Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 17, 1924 — page 95: what you’re looking at

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

SUNDOWN CAFE, “Pay me!” were the usual words, and the itching was assuaged. CHAPTER XII. THE HEROD OF THE MARSH COUNTRY. F all the characters in the Sundown Café who were at that particular mo- ment in jeopardy, little Herzog was the most perturbed. He had the definite impression that some hovering fate had stuck a finger in the stewing pot of hu- manity in that gambling house, stirring up a brew of combat and tragedy. Outwardly the scene before Herzog’s eyes should have pleased him, ‘The joint was crowded with water front people drinking heavily. Tidewater boatmen were lavish with their money. Cajans were noisy, guz- zling, scrapping, swearing oaths of love, friendship or revenge. They sang breezily, in partial unison with the rattling player piano. Bad wine flowed with its counter- current of hard cash. The fiesta was in full swing. Shrimpers and swamp angels were convivial and happy, but the proprietor was tortured in his mind by that old and dreadful catechism: “ What is a man profit- ed if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?” Herzog realized that at that very mo- ment—when the merriment was at its height, the piano thumping a lively fan- dango, the chips rattling merrily, the dice clicking enticingly, Cajans singing, couples out on the floor dancing—Al Boscoe was searching the house now, sent by Herzog himself, to kill a man. It was a terrifying knowledge the little rat eyed, leather faced fellow had, seeing all that merriment downstairs and feeling the tragedy of a murder imminent behind any one of those walls. Of course he had no idea what was happening. That made him all the more uncomfortable. At any rate, murder was afoot. Perhaps Al Boscoe would fail. Then what? That strange mariner with the sea green eyes was in search of a body, which he—Herzog—had hidden! This man was yet to play his card! Those were engrossing fears, but there was another more tangible, more imminent 245 one—a fear of the law. The management might not be responsible for the acts of its own barkeeper, but this was no time for the law to come to the Sundown Café. Then again the other victim of Al Boscoe’s hatred might have kinsmen down there in the swamp. They would not stop to find out who was responsible. They would tear the whole place down about Herzog’s ears. The distracted innkeeper paced from one room to the other, kneading his dry, scaly hands behind his back, wandering from the gaming room to the café, from the bar to the patio. The noise in these rooms accentu- ated the dreadful quiet upstairs. “Upstairs? There’s another trouble— the little witch to deal with. If she finds out I have opened up her ancestor’s tomb she will conjure up all the devils of the Seven Seas to torture me.” He thought on this train, jumping at every click of the dice, at every oath, at every flutter of the pigeons on the floor. He stopped the piano. At least the peculiar musical sense the little wretch had in his system need not add to his other castiga- tions. ws he went from one room to the other his mind wandered from one fear to the next; the green eyed devil from the sea, Al Boscoe whom he had incited to commit murder, the ghost of Mate Grimpen out there beyond the palmettoes, and finally the witch in General Papaquillo’s room. “ At least I can get her on my side. I ain’t said nothing to anger her—not yet. She don’t know about the tomb.” He'‘paled. A silence had fallen on the assembly. The girl herself, in response to Herzog’s call, had come down, and she was standing on the staircase. “Tl offer her gifts for her playing. I'll make a great boast saying she can have everything. Like as not she will ask me for a magnolia—that’s what she has always done in the past—a magnolia or a candle to burn before the old Mex general’s portrait. B’gad, I'll give her enough candles for a bonfire—enough to stoke a_ steamship, b’gad! She'll be on my side. She ain’t goin’ to conjure up no ghosts to make me crazy. Let Papaquillo rest. Let Al Boscoe be damned. Let the mariner be heaved to the tide. Let Mate Grimpen—ah—” OOK COMMUC (C@