Argosy All-Story Weekly, October 6, 1923 — page 32: what you’re looking at

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

814 here, Fernando, you tell me this: I saw him mount with a cigarette in his mouth. Did he still have that cigarette when he was.on the ground?” ‘“Non! But then again, si! He had some of the paper between his teeth.”’ ‘Well, then you put this in your head: I’ve heard that if a cowboy keeps his jaws together when a high roller lands on its front paws, you can count on his being a man no one can beat. Makes no difference if he was thrown. You remember that. He weren’t beat! Now vamose out of my sight—and tell Wyndham I want for to see him.” Wyndham came in answer to the sum- mons, sheepishly rolling his sombrero and crushing the crown into shape. “What happened, Wyndham?” widow asked. ‘* Damned if I know, ma’am. I tried to tighten my knees on the critter and found she just wasn’t there.” ‘“‘T want for you to leave off tryin’ to bust that mare,” his employer said. “I got somethin’ else for you to do. It’s much harder.” ‘“¢ Harder, ma’am?”’ ‘“ You’re the one man in the world I’d pick out for the job.” “I’m the one man, ma’am. I reckon you didn’t see me lose this fight with the old hell diver.” ‘‘T did see it. That’s why I’ve chose you for this here job. You didn’t lose the fight. In a manner of speaking, you won.” She added peremptorily: ‘‘ Come into this here room.” the CHAPTER V. THE LONG TRAIL. HE Widow Crockett’s room did not sustain the typical Arizona atmos- phere of the rest of the house. She had removed the more picturesque details; the wall candlestick, which was a cedar log with rusty nails, had been replaced by a hanging oil lamp with a painted tin fan; the olla, with its Hopi legendry, once used on the washstand, was replaced by a wash- bowl, a jug and soap container of white ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. crockery—the sort that the widow had seen in the Doxey Hotel in town. The Navaho rug—a relic of Dan Crock- ett’s rather peculiar taste—was discarded as Savoring too much of a frontier hut, and in its stead the puncheon floor was covered by a fresh, brightly hued domestic carpet. Similarly, in the stone fireplace, was a shiny stove of a modern make. Although Phil Wyndham preferred a room with Hopi blankets and bear skins, he regarded these innovations of the Widow Crockett’s as evidence of her good taste. They were incidentally an illustration of her marked dislike of the crudities of stone fireplaces, adobe chinks, and slats rived out of wood. It was quite obvious that she preferred the luxuries of town life. “Now, then, Wyndham,” Mrs. Crockett began, “I see you lookin’ around sharp- like at these decorations in my room, and it occurs to me that you should orter be lookin’ sharp to everything in the whole ranch.” Phil stared at the widow with a ques- tioning glance, and was surprised at the change that had come over her. Ordinarily a tanned, deeply wrinkled little person, her illness had not drawn any contrasting marks upon her. But on this close scrutiny Wyndham could see that that same wrin- kled brown skin was now like parchment, the lips were tight, yellowish. Her root-like fingers seemed weak, futile, unable to grasp—like the roots of a yucca overturned in a desert wind storm. ‘““T figure you want me to take an in- ventory again,” Wyndham said, with a premonition that the old place was at last going to be sold. “You figure right,” the woman said. “Because every stick of furniture, every foot of wire in the fences, every head of cattle in the corrals, is going to mean a right smart lot to you from now on.” Yes, there was a big change coming, as the foreman had feared ever since old Doc Winkler had ordered the owner of the Seven C’s ranch to keep to her bed. “TI don’t want my daughter, Hallie, run- nin’ this cow outfit. It’s what broke me.” She tried to sit up—a little figure hunched in a dressing gown and a yellow flannel GomiGdoo (©