Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 161: what you’re looking at

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

DESERT A chorus of “ No!” was shouted in as- sent. He raised his voice in a flourish. “ ‘This here soft stuff and a phonograft is what give Fred Hayden the d. t’s.” More shouts of acclamation, and Dox- ey’s voice rose above the others: “Shank, I’ve told the town what I was going to-tell them right here, now that they’re all assembled. I’m swearing off on this clear, bright morning. So help me! Never again will I drink another drop of that there purple liquor.” “When it comes to the d. t’s., it’s as bad. as jackass,” Shank cried delightedly. “Am I right?” “You are!” Shank took another mouthful, apparent- ly to slake his terrific thirst. But as an object lesson to the assembled townsfolk, he blew it out into the crystalline morning air—as a Chinese laundryman blows at his ironing. The spray from his mouth fun- neled outward into a fine mist—so fine as to evoke a rainbow. CHAPTER XXXIII. A PRIVATE RODEO. HE Crockett farm appeared particu- larly peaceful as it lay in that fra- grant wilderness of palms, cactus and sage. As Phil and Hallie drove into the corral before the house, two brown lambs came out to meet them, then gamboled back to the mother ewes when the pound- ing horses’ hoofs grew too terrifying. The scene, generally drowsy, was vitalized by many kinds of awakening life. Cows mooed, the outlaw mare whinnied a wel- come to the saddle ponies, a sow rolled its huge weight away from the half dozen pigs and waddled to the upper end of its hog-tight corral to see what had hap- pened. But it was the sweet smell of a large field of alfalfa that gave Hallie the greatest welcome. | The girl hurried into the main ranch- house to prepare breakfast. Phil doused his head under the water pump to wash away the coating of alkali which the jour- ney had given him. This accomplished, he VOICES. 737 ‘dressed himself for a bucking contest and rapped on the door of the bunkhouse where in the old days the cowboys slept. A sleépy mozo responded to his summons, stared at the extraordinary figure before him, but refused to show the slightest evi- dence of surprise. His master had spent a brawling night, that was certainly clear. But what of it? The mozo had himself achieved great glory the previous evening with the magic of mescal. “ Saddle up old Cactus Anne,” Phil or- dered. ‘I’m going to ride her.” “You will lock your spurs, sefor?” the mozo asked, according to his regular cus- tom. ‘“T will like hell!” the sezor rejoined, as usual, The mozo sighed, shrugged his shoulders and hobbled into the barn for some straw, which he spread in the same corner of the corral where Phil had always landed. . Meanwhile, Wyndham rolled a small, brown cigarette, which he tucked into the corner of his mouth with much the same | precision as a bronc-peeler tucking his toes imto the stirrups. It seemed that the old she-devil, Cactus Anne, knew that the mustanger was going to give her a different sort of ride. Per- haps she saw a peculiar light in his black- ened eyes, a dangerous grimace to that bruised face, the promise of a little hell in those tiny rapid puffs of smoke. At any rate, she stood there in the middle of the corral, tense, trembling in every muscle, her nostrils quivering, her eyes darting with fear. ‘Shall I put the gunnysack on her now, senor,” the mozo asked wearily, “or will you wait until you’ve finished the smoke?” ‘“T am going to ride her smoking, slick heeled, and rake off every hair of her old carcass.” “Bueno,” the mozo replied indifferent- ly. “ Then I will get some more straw!” He shuffied off, muttering: “No man should ride this demon, smoking. Her hind quarters they will snap up and you will swallow the cigarillo in your mouth.” He approached the bucker with a hand- ful of bran, grabbed hold of her ear with a@ mechanical, unemotional thrust, and ~~ EComIcbooks: Eom: