Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 5, 1921 — page 136: what you’re looking at

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

422 ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, ‘No use waitin’,” hinted practical Sam. Hawk-Face laid his hand on his rope-strap, but thoucht better of his intention and went instead to where Mr. Orison’s horse lay. “ Might’s well use his own rope,” he saicl as he knelt to the buckle. ‘‘ He wont neecl it again.” * With any kink o’ luck they’ll be usin’ this rope to hang you,” had been the burden of a prophecy made upon a former occasion by Coryell to Mr. Orison. The latter now recalled this prophecy. The recollection augmented the gone feeling at the pit of Mr. Orison’s stomach. The rope! He, Rudy Orison, a human being having the use of all his faculties both physical and mental, would within a few minutes have the breath of life strangled out of him. He licked his lips. But his tongue was dry. So was his mouth. He tried to spit. He couldn't. Hawk-Face had unstrapped the rope. He was walking toward him shaking out the coils. Now he was running the honda up and down the bight of the rope. It was a rawhide honda, and stiff. Corresponding as it did to the hangman’s knot, that honda would be adjusted beneath his ear. And his arms would be tied. He would not be able to move them. But the honda— his thoughts continually reverted to the honda, the honda that would go under his ear. It must be a ‘tremendous Sensation to realize that one is about to be lynched. Only the strongest of natures may endure it with calm. Mr. Orison’s nature was not of the strongest. He drank too much. And he had Jatcly received two heavy beatings at the hands of Coryell. ‘“C’mon, Rudy,” said Hawk-lace. ° Le’s go over to them cottonwoods.” This was the last straw. Mr. Orison started to run. Tatty Larkin and Tobe Haskins held him fast before he had cov- erec| six feet. His knees gave way. He would have fallen. They held him up. His eyes were glassy. They rolled in their sockets. Anon they fixed themselves on the face of Coryell. But they did not see Cor- vell. What they saw was the honda beneath a clead man’s ear. Fatty and Tobe began to walk him toward the cottonwoods. The black-avised citizen and his red-faced mate followed at his heels. They were like wolves trailing a steer to its death. Mr. Orison had seen a wolf one winter long ago—a violent shiver bf nausea shook him. fle stopped and was sick. Better tell what vuh know,” advised the dark-faced detective. ; “Flop to it,” urged the other. Mr. Orison shook his head. Tinhorn, har, rustler, bushwhacker that he was, still he clung to his peculiar code of ethics. His nerve was rocking, but It continued to hold. He would not squeal. He had come to a low pass indeed. But he would go no lower. “Leave him be,” Hawk-[ace interposed. ‘* Can’tcha let a feller hang in peace?” Butter Nelson had been examining the hoofs of Rudy Orison’s horse. ‘I don’t see no twisted shoe on any hoof,’ he an- nounced. ‘An’ his hoof-marks are round as a dollar almost.” “Shore,” said Coryell. “I know they are. I just said they wasn’t to see if he’d bite.” “ Lessee that brand book.” requested Butter Nelson. “Oh, them Slash K earmarks are right side up with care all right, Coryell told him. ‘‘ I was just fishin’ for another bite.” CHAPTER NANIN, THE NESTERS., . OW do you know all this?”’ Wat Pickett demanded, sourly eying Corvell. Coryell jerked his thumb toward two sul- len-faced gentlemen sitting side by side be- tween a black-avised citizen and one with a red face. . “Mect Mr. Miller an’ Mr. Deegan,” said Coryell. ‘“ They're the two in the middle.” “Nesters from Canteen Creek.’’ Coryell went on smoothly. “Still 1 don't see what—" “Yeah. [ know, but they are two of the gents that have been buyin’ cattle branded Triangle Up-an’-Down. Bor Fe Bayo Mearic