Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 4, 1925 — page 138: what you’re looking at

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

928 “Tm so sorry that it came out, Hugh,” Said she. “Ys it such a hopeless case?” - ‘““] can say a thousand fine things of you. But not the one thing you want to hear.” “ Pegev, will you tell me one thing?” “Anything I can that you can ask, of course.”’ “Before that wild affair of last night— well, to put it in another way. At this time yesterday, would you have been more Open to persuasion than vou are now?” ‘“‘T hardly know what you mean?” ““¥f I had asked vou to marry me yes- terday at this time—” ‘“T would have told you that I was under a bond to another man.” “And if that bond had not existed.” She fell into thought. “T don’t know. I think perhaps I should have.” He stood up. “Then it was what happened last night that changed you. This fellow El Cantor— Jingle-Bells, whatever his name may be—” She flushed, at this. | “* His name Is John Albert.” “* Are vou suré of that?” She grew still more red, but could not make any other answer. For, in her heart of hearts, she knew that she was not sure. “At any rate,” said Hugh Nichols, “we'll find a way to remove him from the scene. Peggy, you're not the type that be- comes infatuated easily. And that’s why I tremble!” She cried at him. ‘“‘ You really talk as though I’d throw myself at him! Hugh, how can you speak of me in such a way?” “I'm sorry,” he said gloomily. “ But I begin to see what a devilish thing the whole tangle is! And it makes me heartsick!” CHAPTER XXXI. THE SAGA OF LITTLE SAMUEL. HERE was no rest that day for the sheriff. While Gloryville was in a swirl with the happenings which had focused on the parsonage, there was other trouble in the air, trouble of a far more dreadful significance. And that was the ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. siaving of old Alartin Hendon, a good man and a well-known citizen who had retired from ranching only the vear before and was a resident of Gloryville—almost its richest man. There was no harm in Mart Hendon. There was no pride in his money, no vain- glory. He was simply a gentle, companion- able old fellow of nearly seventy, as unpre- tending as a child. And this was the man who was found dead in his house. He had gone out to find the cause of the riot at the parsonage, it appeared, and while he was gone the thieves had broken in. They obtained little for their trouble ex- cent a few articles of silver. In the midst of their work, old Hendon returned and fairly blundered upon them. He was not armed. That made the hide- ousness of the crime all the more appalling. Indeed, he had not carried a gun for many years, but the two had knocked him down, tied him hand and foot, and finally—per- haps maddened by the influence of some whisky which was among their loot—they had brained him with the back of an ax, Such was the tale which took the worthy Sheriff out on the road for five hours of fierce riding as he combed the countryside. For the two murderers were known. One was a tall, long striding fellow, according to the footprints; the other was short, and had remarkably small feet. And Mrs. Hendon could testify that a tall man and a short one, traveling together, had called at Hen- don’s house to try to persuade him to give them work on his ranch. He had refused merely because he was in need of no cow- punchers. But they had left in a fury. The sheriff came back fairly exhausted and unsuccessful. And the next thing on his programme was not rest, but an inter- view with big Sam. He took the negro into his office with irons on his hands and feet. “Now, Sam,” said he, ‘‘I’m going to make a bargain with you and yo’re gonna take it. Yo're gonna give me enough in- formation to put El Cantor in jail for his life, and I’m gonna see that you go free.” ‘Could you do that?” asked Little Sam- uel, sighing as he thought of the iron bars which walled his cell around, and the hard little cot. 8A GOMIGIOO G S CO