Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 124: what you’re looking at

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

754 “ Pletty soon Angel want to sclap—no looster to sclap, so Angel sclap wife— Next day have to make chliken flicassee out of Angel wife! Wife no good fo’ Angel; him need plenty looster to sclap!” That evening, after they had finished their ham and eggs, Solemn and Dirty Shirt wandered nonchalantly into Saloon Number One, looked carefully around, sized things up, and made their immortal announcement: “We're goin’ to get drunk!” Solemn and Dirty Shirt were faithful to their promise, and during the next six months the matter of Angel more or less slipped their minds. Meanwhile, Wong Gee’s belligerent half- breed Indian game, dragged through dis- consolate, fightless days, only occasionally having a round or two with “Blazer,” Chuck Roden’s white, corkscrew tailed bulldog. But Blazer was relatively immature as a boxing partner for Angel, and the bouts usually ended in the penultimate of Round Number One, when a pale streak, having the appearance of a bulldog in a dreadful hurry, could be noticed heading for the back door of Saloon Number Four, where his master was assistant chauffeur of the faro box. Then came the time when Solemn and Dirty Shirt had a sudden revulsion, tem- porarily resigned as chief inebriates of Red Bluff and sighed once more for the consola- tion of contact with the silent, immeasur- able desert. The next two months thereafter, - they spent mostly on the raw edge of Hell- fire Basin, out near the foot of Dead Angel Mountain, in recuperation from the half year previous. Succeeding Solemn and Dirty Shirt’s vacation, was the banquet when Red Bluff, under the auspices of Colonel Spilkins and others, got Versus, their mouse-colored burro drunk on champagne and then in- sulted her with beans, resulting in the adjournment of the banquet. Chronologically, it is now the following night: Solemn and Dirty Shirt paused. beside the shed under which, next door the black- smith shop, the Borax Trust had lately in- stalled the new prop manufacturing plant, viz: One 36-inch buzz-saw, propelled by - ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. one six horsepower gasoline engine, operatea by Pedro; the intention being to reduce to the proper length the massive timbers used in holding up the roof of the borax mine, Dirty Shirt and Solemn had just com- pleted a thorough and comprehensive tour of Red Blufi’s all seven gurgle emporiums, and were en route to Dirty Shirt’s cabin for a_ well-earned night’s rest. Their thoughts dwelt on Angel and his pathetic isolation as the exclusive fighting rooster of the sudden metropolis of Red Bluff, which had so spontaneously echoed to the discovery of the borax mine. ‘“‘ Something has got to be did about it!” Solemn said, with a catch in his voice, as he and Dirty Shirt leaned against the south- west corner post of the buzz-saw shed. “There ain’t no use talkin’! Angel’s got to be provided with a chance to fight any danged time he wants to fight. I feel plumb sorry for that poor rooster!” “That’s what I figure,” Dirty Shirt agreed, ‘ it’s a darned outrage for anything to be prohibited self-expression that way! I was readin’ in a paper once about how re- pression wrecks th’ constitutional works of people, and if Angel is repressed too blamed long he’s bound to blow up!” Almost miraculously an idea flashed into Solemn’s mind. It was coincident with the appearance of ‘ Old Bob,” the veteran iron- gray tomcat attached to Mother Skillern’s two-story frame hotel. Old Bob was the Ione feline inhabitant of Red Blufi’s two hundred and seven population. He had also been attending a party or something, probably down at the livery stable to catch a couple of mice, or possibly get better ac- quainted with the family of pole-cats living thereunder, and was drifting through the white moonlight of early morning back toward home. As Old Bob’s graceful form, husky and close-knit, appeared before the eyes of Solemn the idea was born: “ Kitty, kitty, kitty!” Solemn called caressingly. “ What you goin’ to do?” Dirty Shirt inquired. “Never mind what I’m goin’ to do!” Solemn retorted, ‘“‘ Even if I told you, some folks are too darned dense to comprehend!”’ Dirty Shirt tolerantly ignored the rebuff. (©) Eomichooks