Argosy All-Story Weekly, October 6, 1923 — page 37: what you’re looking at

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

DESERT VOICES. the desert and demanding to talk to her alone.” ‘‘ There’s only one voice which it can talk to our Hallie alone,” the barkeep put in, ‘and that’s the phonygraft.”’ ‘Maybe all you gents don’t know who I am,” Wyndham said quietly, ‘“‘ and I’m not going to take the time to explain to you. Get out of here now, every one of you. I’ve got some news to tell her.” “You'll tell me who you are, before you go busting up this meeting!’’ Hayden said. Although there was no reason for Phil Wyndham keeping his identity a secret, this last remark of the citified proprietor aroused all the latent stubbornness and deviltry that the Crockett foreman possessed. 819 ‘* Look here, stranger,” he said. ‘“‘ I don’t like your clothes—in particular, the green of that shirt which looks like stinkweed. You get out of here or I’ll tell you who I am with this fist.” ‘“What’s happened, Phil?” Hallie cried petulantly. ‘If you want to see me, come in here in my private room. There’s to be no more fist fighting in this bar.” Sam Quiggley, accepting his first chance to speak, called out: ‘‘ It’s only one of her mother’s drag punchers from the Seven C’s outfit? He always prefers fightin’ to ex- plainin’.”’ Fred Hayden shrugged his shoulders and began chewing the end of his cigar to shreds as Hallie led the stranger into her room. TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK U U U HEADIN’ SOUTH OY! She’s cold! Whee-oo-o-o! Won’t be long befo’ th’ snow, Birds have lef’ here long ago, Time for bums to grab a tow— Say, "bo, le’s blow! Le’s blow to a fleecy Southern sky, Where th’ moon hangs low ’n’ th’ sun hangs high; Chicken legs ’n’ custard pie Are handed out to them that know— Say, *bo, le’s blow! D’ya hear that “ hog” as she popped ’n’ drank Down there under th’ roun’ red tank, While ’er headlight flickered on th’ town’s one bank; Ain’t nuf food here for a crow— Say, ’bo, le’s blow! Here she comes—pulling that grade, Her drivers clanking a cannonade, Sure is some sweet serenade; Right here she’ll be running slow— Say, ’bo, le’s blow! B. U. Davenport. COMiIicloOoe (©