Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 16, 1921 — page 97: what you’re looking at

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

88 “T guess she ain’t. I’ve just been there; an’ they ain’t nothing doin’.” “It’s did, then!” Hank observed with confidence in his other half. ‘‘ What do you want of her?” “That telegram. We got to stop that man from gittin’ money that ain’t hisn.” “Whose got to stop him?” Hank asked, pausing in his business activities and giving all his attention to the agent. “T got this wire from Morg Martin—” “ That telegram we got wasn’t addressed to Mr. Morgan Martin. You take it from me, that same Mr. Martin is going to butt in once too many an’ git stuck so he cain’t git out!” “ Tain’t no use encouragin’ murderers and cutthroats and horse-thieves in this here community!” the agent affirmed. “‘?Tain’t no sense in lettin’ Morg Mar- tin run every prospective, high-class citizen out of the place.” 7 “T don’t git you, Hank. This here mur- derin’ brute ain’t no high-class citizen as I can see.”’ “ Ain’t nobuddy said he was a murderer and a’ impostor but Morg Martin, is they?” Hank asked. “ Not as I know of. But he—” “ But he’s got his eyes crossed a-lookin’ _ at Dewildy Capet, an’ you know it. This here man he’s after just come from visiting at the Neck-and-Neck. He come in with Miss Dewildy’s Switches. I guess she thinks a heap of him to let him have her cayuse. Morg’s jes’ got jealous and gone to poppin’ round with his gun. Ef you’d ’a? lived here’s long as we have, you’d be plumb sick of his high-handed ways.” “You ain’t a goin’ to give me that tele- gram then?” the agent queried. “T ain’t got it. Mis’ Mosher’s took charge of it. She’s a goin’ to show it to Miss Capet. Ef you want it, you kin git it from the company. But let me tell you, you better go easy how you collaborate with a private citizen bout houndin’ some one. Morg Martin shot at that man when he was gittin’ aboard the train. I seen him do it. I hope to the good Lord that Mr. Wharton ’ll come back and give him hisn. Meanwhile, they ain’t nobuddy but the sheriff’s got the right to do what you’re ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. a foolin’ with. Till you git your orders from him, don’t be makin’ a fust-class ijiot and catspaw of yerself fur Morg Martin. It don’t pay; and it hurts the town!” The agent went back to his work. Hank’s advice sounded sane. The agent had aspirations for local popularity; Hank had waked him. up to the fact that the man he considered the “‘ most prominent citizen ” was not in favor with the real town-builders and reliables. When Hank went home for his dinner, he found the table all spread and the food on it. Under the lid of the sugar-bowl he unearthed a note: HANkyY: : The coffee’s in the pot on the back of the stove. Fritz put our old buggy on runners and I am off to Dewilde. So-long, Hankey. Don’t forget your medicine. MINNIE. Hank grinned. Minnie always did the right thing. She had gone off with the telegram, of course, though her motive was to succor Dewilde. He saw in it the kindly hand of a fortune that meant to curb Morg Martin in his abuses of the town and its better citizens. _ As Minnie, accompanied by Fritz, plowed westward through the snow in the impro- vised sleigh, Dewilde reentered the ranch- house after a visit to Switches. She opened the door softly, hoping that her visitor might be asleep. But she was amazed to see him up and digging away at the bedding on the springs in the bunk. “What are you doing?” she exclaimed, surprised at the vigor he displayed. Clayton started. ‘Dropped my watch down here,” he answered. Dewilde thought no more of the incident, except to decide that the man was well enough to go on to town as soon as a way was provided. But the real Arch Clayton had made a discovery. He lay back in the bunk abso- lutely shivering with suppressed excitement. He had seen, between the springs, a good- sized sheet of galvanized tin. And on it were letters painted in black he knew to be the symbols of the precious formula. One thing he needed—that was oppor- cConmicloool (©