Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 11, 1925 — page 115: what you’re looking at

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

“Hopalong took a quick step forward and shoved his face within a few inches of his foreman’s. “T’m gettin’ damn sick of bein’ pam- pered like a sick pup!” he hissed. “ Them wounds won’t open up agin if I strained ‘em enough to put you on yore back. An’ if you reckon I’m still an invalid, you just grab holt of me; that’s all, just grab holt!” “ Now, now, now!” reproved the fore- man earnestly. ‘‘ You’ve been an awful sick man, Hoppy.” - Ay’ T’ll never hear th’ end of it, nei- ther, I reckon,” growled the other. ‘ Go get that fire wood an’ let me alone.” He had been a sick man, hovering on the edge of the Great Divide, with only his steel constitution and cast-iron stubborn- ness to save him. Shot full of holes, he had lost an almost fatal amount of blood; but by some miracle past understanding the wounds had not been infected; he had been given the best medical treatment and nurs- ing that it was possible to get, and he had pulled through by an eyelash. Rest, sunlight, fresh air, and plenty of nourishing food had done their work. Every day that passed now found him making sur- prising strides toward his old-time fitness. He could almost feel the strength return, and the last week had tempted him to perform grave indiscretions from the sheer pride of energy, and the fact that they had done him no harm was the best proof of his condition. Like most men unaccustomed to disability, he had an ingrained contempt for weakness if the weakness was his own. Breakfast was over, Rose was clearing up the kitchen, Buck pawing around in the drawers of the old-fashioned walnut desk for the account book, and Hopalong lounged in the kitchen door gravely smok- ing an odorous corncob pipe, a gift from an admirer in the South. He was watching a piebald chunk of equine meanness in the breaking corral, a horse that as yet had not been ridden, despite the several attempts to that end. He wondered how he could arrange things so that he could slip down there and show the piebald that it had an entirely unwar- ranted idea of its own cussedness. It would have to be done when no one was looking, HOPALONG CASSIDY’S PAL, ee or the protesting squawks would be heard all the way to Twin River. ‘“ Now what you think to do?” inquired Rose, glancing out of the window and fol- lowing his gaze before he could shift it. She saw the piebald, and had heard Buck’s high-pressure opinion of it, so she did not connect it with Hopalong’s thoughts. Why should she connect it, when such a thing as breaking a reputed man-killer was the very last idea that should find a warm wel- come in that red head? Besides, Rose had always credited him with having a lot of first-class, uncommon sense. “Oh, he’s figgerin’ on bulldoggin’ a couple of steers,’’ growled Buck from the front room, “ or mebby bustin’ that pop- eyed, man-killin’ pet of Skinny’s,” he add- ed as an overwhelming broadside, not for a moment realizing that he had hit the nail on the head. ‘ Where in hell is that ac- count book?” Hopalong stiffened a little at Buck’s lucky shot in the dark, and glanced at Rose. ‘“‘ Ah-h!” she whispered, her eyes wide open in amazement. She shook her head fiercely, and calmly replied to her peeved husband. ‘ You put the book on the top of the desk, so you could find it again,” she said, and turned to Hopalong. ‘“ You mus’ not do that!” she whispered. Hopalong relaxed and laughed at Buck’s growls; and then leaned forward to peer intently at a moving dot far off on the north © range, oblivious to Buck’s little ironies. For nearly half a minute he studied this dot, and then turn lazily in the door. “Hey, Buck! Betcha th’ cigars that th’ Kid brings in another prisoner before night.” “ There ain’t no doubt a-tall now,” re- torted Buck, “ that yo’re yore own self again. Rose, he’s shore well; an’ bein’ sick didn’t do him no good a-tall. Yo’re just as loco as ever, you Siwash!”’ “ After th’ last couple of weeks with you, mebby I’m a little locoer; but there’s some- body comin’ across our north section that rides like Mesquite, only he’s too big. I’m bettin’ it’s him, an’ somebody else, ridin’ double.” 52 ‘An’ I’m bettin’ you got some more of =“comicbooks-c