The Argosy, Volume XLIV — page 110: what you’re looking at

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

106 here—which I do not in the least ex- pect—I cannot fail to hear it and will come over at once. Good-night.” “ Good-night,” called ‘Tom, and Whipple stepped through the doorway and walked slowly around the corner of the building. The path from the office to Gonzales’ house passed the two tanks standing at the eastern ends of the two rows; No. 1 heading the first row and No. 10 the second. Before reaching the tanks, the man- ager halted and listened. The calls of the coyotes reached his ears, but no other sounds that aroused his suspicion or alarm. He was non- plussed. Alone in the gloom of the office he had waited and afforded his enemies the opportunity they seemed to covet. That they had allowed the chance to pass was something Whipple could not un- derstand. Had he made a mistake, he asked himself? Was the night to slip away without a deed of violence? Tom’s quiet and easy manner had also baffled him. If there was a dark plot afoot, and if Tom was concerned in it, he must indeed be a cool hand to give no hint of it either by word or manner. Half convinced that he had misinter- preted the penciled words on the card, Whipple resumed his way along the path, his eves searching the shadows for the night watchman’s lantern. The light was not to be seen, and Whipple, thinking it strange that Gonzales should be so long absent from his post of duty, halted between the two grim files of vats and called the watchman’s name. “ Here!” came a husky answer, as a man bounded into sight. “ Chombo! ” exclaimed the manager, drawing the weapon from his pocket and retreating until his back was against the rounded side of the tank behind him. “ Chombo, yes!” answer. “I will be having your life now! Your life, gringo! You call for Gonzales, but he will not come; yet I am here, I, Chomhbo, and there 1s no one to save you from me.” was the snarling’ THE ARGOSY. The bravo was a poseur, and nothing if not dramatic. He had made himself a leader of his countrymen by virtue of this quality alone, and the ingrained habit had become a second nature. A knife flashed in his hand to empha- size the words, and the hoarse, tri- umphant laugh that followed should have been accompanied by a burst of blue fire and a nerve-racking crescendo of violins, But the manager was not the man to be overcome by such claptrap. His re- volver rose to the level of his eyes and covered the hulking form of the Mexi- can, “YT told you what would happen if you dared to come back here, Chombo,” said he. “ Throw _ away the knife; you're my prisoner.” As the sharp command = echoed weirdly among the tanks, a paralyzing blow from above caught Whipple on the arm, causing the revolver to drop from his limp fingers. Simultancously a muttered anathe- ma broke from Chombo, and he hurled himself upon the defenseless man in front of him. Whipple jumped away from the tank to meet the onset. His right hand could not avail him, but he made excellent use of his left. The ruffian reeled backward under the attack, tossing his arms wildly. The next instant would have seen the manager in possession of the knife but for a crushing blow on the head reach- ing him from the unseen foe in the rear. He toitered and fell to his knees, stunned and at the merey of those around him. The furious Chombo, lusting for his enemy’s life, was not slow in taking the advantage thus offered. Darting for- ward with a wotf-like growl of hate, his brown fingers twined themselves about Whipple’s throat, pressed him backward and downward, and the knife rose, fell, and rose again. “Confound you, Chombho! ” the voice of Jeffries. “Get un! your hand, I tell you! ” The foreman caught the arm before it could descend a second time, and hurled the bravo from the silent form. Chomho reeovered his halance, mut- hissed Hold (SO APU UCC AOOLK (SO in