The Argosy, Vol. 76, No. 3 — page 69: what you’re looking at

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

GOLD GRABBERS, want to go into the swale. O’Hara forced the animal, and as they moved along the bushes gave mute evidence of. Bremerton’s progress through them. Near the spot where the torn and disordered chaparral ceased to show further signs O’Hara found a horse, patiently standing with the reins drooping from the bit-rings. Unless the Irishman was greatly mistaken that waiting horse belonged to Mariquita Mallory. At once his mind was flooded with puzzling ques- tions. Guess as hard as he would, however, he could make nothing of that odd situation there in the swale. Dropping the reins of his own mount, he slid to the ground and be- gan beating up the brush. He found nothing at all, and this was a sort of negative satisfaction. Just as he had about finished his searching a dull report clashed on his ears, a bit of lead whispered, and the brim of his hat twitched. “So that’s the way of it!” he ex- claimed, and let go with the Winches- ter from the hip. His ears were keen even if his eye- sight could not serve, and a heavy slug whistled toward the point from which the shot had been fired at him. A cry broke from the depths of the brush. O’Hara located the point on the swale - bank and hastened toward it. ‘When, as near as he could judge, he came to the spot he saw no one. Save for the murmuring of the stamp-mill the swale was steeped in deathly si- lerice. . “Faith, this is a brain -twister!” muttered O’Hara, rearing head and shoulders above the bushes and peer- ing about him. ‘ Show yourselves, you imps of the Old Nick!” he cried. “ Or come again with a shot so I may be after locatin’ you!” ; His invitation was not accepted. No form materialized out of the depths of the chaparral, and there was no more firing. “ Now, what would you think of that?” soliloquized the Irishman, re- 539 moving his hat and surveying the hole through the brim. “Sure I touched up the omadhoun that gave me the souvenir, but where in the name of the saints is he? Whisht!” he added abruptly, listening. He heard something. Whatever it was it was feeble, and the faint mur- muring of the mill almost drowned it. Clapping the hat on his head, he pro- ceeded on over the swale-bank, paus- ing and straining his ears at every other step. His course brought him to the brink of the gully. His gaze, running along the abrupt break in the earth, rested wonderingly on the end of a rope. The rope was tied to a scraggy iron- wood growing near the brink, and was hanging over the cliff’s face. O’Hara laid aside the gun, dropped to his knees, and looked downward. Then he gave an exclamation. Near. the bottom of the swinging rope, a yard from the base of the wall, lay the motionless form of a man. But it was not Bremerton; no, not Bremerton! O'Hara breathed again. “Ts it the blackguard who shot at me?” thought the Irishman. “ Did my bullet drop him over the edge, or was he going down the rope and did he fall?” It was a matter for immediate in- vestigation. O’Hara went to the iron- wood, sat down with his heels over space, twisted his long legs in the rope, took the Winchester under his arm, and began to slide. Hampered with the gun, he made awkward work of it, but reached the foot of the wall safely. + The prostrate form, lying limply and with arms thrown wide from the shoulders, proved to be a man whom O’Hara had never seen before. :His hat lay at a little distance, and his hair was dark and streaked with gray. | A stubble of beard covered his cheeks and chin. His eyes were closed. He was plainly unconscious, although a groan was now and then wrenched from his tense lips. COMicdoo S CO@