Argosy, Vol. 117, No. 2 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

166 to hers; but no one moved. She sat ata table alone; men passed with smiles, but without any close approach. If she had been a leper she could not have been more sedulously avoided. Dix thought of many things: of some ter- rible, contagious disease; of insanity, or perhaps she was the sweetheart of some noted gunman. Yes, that would explain it. Dix Van Dyck hitched his belt a little higher and laughed softly, unpleasantly to himself. Most of his jests were of a nature which he alone could appreciate. He turned to a bearded, unshaven man next to him. “Stranger,” he said, ‘ will you drink?”’ “Don’t mind,” said the other. ‘“ Red-eye?” ee Yep.” “Partner,” continued Dix Van Dyck amiably, while the bartender was spinning the tall bottle toward them, ‘“ I been watch- ing a little play that looks sort of queer to me. I’m a stranger in these parts, and maybe you could put me wise.” Maybe.” _ ‘“T been watching that girl over there to the table by the dancing floor.” “Ts that her name?” a“ Yep.” “None of the boys don’t seem much friendly with her. Can’t she dance? Can’t she talk? Or is she owned private by a gunman?”’ The other grinned. ‘““ She can dance; she can talk; and there ain’t any man in these parts fool enough to want to own her.”’ With this enigmatic reply he rested con- tent, as if there were nothing more to be said. Dix Van Dyck blinked and drew in his breath; his very heart was eaten up with curiosity. “ Bad actor?” he asked. “ Ain’t you really heard nothing about Jack?” asked the other, with naive wonder. “* Never.” “ Follow me.” He led the way to the door of the saloon and squinted to right and left down the long line of tethered horses. One shape stood out through the half-broken gloom of THE ARGOSY. the early night, a tall white horse, glim- mering through the darkness. Even by that faint light the practised eye of Dix Van Dyck made out an unusually beautiful piece of horseflesh. ‘If you don’t know the girl,” said the stranger, ‘‘maybe you recognize the hoss? That white one down the line.” ‘* Ain’t nothing I can recognize him by,” asserted Dix. ‘‘ H-m-m,”’ said the other, and scratched his head in the effort to find some clue which the other might be able to follow. “ Ever hear of McGurk?” ‘Sure,’ said Dix Van Dyck. ‘“ I’ve lived some way off from these parts, but I know McGurk is about the fastest gunman that ever fanned a hammer.” ‘“ McGurk was,” answered the stranger. Dead?’ “ Worse’n dead. Done for. from a Chinaman.” Well?” The other persisted in his irritating, roundabout way of telling what he knew. As if he wished to draw out the relish of a rare morsel. “Ever hear of Boone’s gang?” ““ Seems like I have,” murmured Dix Van Dyck, “seems like I heard they was all cleaned up by McGurk.” “You heard wrong—a pile wrong,” said the other. ‘“ That girl is Boone’s daughter.” “The devil she is!’ “The devil she ain’t. And mostly devil she is, at that. And that white hoss there in the dark is McGurk’s hoss.”’ “Ts he here?” ‘““ Nope; the girl rides the hoss.”’ The iron hand of Dix Van Dyck gripped the shoulder of his companion and his voice rolled, low and muttering, like approaching thunder. “Partner, I been asking you straight questions, one man to the other. Maybe I been asking too much, but in my part of the country nobody don’t josh me when I feel serious. Partner, I’m a pile serious right now. Out with it. D’ye mean to tell me that that girl in there finished McGurk —McGurk, who killed—” Take water “T know—McGurk who killed a hun- © ECORMICGLOO© S (C@