Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 23, 1924 — page 82: what you’re looking at

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

240 “Fever,” said Dr. Gibson, quietly, as he turned to-Nan and Owen. “ He’ll pull out all right, though, if you can keep him quiet. If he gets through to-night he ought to be all right.” “But you'll stay, won’t you, doctor?” asked Nan. “Yes, I'll stay till dark, anyhow. I want to see how he reacts to that stuff I just gave him,” It was terribly hot. The valley seemed like an oven. All summer the ranchers had been hoping for rain, and it never had come. Now the ranges were drying up, and even the brush along the river was wither- ing. Old Man Masterson lay in his bed be- side the window, his fine white head in re- pose. He said nothing, but was fully con- scious, and his eyes wandered feverishly across the sweep of valley, where the heat waves danced as they would on a hot stove. Near by sat Dr. Gibson, his keen eyes on the patient, and out on the small vine covered veranda were Owen and Nan. The Weasel seemed nervous and upset. He would go out to the shed, pace about anx- iously, then return to repeat to the doctor: “ He’s goin’ to be all right, ain't he?” Owen smiled as he watched the agitated little fellow. “He’s kind of fond of your dad, isn’t he?” he said to Nan. “Yes, he told me the other day he didn’t know what would have become of him if we hadn’t let him stay. He’s a funny little fellow.” * Sure is,” agreed-Owen. still call him Weasel?” “Yes, and he doesn’t seem to mind, though he told me once that he’s got a real “Do you all name, a simple American-Mexican combina- tion—Pancho Jones, I think he said.” The afternoon wore on. The old man began to toss restlessly. The shadows lengthened as the sun came low over the river bluffs. Suddenly the old man sat up, pointed a shaking forearm out of the win- dow and cried in his quavering, delirious voice: “Look Nan! Oh, Lord! The fire! The fire! The sheep will burn up!” The doctor, with Nan and Owen at his ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. heels, hurried to the window. Sure enough, the dry thickets along the river were ablaze. The flames were climbing the little slopes and shooting high into the air as they de- voured clumps of brush and long, dry grass. Somewhere in the coulees along that burning patch of woods and grass were the sheep that Old Man Masterson loved. And the old man knew it. He would not be comforted. Time and again he tried to raise himself from his pillow, and was an- gry when pushed back by the doctor. Not even Nan could soothe him. “My sheep! My sheep!” he cried over and over. y Owen knew that the fire itself couldn’t do much damage. It could only burn the hun- dred or so acres of brushy country along the edge of the river, and then would spend itself a half mile down the river, where a broad expanse of sand would prevent its further spread. In fact, he had intended to burn out that scraggly growth anyhow, if Masterson hadn’t wanted it for sheep pasturage. But the fact that the fire couldn’t last, and must surely spend itself in another hour or so—that didn’t solve the problem of the sheep. Certainly the sheep were somewhere in that fiery, smoking inferno. Night came on quickly. It was already beginning to descend as the sun went down back of the burning bluffs. ‘““ My sheep!” droned the old man in his delirium. ‘ Can’t anybody get ’em, or let me go? They’re burning, I tell you! Oh, why can’t old Dan bring ’em in! He al- ways does—him and his bell. Oh, my poor sheep!” The doctor was worried. “Tf this lasts much longer,” he said, shaking his head, ‘he'll go out just like that!” And he snapped his fingers to show just how surely and quickly the old man would die. The Weasel, hanging about the doorway, heard. He tiptoed up to the old man’s bed. “ Don’t worry, Mr. Masterson,” he said soothingly, “ I’ll get’the sheep. They'll all be safe in the pen an hour from now.” And with that promise, which all knew was impossible of fulfillment, the Weasel SA Gomichbooks (E@