished for many years, even in a land where every jury was three-quarters Mexican. The reason was that there was in Dix Van Dyck an appealing element sugges- tive of the big boy run wild, and men found it hard to judge him sternly—even Mexican men. Also it was known to all men that Dix was not the sort to hunt his six-gun by preference. He was perfectly contented to rely upon those bone-hard fists of his until the other fellow—probably from a strategic position behind a chair or from a corner of the floor—drew his gun. Then it was all cver except the coroner’s verdict. That verdict was usually “ suicide.” - And afterward there followed a period of anguish for Dix Van Dyck. For he did not like killings and he swore off on gun- plays as religiously as a confirmed drunk- ard; but always the excitement of a pros- pective fight was too much for him, and the undertaker received another order. Which would make it appear that Dix was a public nuisance. Yet men liked him. A man who fights squarely is judged most -Jeniently in the Southwest. Moreover, the boyishly eager, almost wistful smile of Dix would have disarmed a heart of steel. If he had confined his attentions to white men of ill repute and Mexicans of the lower orders all would have been well, but in an evil moment Dix crossed the path of a certain Mexican-American politician, one Senor Don Porfirio Maria Onate. In the newspapers he was known as Mr. Onate, but in private life every one used the title he preferred. The worthy Senor Onate was running for the office of sheriff of Chaparna County, and approached Dix Van Dyck in a public place with a request for his vote. This was a rash step, and would never have been undertaken by the noble don if he had not been too warmly inspired by tequila, which is apt to make the courage greater than the judgment. The reply of Dix Van Dyck was of Ho- meric temper and volume. He stated his opinion of Senor Don Porfirio Maria Onate in full, and completed his survey of the don’s public career with some terse re- marks about his ancestors. THE ARGOSY. Any other man in the Southwest might have been tempted to fight, but even tequila was not as potent in the soul of Mr. Onate as the fear of Dix Van Dyck. It is mani- festly impossible for a full-blooded Indian to turn white, but Sefor Onate changed to a singularly unpleasant yellow-green. He stroked his mustachios and smiled and hated Dix Van Dyck with his little, bright eyes; but he said nothing. Afterward he sent his brother, accom- panied by two accomplished greaser cut- throats, to settle the long account with Dix Van Dyck. They came upon him from the rear when he was unarmed, and there fol- lowed a battle which still lives in the mem- ory of the inhabitants of Chaparna County. Dix Van Dyck tore a shelf from the wall and with it brained two of his assail- ants. Then he strangled the third with his bare hands. Afterward he called upon Senor Onate, but that gentleman was not at home, another proof of wisdom. Three days later Senor Onate was elected sheriff of Chaparna County, and Dix Van Dyck kissed his mother good-by, hugged his little brother, and departed, for regions © unknown, to the north. This might seem strange to some, for the last crime of Dix had been most mani- fest self-defense, but the dwellers in Chap- arna County understood. It would have been impossible to get a jury which was not under the thumb of the new sheriff. It would have been a mockery, not a trial. So Dix Van Dyck mounted on a great horse, strong enough to bear even his weight on a day’s ride, and disappeared into the hills. He was not ill pleased by the thought of leaving Chaparna County, even under com- pulsion. Like the young Alexander, he was anxious f6r new worlds to conquer, and once started along the outward path he wondered why he had not made the move before. His mind was at peace; self-content warmed his blood. In the long holster his Winchester jostled softly. At either hip was the comfortable weight of a six-gun. The sweat of the tall horse was like incense in his nostrils, and the creaking of the saddle leather was sweeter than music to his ears. Behind his saddle a blanket was rolled in the slicker, Go OOOKS AMUNG (S@)