Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 28: what you’re looking at

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

654 of that wrath and fire—as if this terrible statue in rags had been breathed upon like Galatea being brought to life by Pygmalion. Juana’s eyes were beautiful with a softer, warmer light. Was she in love with the man she had been about to kill? ‘“She’s the same as all of them!” the skipper grunted disgustedly. ‘‘ The little cholo!” The mate sneered softly. ‘Can it be pessible,” cried the innkeeper, “or am I locoed? Damned if she ain’t givin’ in!” The knife went back into Juana’s bosom —as slowly and certainly and as grace- fully as it had been unsheathed. The black tousled head nodded in assent, The inscru- table lips parted—not with smiling, but with incredulity, wonder, anticipation. “Tl come with you, senor,” she whis- pered. CHAPTER V. ENTER A STRANGER. S Juana walked to the adobe steps which led upstairs, she surveyed the faces of the little crowd with a glance of regal contempt. When her eyes met the small twinkling eyes of the woman in the sky-blue wrapper there was a mo- mentary pause—a duel of facial expres- sions. Cora was at heart a jealous woman, al- though up to now Juana had never given her anything to be jealous about. The inn- keeper’s wife was puzzled, uneasy. With the intuition of a woman, she was the only one in the crowd who feared that something else might come of this love affair besides a carving up of the hapless seaman. but old Cora made the most out of the situa- tion. Juana was falling from grace. The woman drew the hem of her sky-blue wrapper and stepped back with the age- old gesture of the pharisee crossing to the other side of the street when meeting a sinner. But Juana swept regally up the stairs, giving the skipper, the mate, the innkeeper and the cook the peculiarly definite illusion that she had spat in Cora’s face. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, “I knew it—a cholo minx!” Cora sneered with the feeling that somehow she had been bested in that duel of glances. ‘“ A jade!” cried the skipper. “A little punk!” cried the mate. “Har, har, har!” The cook could only shake his head in a knowing African laugh. Herzog, the innkeeper, scratched his head incredulously. ‘“ Somebody’s locoed,” he cried. ‘‘ Meb- be it’s me, but I ain’t believing my eyes. You take it from me, gents, that gal ain’t through yet. She took her bowie knife up, didn’t she—eh? Well, you gents listen for the big howlin’ when she starts in to slice him up. She'll do it, too—or else I’m plumb locoed.” The entrance of a guest into the ves- tibule of the Sundown Café temporarily demanded the attention of its inmates, An ordinary guest—such as a stevedore, barge- man or stoker—could not perhaps have at- tracted any notice at that particular time; but this guest was indisputably different. He was a swarthy-faced man with thick black eyebrows, piercing eyes, high cheek bones and glistening teeth. He was dressed in a khaki suit, with a low-cut velvet vest upon which were embroidered flowers in red and green silk. Spurs with rowels of beaten silver clinked at his boot heels. The man entered with a swagger that had its calculated effect. The innkeeper bowed and scraped, and the guest, having removed his tall-peaked sombrero, nodded conde- scendingly. “A mozo for my horse, sefor,” he or- dered. ‘‘ For me, a bottle of wine. I am thirsty. And if I may suggest, I am lonely. I have ridden for many miles.” ‘“‘ And under the sun—eh, mister?” “The sun, which is like the quirt to a horse, the storm to a ship, the hound to a hare. I am faint, I am famished, I am giddy, I am lonely.” Mr. Grimpen, the mate, who cocked his ear at sight of the stranger, heard this remark. He could see that the man was telling the truth. He was covered with dust; his face muddied with sweat; dust caked the tall-peaked sombrero, and was thickly powdered across the shoulders of COMmmicoooks (C©@)