Argosy, Vol. 117, No. 3 — page 79: what you’re looking at

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

CROSSROADS. It was a fine thing for a man with bare hands to do. And by God, he’s not going to be touched for it! That’s final!” ~The sheriff, for a time, sat speechless. It was, perhaps, better for him that he could not utter a syllable, for during the interjm the governor had a chance to quiet down, and very brightly there rose again in his mind the picture of the broad house, the white veranda, the stretch of green lawn, the pleasant vista down the hall and from room to room. Fcr four years, in his dreams, he had wandered through the apartments of that mansion. And now he was destroying the thing he loved. He was throwing away, perhaps ten thousand votes; he was signing his abdication. And for whom? For a wild daredevil somewhere in the south coun- try; a ne’er-do-well; a good-for-nothing mischief-maker. The sweat stood out upon the forehead of the governor. “So!” breathed Senor Onate at last, and heaved himself slowly from his chair. And his basilisk eyes glittered against the face of the other. Between fat thumb and fat forefinger he reduced his cigar to a shapeless pulp; he dropped it on the floor; he ground it under his heel and into the fine, soft carpet. All the time his silent eyes were saying that such were the things he would relish doing to the chief executive. ““So!” he said for the third time, tucked his hat under his arm (as he had seen a fine gentleman do once in a picture of olden days) and turned toward the door. “Wait!” said the governor weakly. But Sefor Onate proceeded toward the door, though with a shortened step. “Wait!” called the governor, and en- livened by his alarm he sprang after the Mexican and seized him by the arm. “What the devil, Onate; you’re not leav- ing me like this?” ‘““T have stayed long enough,” said Onate, his yoice still broken with panting,” to learn that what I have heard is true. You care for nothing—nothing but the Gringoes. Mexican gentlemen may be shot down in cold blood by white dogs who drink their blood. You do not lift your hand. You do not care. Pah! I have stayed long enough; too long!” Vicente. o8d He turned once more toward the door, but this time the governor seized him by, both shoulders and whirled him around. ‘“ Come back here, Onate! Listen to reas son, man!” Onate waved both his short arms, and in so doing brushed off the grip of the gov- ernor. ‘“ And this,” he moaned, “ is my reward! I,,who have slaved for you! I who have brought you votes by the thousand and the ten thousand. I who have held you in my heart for a friend.” Grief, self-pity, raised real tears to hig eyes. The governor was much moved. He pushed his visitor into a chair—so hard that he landed with a thump that cut short what promised to be a sob. “Onate, ” he said, “rather than break eff our friendship, I will do what you wish, I will have the proclamation prepared.” Onate sprang up and seized both hands of the other. ‘““My benefactor!” he cried, and could only repeat with monotonous joy: “ My benefactor!” “ After all,” muttered the governor, “ it is only one man—only one life—and the fellow has been wild—too wild; I must put a stop: to such things; this is no longer the wild West, and it’s time my people should know it!” He paced back and forth across the car- pet, his hands clasped behind him; his voice rose; he might have been rehearsing 4 campaign speech. He repeated: wild West!” It was a good phrase. He smiled cons tentedly over it. It almost rubbed out the memory of the proclamation to be prepared and signed. ‘‘ And the price?” said Onate, taking ad- vantage of the smile. ‘“What price?” growled the governor. Onate bowed low. ‘“ The price on the head of the renegade,” his voice trembled with suppressed joy, “The price of blood which will draw out the ptrsuers—what price?” ‘“ A price?” murmured the governor, and his rosy cheeks blanched a little. on the head of this man?” “This is no longer the IGOmicbook “A price (C@