Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

322 into a dome of splendid desert sky. The skeins of cigarettes rising lazily here and there were transformed to that feathery desert plant called the smoke-tree. Through the clear plate glass of the win- dow the Fifth Avenue crowd was a herd of cattle. On the other side the Gothic facade of a cathedral in the late afternoon sun, with pinnacles, parapets and flying but- tresses, was the side of a canon with rain- stained formations of red rock. And as an undertone to that roar of the herd, there was the soft and lonely clip-clop of a cab-horse on the street. The sound of horses’ hoofs was the keynote. Inside again: There were two men not far from the leather-upholstered chair in which Mr. Chilton was deeply immersed. These two club members were at cards. One had a thin, aquiline face with jet black brows, a blue jaw and drooping eye- lids. He might have been Pedro Lampaz. In fact, as Mr. Chilton gazed intently at him, he did turn into Pedro Lampaz, dis- solving after the illusory ‘manner of the actors in moving pictures, from one per- sonality into the other. His heavy watch chain and silk vest turned into a brilliant sash; his black straight hair was partly hid- den by a sombrero; pompons decorated his trousers all the way down to where they flared out in bell shape like a Mexican toreador’s. What was this Mexican villain doing as -he shuffled the pack with his spidery, jew- - eled fingers? He was fleecing an honest cow-puncher—that is to say, the club mem- ber opposite to him. The cow-puncher seated there in that aura of smoke at the gaming table was steadily losing his wages. Mr. James Chilton riveted his eyes upon that vital drama. The cards were parted, bent by agile fingers, then brought together with a pleasant hum, like the hum of heel flies in the corral. Yes, the Mexican was cheating, damn him! Chilton’s eyes were like the eyes of a buzzard. He could see a card flipped from under the pack. He rubbed his hand across his forehead. The Mexican gentleman dissolved slowly back into a club member. The flare-shape trousers with pompons faded to dull gray, the black velvet jacket dissolved to an after- ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. noon swallowtail. The sombrero vanished, leaving the black, straight hair. The bril- liant sash with its corn and plant design turned into a fancy vest. The whole picture turned into an im- maculately groomed gentleman by the name of Darril Morduant. Nothing in fact remained of that glorious picture of a Mexican gambler in a villainous desert posada except one detail: the spidery fingers with the onyx ring and the cards humming like heel flies! And the cowboy opposite to him resolved himself likewise into an immaculate gentle- man. Red bandanna, bearskin chaps, jing- ling spurs, holster and six-gun, the face reddened by sun, desert wind and jackass brandy—all dwindled to the inglorious Dr. Thurlow Rivers. Only one detail remained there likewise: the crimson face, for the doctor was flushed—not by jackass brandy, but by bourbon. For a moment James Chilton watched his two fellow club members at their cards. In his mind it made no difference whether they were in a desert tavern or not. The same fundamental passions—avarice, treachery, drunkenness, existed. There was Mr. Morduant, a soft-voiced, spidery fingered gentleman cheating at cards. The red-faced gentleman with the childish blue eyes was being fleeced. “Tf I were in Arizona, I would take out a bowie knife and pin Mr. Morduant’s hand to the table for exhibition as you pin a butterfly on a card. Or, perhaps better, I would shoot him.” So Mr. Chilton gently mused. The elegant clubman and gambler Mr. Morduant felt the burning gaze of Chilton’s gray eyes upon him. He looked up across the intervening space of velvet carpet, chess table, lounge.. Mr. Morduant’s sallow face turned color. There was no mistaking the flame he saw in those gray eyes. They were deadly, mur- derous, horrible. Mr. James Chilton was a dangerous gen- tleman. The spidery fingered Morduant was actually afraid of him. He had, it was said, fought a duel when he was in Monte Carlo. He was a sharpshooter—having won some sort of a medal during his experience oO COMmiclooOolks (S@)