Argosy All-Story Weekly, June 27, 1925 — page 97: what you’re looking at

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

«Tl knock the livin’ tar out 9’: you!” whitey Wilkins’s eyes narrowed, his lips met in a thin, bloodless line, his small body tensed. Balanced on the balls of his feet, 891 it, One day I'll come up with l you. Mind my name, Whitey Wilkins, I ain’t never Killed a man yet, but it’s time I started. One day I'l get you. And if I don't the he waited for the other’s final word. country will. It’ j It came—and was unanswerable. it’s m4 big enough 19 salle see For Gregson, thrusting one hand inside So help me, if you mush on Gregson his coat, drew out a gun. there'll be a curse on you, a curse.” “Hands off!” he grated. “Hands off! “Have done,- have done.” Gregson Beat the tar out o’ this!” backed out. Whitey Wilkins looked into the muzzle of “ Whitey, Whitey, don’t tak’ a chancel that gun. For one wild moment he was He's scare,” Bateese warmed. “ He's scare tempted to chance it. But Bateese—what so much he'll shoot!” of Bateese if he tried and failed? Dumbly Whitey stood there. He knew There was always a chance that he could that Bateese was right. He watched as bring: Bateese through the winter. But if Gregson paused on his way to pick up the he, Whitey, jumped this Gregson and failed zifles; watched as he harnessed his dogs. —well, a man with a bullet in his guts could ‘Then as he started them off down the river do little sick-nursing, trail, Whitey Wilkins turned toward his big “ Don't do it. Don’t tak’ a chance,” Ba- partner lying helpless in his bunk. teese whispered. ‘‘Y’m sorry,” he murmured. “ Guess I’m “ You got sense if the little codgec ain’t.” no good, Bateese, lettin’ a yellow swine put Gregson held the gun frm. “I'm sorry I it over me like that.” can’t oblige. But you'll come through right, ‘‘ Nevaire min’, Whitey,” Bateese com- don’t you worry.” forted him. ‘“ Maybe we get dogs some- He motioned Whitey back against the where. Le bon Dieu, he's not feenish wit! wall. “You shoot them hands up,” he us yet. Maybe this leg heal all right yet. commanded, and came closer. Maybe.” He ran his free hand over Whitey’s ‘“ Maybe.” Something was stirring in clothes. Whitey’s brain, a vagrant hope. “ Maybe. “You talk big for a man that ain't Bateese, Bateese, we ain't done yet!” He heeled,” said Gregson. ‘“ Now I'll draw the swung out of the door. Down the river the rest o’ your teeth,” dog team, a black line on the white snow He back away, grabbed the rifles off the was making for Elbow Bend. “ There's a wall rack, one by one, and stood them by chance yet, old-timer.” Whitey reached the door. Whitey’s automatic, hanging in for his skis. its holster from a pair of deer antlers, he =“ It’s a mile to the bend and a mile along pocketed. the other reach by the river trail, buf it ‘Know these here toys?” said Gregson aitn’t a quarter of a mile overland!” as he made for the door. “I’m not wantin’? “ W’at you mean, Whitey? Wat you a slug o’ lead in the back.” mean?” Bateese asked. “Where you goin’?” Whitey Wilkins, “I mean trouble.” Whitey was slipping backed against the wall, white-faced, with the skis on. “I’m goin’ to cross overland cold rage, fixed the big man with his eyes. and drop down on this here human dog like Something in their cold depths, something a ton of brick before he sees me. He'll find that burnt like fire, made Gregson pause. _— gold, will he? Like hell he will, but hel “I’m on my way,” he blustered, “on make a discovery for all that.” my way toward Rouyn—an’ gold.” A moment later and he was off. “You listen to'me.” Whitey was trem- bling. ‘“ You listen while I talk a spell, you IV. yellow-bellied hound! Gold? Rouyn? You’re on your way to hell, I tell yout © Greoson, rounding the curve of Bibow Leave him here? Leave Bateese? Go to Benda mile below, doubling back along the COMmica@oo SS Co