Argosy, Vol. 1 (1882) — page 21: what you’re looking at

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

I2 bore a hole through you! One—iwo— THREE!” CHAPTER IV. THE MOUNTAINEER’S HOME. No man is quicker to realize that the drop is on him than he who has oiten gained it on others. Before I had _ uttered the word “ three,” Zach Peters allowed his Win- chester to fall at his feet as abruptly as if his two arms had suddenly become paralyzed. ‘“ Hands up!” I commanded, and he promptly reached for the stars. Then I advanced to his side, and dropping my traveling bag, rapidly ran my hand over his clothing, not forget- ting the capacious bootlegs into which his trousers were tucked. I failed to find any pistol. ‘“T hain’t any gun but my rifle,” he growled. “ And I’ll take charge of that,” I said, picking up the weapon. I shifted it to my left hand, carrying my bag and the smaller weapon, while I retained my revolver. Under the cir- cumstances, I preferred to place my chief reliance upon the pistol. Step- ping back a couple of paces, | added: . “You can lower your hands, but don’t forget that on the first attempt at a trick you're a dead man.” Thus confronting each other, Zach Peters demanded: “Who the devil are your ” ‘ The man you tried to shoot a little while ago when I was riding with Tom Auckland.” ‘But you wheeled about and scoot- ed,” said my prisoner, evidently still mystified over my unaccountable re- | appearance. “ My horse was scared by the firing, but I soon got him under control, and came back as quickly as I could.” ‘What made you come back kere?” “To look for you; I knew you would try to sneak in on Tom.” THE ARGOSY. “Say, stranger, he was hit purty hard, warn’t he? ” “No; he caught it in his forearm, but the bullet went through the head of his horse first, and didn’t do him much damage.” “ I wish it had gone through his head first,’ exclaimed my prisoner with in- expressible fierceness; “if it hadn’t been for you, stranger, I’d ’ve finished him. Say, who are you any.way, and what have you to do with our quarrel? ” “ Tl give you the particulars some other time; it’s enough for you to know that for the present I am a friend of Tom Auckland.” ‘TI knowed the Baker gang was try- ing to bring in outside folks to help ’em, but they may bring a hundred men, not counting the State militia, and it won’t do ’em a bit of good; we'll clean ’em all { 7? out! “An hour ago I had never seen or. heard of Tom Auckland; he was look- ing for a chance to shoot me when I got the drop, and that made a sort of truce.” ‘“ You seem to be hell on getting the drop ; what’s your game? ” Enough light remained for my pris- oner to note that I wore a brown busi- ness suit, and that my dress was spruce and natty. I did not look as large or as muscular as was the fact, and the rough mountaineer scanned me from head to foot with a certain admiration, for noth- ing appeals so strongly to his class as physical prowess. We were silent and motionless for a minute or two, each scrutinizing the other with an interest that could not have been greater. Suddenly from be- hind his beard, almost as shaggy as Tom Auckland’s, sounded a chuckle. ‘‘T know what you are, stranger.”’ “What am I?” “One of them infarnal newspaper fellers ; you’ve come into the mountains to larn all about the quarrel between the Bakers and Howards. The best thing you can do, stranger, is to git out agin as quick as you know how. You hain’t the first one thao jasatoottat eco